You’re supposed to do things for me. Make me laugh. Delight me. Amuse me. Make me think I’m the centre of the universe. You’re not taking your courtship duties seriously.
Tell me some funny anecdotes. Attend to me. Compliment me on what I’m wearing. Tell me I have … sparkling eyes. Notice my new hairstyle. I haven’t actually got a new hairstyle, but you get the idea.
You’re supposed to be feeling infatuation. You’re supposed to be coasting along on a feeling of general lovey-doviness. You’re supposed to want to bathe in my general presence. To just sit and look at me, in general adoration.
Make some effort. Chat me up. Tell me I’m first born. That I’ve just arrived on planet Earth. I want to hear some sweet nothings. Some sweet philosophical nothings, if necessary. I want to be re-seduced. I want to be seduced all over again.
Win me. Win my heart, troubadour. I want to feel like the most important girl in the world. That it’s me and only me. That everything isn’t just … futile. That I will leave a trace on Earth. That I’ll be remembered. For my timeless, ethereal beauty, or whatever.
Come on, philosopher: Make me feel Significant. Make me feel Noticed. Complement me on my outfit. On what I’m wearing. On my earrings, for fuck’s sake. I’m wearing earrings …
Make some effort. Try. To win me. To keep me. That you find me irreplaceable. That it could be me and only me. Even if it isn’t true. Even if it’s just delusion. Interest me. Make it all about me.
Flatter me. Seduce me. Make me horny. Do you like that word, horny? I can see you flinch. Am I a bit too brazen for you? Would you prefer a little reserve? A little mystery? Would you prefer that I didn’t talk about it all so directly? Should some things not be talked about? Should they be left to their essential mystery? Maybe.
Am I offending you in my gauche organisation management way?
You’re supposed to want to look after me. That’s the biological programming. To be tender towards me. And I’m supposed to like that and feel special. I’m supposed to like feeling cared for. That’s how you show you’re a man, or it’s part of it.
You’re supposed to want to delight me. To be witty. To make me smile. Just to see me smile. Just to see me laughing. Just to see my pretty smile. Supposed to be charmed by me. Supposed to swoon at the sight of me. Supposed to feel manly as you protect me. As you give me your coat to keep me warm. Supposed to feed me. Make sure I’ve had enough.
Isn’t it nice, all this courtship stuff? Don’t you feel better for it? And I’m supposed to look after you. The way you dress. Your haircut. All these things. Your sense of style. Your interior décor, such as it is. This is how the programming works, philosophy. This is what nature wants of us. You’re supposed to feel manly and I’m supposed to feel womanly.
I’m supposed to respond to your desire for me. By desiring you. I’m supposed to like being found pretty. Being told I’m beautiful. Do you tell me I’m beautiful often enough, philosopher? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to feel? Supposed to be overwhelmed by? Your breath taken away when you see me. By my otherworldly beauty.
Work in Progress 