Some men
mistake courage
for pressing send.
As though confidence
is measured
in megapixels.
As though a stranger’s body
is a gift,
instead of an intrusion
wrapped in bad lighting
and worse judgment.
My phone buzzes.
A notification.
Not a conversation.
Not consent.
Not curiosity.
Just another ego
arriving uninvited
at my front door,
expecting applause.
You call it flirting.
I call it
digital flashing.
The modern version
of opening your trench coat
in a public park,
except now
you’ve convinced yourself
Wi-Fi makes it charming.
It doesn’t.
Your anatomy
isn’t a personality.
Your video
isn’t foreplay.
And “You’ll like it”
has never once
been a convincing argument.
If I wanted
to see you naked,
trust me—
you wouldn’t have had
to surprise me.
So here’s a thought.
Ask.
Start with a joke.
A story.
A hello.
A reason
I should know your name
before I know
what’s between your legs.
Because desire
doesn’t bloom
from ambush.
And attraction
has never grown
from an unsolicited download.
Some flowers
are picked too soon.
Some doors
are opened too fast.
And some things
belong behind a zipper
until someone
actually asks
to see what’s inside.
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