From a male perspective and if we decided to give such a consideration any thought at all, we might wonder why you doll yourself up so much, or don skintight slacks or wear short dresses to begin with. We think you want us to look at you, make comments, ribald or complimentary, and that you enjoy being admired no matter how often you outwardly complain about it. Otherwise, why do you go through all the trouble of knocking yourself out for us in the first place? To satisfy your own sweltering ego? Perhaps you only color your face, paint your lips, and wear expensive and revealing clothes because it is a nice day? Hmmm? Maybe.
Heh-heh.
Believe me. We males don't mind what you think of us. Or, what you think we might be thinking. We'll let you get away with whatever train of thought you happen to amuse yourself with. Just as long as you realize that it's men who know the real truth about all of this. Which is: that you enjoy the shrill whistles, the googly-eyed stares, the open-mouthed grins, and the occasional gasps of astonishment.
Otherwise, why are you here? Why are you there? To compete, I guess. See who gets that available top-dog seat in the Company, first.
Ladies. Lay-deeees, pleeeeeaase! Spare me. Let's face it. You broads look at men the same way we look at women, don't you? Sizing us up. Checking our shoe size. Raising an appreciate eyebrow whenever we flicker a tongue at an itchy spot on our noses. Who you kiddin' here?
As a youngster, I thought of entering the priesthood. That is, until I found out that women differed from men. It had nothing to do with the proverbial race up the corporate ladder of success, either. But don't put words in my mouth, or plant provocative scenes away in your mind. You're not sure. Not one of us has really ever told it all. Oh, yeah, we've hinted at things, breathed a few nonsensical considerations your way. An aperitif of thought, something to wile away a lazy afternoon. But you're not totally convinced we are the porkers of the farmyard, you? Of anything about us? Of men?
We are predictably unpredictable. Yes?
"Oh, those beastly things!" (Zsa-Zsa or Tanya Harding? Your choice again. Your inference is as good as any.)
As women, you'll never really know what most men might be thinking when you saunter by with that Cleopatra grin of dominance splattered all over your face. Not really. You can ramble off all sorts of would-be scenarios to yourself, to the world if you must. Put dozens of your own versions of our thoughts or intentions down in front of us to claw at or barter over. But you'll never really know, will you, what ...men ...think.
And I, being one of them, will never tell, either.
