so i hear you want to talk about sensitive men and spiritual growth and shit, and it immediately hits me we’re playing different leagues. it’s easy to put on that show: you’re cute, elegant, and have this sophisticated something that makes people around you feel so lucky to have found you, to be friends, to talk about sensitivity and rizz and shit. i am easily impressed, ain’t no denying, so, yes, i am one of those suckers holding a gin tonic and trying to catch a drift of your breath. so i think i’ll just say something funny while i look down your shirt. so i do. i say something stupid and utterly inappropriate while i give you a close look-down. in a second everybody steps back. they anticipate a rebuke and want to check on my response. they’re vultures, they feed off other people’s comments, don’t have the guts to go hunting themselves. you eat dead, you’re dead, to me that’s what it is. but the attack never happens, instead i get asked if i feel the butterflies. so i am forced to lift my eyes off her breasts and pretend i believe in spiritual growth and slick shit. but i skip the spirit metaphor and state that i only believe in shit. i am tempted to talk of love and passion and pulse thumping on your wrists, and words that come out of you that you never suspected existed in your language, i am this close to giving a vivid description of insects that live in shit and have thousands of offspring, maybe butterflies broke away from that evolutionary branch and chose to colonize our stomach, and they have sex every now and then and that’s when we feel we are reaching a state of spiritual enlightenment and ethereal love that is so hard to equal. i am close to saying that, but i don’t say it. my eyes go back to your blouse. you want to know and i don’t think you will ever get it, but you have dropped the sophisticated act and i get the cue. no, i don’t feel the fucking butterflies. i don’t want them. i am not a chrysalis. in my stomach a herd of rhinoceroses runs loose towards a cliff, then falls off believing it is part of the migration and climb up stomping over the teacups and the good manners and civilized love agreements. the ground shakes, the trees move to the side, the dust don’t settle down that path, and all i can think of is my hands following my eyes, reaching down to your stomach, where i have no idea about the kind of life you grow. everybody has fled in fear after the stampede, they are back to spirits and being suave and shit, but let me just tell you, honey, wouldn’t you run loose? wouldn’t you love to jump off that cliff and fly like a rhino, and come back and have me tear at your blouse, and who the fuck would care about butterflies.
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