You probably know this already, but since it's St. Valentine's Day I want you to be certain--it is true I find you charming and beautiful and am intensely curious about you. Or your annoying views on public education are somewhat careless and disturbing, yet perhaps liberating. Your shoes are intimidatingly well-made. The way you pronounce "egg" grates on my nerves, or amazes me with its regional charm and distinction. Your shyness captivates me, especially when you are on stage, under those hot lights, with the tassels flying everywhere and the glitter shining in that place where your upper arm meets the top of your torso and forms a kind of sunken area.
Whatever the situation, please know I'd love to see you naked, and obviously, want to sleep with you, and by "sleep with you" I mean the dirty stuff. I have from the minute I first saw you at that place when you were wearing that outfit. If perhaps you told yourself flirtation is just his way of communicating, well that's true, it is, with the exceptions of telephone conversations, electronic correspondence and handwritten letters, all of which, I keep relatively formal. Also, business meetings. Come to think of it, when people ask me directions on the street, or ask for a match to light a fire, or stop me and ask where I bought my handsome backpack and then they compliment my jacket, or ask if I'm "that guy from that TV show" or "where ya going sailor?" on those occasions I am steadfastly and resolutely professional, if not curt with my brisk and informative responses. However, in my social life, or specifically, in crowded, impersonal, almost anonymous social gatherings where an abundance of alcohol is consumed and real conversation is impossible, flirtation is just my way of communicating with the people I want to sleep with, which you may have surmised by now, is everyone. If you are confused by this, keep in mind, it's you I want to sleep with, as well as all those other people. Still, you, and that person who just walked past us, and that person over there in the Velcro pants.
Why yes, that is a ring on my finger. That, plus the attractive woman who lives where I do as we raise our family and eat meals, means, you guessed right, I'm married. I know I know. No she's not at home. That's her over there at the bar, surrounded by those men who look as if they have much more money and notoriety than myself. "Hi honey!" Look, she's waving. Right. She is gorgeous. If we weren't already married I'd go over there and try to get her number. Yes, of course. If there were no feverish shame and guilt; no destruction of self-esteem, or hard-to-replace clothing, furniture and lighting fixtures--if there were nothing collapsed, stricken, pained, well then, sure, I'd be all over you. That is, if somehow we were alone together for an extended length of time, until I felt comfortable enough to take off my clothes in front of you. It would also have to be a place where we'd not be interrupted, especially where no one could see us through the curtains, or even hear us from the adjoining apartment, as that's creepy. Happy Valentine's Day!