Unlike the coward who yells anonymously,
“Nice tits!” out the car window
or the drunken pumped up pinhead
who makes “Hey baby!” gestures to her across the bar.
You tell her like a man who knows how to use his tongue to please a woman,
rather than a bully boy whose big bad words
reflect his three second threshold.
Live a lover who loves a woman’s mystery
more than his own need to get off.
Stirring the pools rather than stoking the volcanoes.
Taking your time to tell her,
drinking her in before speaking a word.
Approaching her as you would a tiger-striped moon fairy.
Taking care not to startle her,
making her think you are a thief,
but as a passing troubadour who comes with daisies!
This is the way you tell her—
with majesty and reverence for the exotic animal creature that she is.
From the bottom of your beautiful male cock
as well as from your heart.
‘Cause contrary to what you’ve been told, she wants both,
and longs for the centaur cast out by political correctness.
This is the way you tell her—
with humor and without armor,
if you really want her to hear you,
if you want to impress her
the way her cleavage presses up against
the buttons on her sweater.
‘Cause anything less will only bore her, annoy her,
like the flies she swats with her hand,
like the lines she’s heard a hundred times before—
when what she wants is something raw and real,
as tequila, salt and lemon juice on her lips—
when what she wants is a man who is brave enough
to meet her in that breathless space between the words—
who can look into her eyes long enough
for the two of you to swim out past the waves
to float on the night sea of possibilities
with only the black above and black beneath you—
in that soft, still erotic silence
where each one feels the most frightened, alone and in our skin.
This is the way you tell her—
like the first man on earth,
like a god-man-child who doesn’t know any better would!
And if you do it right, that woman will fall in love,
if only for a moment, with the fool in you,
and you will walk away all the richer just for having dared it.
‘Cause years later, you’ll have one more story to tell
and one less thing you wished you would’ve done.
And years later, when that woman is feeling old and unglamorous,
she will wake up laughing,
remembering the day that sweet, funny man told her
what lovely breasts she had.
