Been an introverted bloke made me swear a time ago. Any fair sex that cuts it by my lofty standards earns a spicy quickie convo, at least, before a cosmic happenstance leading to an exchange of digits. This of course hangs on spatial temporal conditions owing to my introverted everything. We have to be in close proximity (talking of inches away and feet at the farthest in most cases) & the law of causation must take preeminence as well because, attraction. However for my type the mechanistic process doesn’t have a mere start. “Ain’t a thing without eye contact”. Just like my frequent retort: eyes calls eyes. So sneaking a peep, relaxed, and wearing a gentle mini-smile preps for a non-verbal communication with this girl that you’re attracted to. She knows over that span about your intending theft of her attention.
Well, the magic usually starts that way for me but what leaves a sour taste after initiation that appears to have a near happy close is the part where we get to exchange numbers. They started talking already, they know bits about their destinations, about themselves and all that but he says bye then an eternal withdrawal ensues except the universe wants both persons cross path again. This is where the guy ‘messes-up’, if you like. Then dude start to sulk, ruing the chance he had. This is usually a consequent to a perfect convo and a thrilling personality experience. More painful is when there’s an obvious reluctance from her to leave, trust me, really excruciating something. And for the unextroverted ones the cycle continues; you rue, you swear, you suck, you rue again doing great injustice to your bursting hormones. Que va. Guy can’t meet girl.
Sigh. I know where I belong. I hurt my hormones a lot for my cowardice, my selfishness, my pride. Every urge I had to ‘move’ that was turned down would probably make me pauper if my hormones spoke in dollar signs. I don’t even pity my solitude any more. Maybe I deserve no one else than myself.
A beacon, the usual beacon. I don’t want sex, I don’t want to disappoint, hence I don’t commit or I suck real bad. Scantily valid. Perhaps the sex game might keep me longer outside but it It’s way too cold out there. Blessed is he who for the avoidable dire consequences ahead of him suffered his hormones and unlooked from the shooting appendage off the skimpy of the wicked and the tender cutaneal of the bosom.
If I do not see potentiality, I’m sorry I don’t ride along. Life is too brief rousing the nose with a meat that won’t be eaten. Claro; Guy meets girl, when it’s time and the hormones finally get to be at peace with the hombre.
NB: Que va is Spanish for ‘No way’ and Claro for ‘of course’.