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I went to a party

I went to a party. After a few drinks this is what I heard:


I am selfish, she began. That is one book. Here is another.

I like a man  who isn’t a victim of his own masculinity.

Who can find his way to say I made a mistake, how do we fix this, I don’t


A man of super-human qualities.

I’m not talking in-bed performance,

that I can handle.

I’ve been to enough tantra workshops

great sex is no longer the fate of only the lucky.

I mean super-human in his capacity

to cry in front of me without it preceding shame;

his ability to open up

to share himself so thoroughly

that if there were another woman there would be nothing left for her.


Forgive me,

I like a man who talks.

Not so much that I’m forced to confront

that he has nothing really significant to say.

Just enough to remain interesting.

Perhaps what I mean is he needs to have mastered

the art of that thing most modern women

have learnt to require:


And not just about anything,

he would have had to, in his years of life before meeting me,

found some way to tell when he is sad,

about the death of a cat

the loss of his favourite cricket team,

or more importantly,

his own keen sense

that there is something un-fulfilling for me

on that particular day.

When asked how he is

he needs to be able to respond

beyond fine, okay and cool.

These responses are only acceptable

for a post-man, a bank clerk or my insurance broker.

Perhaps my father has said it best-

a generosity of spirit is required.

An open man I tell you!

Vulnerable even.

Sex is good, intimacy is better.


You can stop laughing

she said signalling to the host for another whiskey.

You don’t have to shake your head,

I know it already.

If that’s what I want and I’m not into girls

I might have a long wait.

I might even be in trouble.


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