It is agony to be the only man in a book discussion group. You try to get a word in, but seldom do you get to complete a thought. Even if you make a good point, someone is always slowly shaking their head in disagreement. You are outnumbered, brutally shouted down if you persist.
The woman next to you periodically touches your shin with her swinging foot. The one across from you in the circle is undressing you with her eyes. The old ones cough up phlegm and drown out everything. The young ones always have to leave early to pick up their kids. The quiet ones puzzle you. Why are they here? Did they read the book? Ate they homeless?
The facilitator can be soft spoken and insistent or belligerent and close-minded. Some are quite sensitive; if you dislike the book they pout and retreat, encasing you in guilt. Some groups go on for hours until your buttocks hurt. Other barely reach 50 minutes before ideas run out. Then they gossip about people you don't know or discuss linens.
Sometimes I think it is beneath my intelligence to participate in these groups. but they smell good and really dress well and sometimes one of the young ones will poke me to make a point. Don't kid yourself; poking can be very sensual.
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