Heavyweight
You’re a stranger, but I’ve met you a dozen times already. You always find me in dark corners of loud dive bars, or, more recently, in my DMs late at night. The interest you feign is not for me, but for a perceived service you think I can provide. Like my genitalia and my gender expression are a Sexual Satisfaction Drive Thru for the convenience of your garden-variety cock. I don’t know this iteration of you, but I know you. Anybody cursed with an attraction to men knows you, has tolerated you, been hurt by you. Your scent is the beer on your lips and your shirt, your only good shirt, was chosen by an ex-girlfriend who you say is crazy to anyone who will listen.
You offer to buy me a drink with an easy smile that doesn’t fool anyone. I smile back, not out of reciprocity, but tactfulness. No, thank you, I say. I hope that this is the end of it. What a change Oh sure, no problem would be! What an auditory delight it would be to hear you say have a good night as you take your leave!
No such luck.
The smile twists, revealing its true form like a shapeshifter. I’m not surprised, and I keep my smile just so, just in case. How far will your hurt feelings and your expectations carry you? I have to keep you calm, coax you into respecting me enough not to follow me home, stalk me, assault me. That sneer on your face could be the overture to anything.
