Love letter # 418

It has taken until now for me to write and send a love letter. There was never really any point before; not for someone like me. Not for the awkward, unattractive kid. Not for the one with glasses and blotchy skin. Not for the man without the flash of wealth or the shimmer of apparent success. It may sound defeatist, even corny, but guys like me get routinely overlooked. I cannot even recall the last time a woman showed the merest flicker of interest.

Why am I telling you this? Am I out for a pity fuck?

Maybe that’s what you’ll assume – I can’t control that – but the truth is that you of all women I have met in the last few years suggest something other than the normal ‘friend zone’ confinement and outright scorn that I have become used to. Perhaps it’s you who will finally see past the immediacy of my supposed ugliness, you who isn’t dazzled by the shiny object alpha, you who won’t insist on the ludicrous hero myth.

I am taking this risk because … well, apart from having nothing much to lose, I would love it if your warmth and kindness, if our connection, was real. Not just a token act of convenient civility. Not simply a cup of tea. Something more. Deeper, more shot through with fire. With recognition.

In order to ask this, to put this out there, I am of course prepared to sacrifice what we already have. To witness your vague disgust. To be summarily dismissed. None of this will kill me – it’s what I’m used to – but if you should break the mould I would show you how to fly.

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