Happy Birthday To You

You would be a fine lover. I imagine you would take your time, a slow but careful progression of events, not pre-arranged, no sex taken from a manual for you. You are quick to respond to cues that others throw you. A skilled dance partner, watching for signs of pleasure and building on them moment by moment. Sex would be a sculptural project in your hands, a joyful work of art and half the pleasure in the building. You hesitate to value one art form above another and the art of love would be your finest creation. I am resigned to the fact that I will never read this masterwork, penned by your hand. It is a story to be read by the caress of fingers like a blind girl interpreting a sonnet in Braille. But there are others more suited to this task, young women, pretty, unattached. I bow away from a symphony un-played. I will be waiting outside the concert hall while the music finds a more appropriate ear. I will learn about the work of art, glumly waiting for the occasional review or judging the quality of the piece by the face of the audience. The pretty young things will be glowing with the kind of understanding that only participation can bring. I will take my pleasure from you at a distance, a waking dream, a flirtation, a vague understanding, that there are wonders in the world that I will never experience in the flesh, and strangely, I am at peace with this.