Letter To The Nice Guy

You have never met me – most likely you never will – but I fear I may have witnessed a sliver of your life that is very telling.

While your attention was rightly focused elsewhere I sat watching you and your girl. She was so bright and effervescent, so sure of her attractiveness, so at home in the gaze of other men. You sat helpless. Torn. Like something in her back pocket. Your eyes screamed out both your love and your impotence.

Meanwhile, she played. Adored by eyes, seduced in fantasies. Yes, even mine. And all the while you ached in lip bitten politeness she asserted her advantage – and let you buy her drinks.

Although you obviously and deeply care for her, she is out shopping for bigger, stronger, richer. Her precise little moves, her lures, they are not unconscious. She knows what she’s doing – and if you’re honest, so do you. She will lie to you if you challenge her, maybe even cry if you pluck up the courage to stop being her dog – but I urge you to leave her to her games. Because that is what they are.

You have love and loyalty to offer. She has only tits and arse – and time will bring down its merciless verdict on them soon enough. The pretty end up nostalgic and bitter. Only the lovers have flowers forever.

So take your splendid heart, my friend, and find a companion for it in someone as tender and kind as you. For only she who sees your beauty will be worthy of you; and she will make damn sure that you do not finish last.

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