South sea island cruises do not stir up my lust. I fear that all my passions have succumbed to mold and dust. All that iron will to love has come to naught but rust. To date, there is no counter urge that says, “My dear, you must!” It never was my temperament to plot and scheme and plan complicated maneuvers to try to catch a man, but still I found that now and then one drifted into view that caused me to examine my attitudes anew.
Perhaps my behavior included one or two of the tiniest maneuvers by which I hoped to woo. It may be that in passing, I allowed the slightest brush of my arm and his arm and blamed it on the crush of bodies in the elevator, even though the fact is that the elevator was not so tightly packed. Nonetheless, my hints were subtle, for I rarely pined for a lustful body over a brilliant mind.
So if you want to woo me, do it over books. For me a silver tongue will always win out over looks. Write with wit and logic, original and kind. Fan my imagination. Seduce my wild mind. My upper arms are flabby, but my mind is sharp and taut. To woo me, try to judge me not for all that I am not. The only one to win me would be one of my own kind. The only nuptials I seek are marriages of mind.
When my next lover comes around, I’d prefer he be profound–– intellectual and mysterious, also ponderous and serious. Insight and depth I’m sure will be the things that he looks for in me. We’ll have no need for Cupid’s dart, as passion steps aside for smart.
On our first night, we’ll pop a bottle,
arguing over Aristotle,
debating proton, neutron, quark
and entanglement in the dark.
I’ll reel off famous quotes by heart
from Shakespeare, Camus and Descartes––
whisper “sweet somethings” in his ear,
knowing what he’ll want to hear.
He’ll analyze our chemistry
and then discuss the Odyssey,
Plato, Aristotle, Kant––
any subject that I want.
If we don’t get around to kissing,
we’ll barely notice that it’s missing.
Who needs an interlude romantic
when they can have one that’s pedantic?