Originally published on Bklyn Boihood.
Note: the following piece is creative fiction and not to be taken literally.
Hunting Boi: An Instruction Manual
Dress properly. My people were colonized by the English. And though I call myself a feminist, and believe in liberation from tight buns, pencil skirts, and stilettos — ‘cause real women don’t strut, they stomp, barefoot — I can’t help that Victorian innocence turns me on.
Seduce me. But don’t make it too obvious. Big hips and a small waist render me powerless. But I need to believe that you are no match for my charm; that my mother’s witchy river woman smile and my father’s pensive dark eyes are all the game I need to make your hips sway in my direction.
So play along. Bat your eyes. Bite your lower lip. Raise your chest and sigh heavily when I glance your way. Melt into my arms when I grab your waist. Tell me with your eyes that you want me to pull you into a dark corner and run my strong hands all over your body.
You must give yourself to me, completely. But not on the first night. Let your body suggest that you would like to play slut — just this once, but let your head do the talking. Permit yourself just one moment of vulnerability; tell me that you think I’m gorgeous, and mean it. Cup the side of my cheek in your palm to show me that you can be tender. Then, as I kiss your hand and peck softly at the inside of your wrist, stumble over the words, “I need… to go.”
But don’t. Stay right there so I can look you square in the eye and tell you, “Come home with me.”
Now, this is very important, so pay attention.
I will be very convincing. I will run my fingers through your hair, and play with your curls suggestively, indifferently, while you ponder the answer to my question. And as you begin to respond with something like, “I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” my eyes will focus on your parsed lips, a little too long, then move slowly down the side of your neck, to the sweaty deep in your chest. Breath deeply so that I can watch you heave with wanting, but pretend that you have been caught off guard. Say the words “Um” and “OK” several times, but do not pull away from me. I am enjoying every minute of this.
Let my eyes find your timid gaze, then shut your lids suddenly, feigning a strong desire to control yourself. At this point, make sure that your friends interrupt our mating dance, pretending to be impatient. Remember: impatient, not rude. You don’t want me to think you keep crass company. I only fuck classy femmes.
Respond to your friends’ summon back to reality. Pull yourself together; flip your hair off your face and throw your shoulders back. Clear your throat and speak with a deeper voice as you tell me, firmly, “I have to go.” Flash me a pretty smile. Remind me that you’re a lady.
I’ll say, “So you’re not coming home with me then?”, smiling as I reach for the phone you conveniently have been holding in your hand. You’ll say, un-phased — no, with new-found composure — “Definitely not.”
I’ll keep my hand around your waist as I flip your phone open with one hand, and begin keying in my phone number with my thumb. A girl who can resist a good fuck on a Saturday night deserves a proper date. So I’ll ask you, plainly, without looking away from your phone, “You like sushi?” You’ll take the bait, and respond with a “Maybe, why?” And when I tell you that I’m allergic to sushi, and that we won’t be having any on our date next week, you’ll laugh extra hard at my presumptuousness, providing the perfect opportunity for me to finish keying in my phone number, and announce that I’m sending a text to my phone, one that says, “Call me. I’m free next week.”
As you walk away from our mating dance, linger a little before you turn your head away. Strut slowly toward your posse, because you know that I’m still watching. I need to see how long you can resist looking back at me. But don’t take this as a challenge. This is an opportunity for you to let me know that I’ve won you over. Turn your head slightly to me as you walk away with your friends; flash me that pretty smile again.