It happens every time I read at an open mike. Women toss their panties at me. Yes, I have a deep, sensual voice and impressive shoulders. I make intense eye contact, which causes swooning. My droopy lids give me that sexy Robert Mitchum image.
But you would assume in this serious academic atmosphere these women would control themselves. There's only one of me and so many of them. The math doesn't work.
This behavior has stifled my progress as a writer. I've tried facing away from the audience, but because I have the taut, sculpted buttocks of an Ailey dancer, that only makes it worse. I have boxes of panties, which I may send to my cousin, who has odd tastes.
The male readers are intensely jealous because they get only polite applause. What am I supposed to do? Hunch over, grow a beard, wear thick glasses?
The woman who tossed her support stockings gets my admiration.
Maybe I should write a poem about all this.
No comments:
Post a Comment