Tell Me I'm Yours

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Though reclining at the edge of a busy street in broad daylight, the man was virtually invisible. He wore no camouflage, and he wasn’t hiding behind a newspaper or dark sunglasses. He was invisible because of the narcissism of the human race.

Someone like him might as well be a piece of trash on the sidewalk. He wasn’t particularly ugly by any objective standard, but he lacked movie-star good looks. He was no one—a face in the crowd. Men, and especially women, would tread upon him without a second thought. In an age of airbrushed social media models and larger-than-life reality TV stars, it took a truly impressive specimen to pull the human eye away from the incessant streams of carnal stimulation.

Smiling, he pulled his baseball cap lower. Even if he was incredibly handsome, most women wouldn’t give him more than a passing glance. They lacked either the genetic makeup or cultural grooming to openly betray their sexual interest. He didn’t see this as a weakness; in fact, it was quite the opposite. Men, who often gawked like drooling baboons, were clearly the weaker sex.

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