Romance is subjective. Do you agree? I don’t care, actually, because I’m writing this, so deal with my perversion of the subject at hand, or put down this book, wipe, and get back to work.
Guess that wasn’t so romantic of me. Apologies.
Now, every woman I meet dreams of being swept off her feet a la Pretty Woman. (She was a prostitute, you know?) Romance, while sliding a bit, is not dead, so don’t give up the dream, my lovely. There could be a bouquet of flowers making it’s aromatic way to you as we speak. Or, you could receive the ever-popular, “Just thinking of u” text message.
Side Note: If that bastard is so lazy that he needs to save two fucking letters by typing “u,” I’m going to suggest you save three and a space by replying, “QQQQ”—four q.
See, it’s the subjectivity of romance that get’s men in trouble. Some women prefer horse-drawn chariots, some want a good swat in the dumper. I’m sorry, but it’s YOUR responsibility to let men know how to strum your heartstrings. You also need to specify when and where such strummage is appropriate. For example, you want me to talk dirty, but maybe in the car instead of in the deli line.
Don’t want to get ahead of myself. First, you need to know where to find these fellows. Dating sites and apps give you a glimpse into his psyche. Check your Tinder. If you find pictures of him and his mother or grandmother, it’s a great sign. If you find pictures of him and some woman with her face scribbled out, that’s a bad sign. Other places you can find Mr. Chivalrous include plays, operas, and theaters. If he’s wearing a sweater over a shirt, chances are he’ll hold your hand and walk street-side.
Once you’ve targeted your prince, how do you get him to lay down his coat at your feet? Simple. Glance, bat your eyes, giggle, and look away. Who could resist? If you happen to have one of those old-fashioned folding fans, you could flitter it about your face, as if cooling off from the neargasm caused by the mere sight of him.
He’ll come galloping over, and probably bow while reaching for your hand. (My cat does this. Big fucking deal. Sorry.) Introduce yourself by prefixing “Lady” to your name. If you have a hyphen in your last name, drop that shit—not a good time to tell him you’re married. If he’s truly dashing, he’ll flirt, compliment your hair or skin tone, and offer to buy you a tasty libation. Good boy.
Since he’s a good boy, your night will probably end with a peck on the cheek instead of semen-glazed boobies. No problem. Be patient. That will come. (Tee, hee.) He should request a text message to ensure you arrived home safely. The next contact should happen between twelve and twenty-four hours subsequent. It should include accolades and appreciation for your recent accompaniment. It should include an offer with a specific agenda for the next date. When he arrives in his chariot to pick you up for that date, he had better not arrive empty-handed. A fine ($20 minimum) bottle of buttery chardonnay is acceptable, as are orchids.
Enjoy all this mushery while it lasts. Soon you will tire, and utter the phrase, “Please shut up and just fuck me.”
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