This One's For the Girls

I think that we’ve killed romance. It used to be you had real romantics. Casanova, Shakespeare. You could read a girl a sonnet or kiss her hand without having a restraining order taken out. Flowers were plucked into lush bouquets Not pixilated into e-mails. When you danced with someone, you gazed into their eyes Not their cleavage. And grinding was something you did to wheat, not someone’s hips. Those were the days, of handkerchiefs and batted eyes Of calling cards and hands held on the side. When love was dangerous and secretive. The golden days before Internet. But like so many have tried bringing sexy back I will rekindle romance. Me The lesbian. But for the ladies I could be manly. Waxed black mustache that would make Poirot jealous, a sweeping black cloak a la Three Musketeers. Red rose in hand I would sidle up beside them. “Ladies.” Kissing hands and bowing low Murmuring phrases in Romeo Italian. Being all that I see lacking For one small moment. But girls these days They don’t get romance. And sure as the Pope wants me burned at the stake They’d have tossed me out on my ear. Literally. “Ms Reese!” They’d scream. “We found a pervert!” Volleyball players are so sensitive. Ms Reese May your god bless her soul. Tough enough to brave a talk with the girl afraid to spike a ball Or the one who appears gender-confused. “Hon, the Constitution says you have the right to express yourself. But not in the Varsity locker room.” She’d size me up Looking for the dilated pupils to deem me an incapacitated pothead And finding that No I wasn’t high Just crazy. “Maybe you should go see Paul.” Ah yes The guidance counselor. These urges of mine to relive the Renaissance might require medication. Bushy eyebrows An English accent A refusal to act like a teacher. These are the reasons Paul’s office fills up. He’d look at me Eyebrows knitted And exhale slowly. What’s the best way to broach this subject and still remain my “bro”? “So...” Perhaps he’d stall Offering me one of his Chewy bars Like sugar and oats will allow me to bare my soul. “I heard you got into a spot of trouble with Ms Reese.” Well, rather. He’d fumble for a moment, muttering phrases Cleaning his glasses Trying to comprehend the girl who thinks she’s Antonio Banderas. “I...That’s really a lovely moustache.” Maybe I’d take pity on him. I’d lean forward Man to man Guy talk. “Listen, Paul. I appreciate what you’re trying to do And I respect the things you stand for. But if you really want to help me The best thing you could do is buy me some really high class porn.” There are many ways to determine a man’s character. By the kind of car he drives Or the way he treats kittens. I would judge Paul’s by his next actions – Whether he reached for a straitjacket or his wallet. Ms Reese Paul World Here’s what you don’t see. I’m not trying to pick up chicks To see Varsity Volleyball naked To start a rebellion of penis-hating lesbians. I’m doing it for these broken girls. These girls who were asked out in a text message Dumped on Facebook These girls who see their exes going to the furthest base possible while still in clothing With some girl they met yesterday In the halls between 3rd and 4th period. These girls who had dreams of Prince Charmings on ponies Whose hands sweated stickily at middle school dances, waiting for a careless “Want to dance?” That meant all the world. These girls who are slammed down by Four-Loko hookups And left all alone while their bed sheets cool. What you have to realize is I’m not doing this for me. These ancient acts These obsolete rituals No. I’m not breaking my heart because balcony scenes are good Friday-night fillers I’m not wasting my time because rejection is uplifting. I’m trying to remind these girls that they are Beautiful.