Don’t Blame It On The Scottish Wind (Poem 23 of 99)

 I’m a loser. Which makes me a bit of a real man because at least I can be honest about myself, right? Do I have a woman in my life you ask? Well…yes. I’ve been seeing her for a few months now. We meet once a week. I wish we could meet more often to be honest, but she says she’s too busy. I’m lucky though because she is the listening kind.  She gives me her undivided attention when we are together. I’ve never attempted to kiss her. I’ve never even snugged up to her on the couch. That wouldn’t be a good idea though, because… she’s my psychotherapist.

She’s tried to help me figure out why I don’t have what you’d call a girlfriend and she does not take it too kindly when I tell her we wouldn’t need to ask that question anymore if she came back to mine for one night.

But she says something called dignity means she’s not into that kind of stuff and that real men wouldn’t even suggest such a thing- you know, playing scrabble and charades all evening, drinking mugs of hot chocolate.

My “friends” say to figure a woman out you need to get inside her a good few times.  I say well, I was in my mother for 9 months. They laugh and say, women don’t like a man who always get’s the wrong end of the stick. And I guess my single life has proven them right so far.

Back in my school days I just couldn’t get on the good foot with girls. Being the sole Pakistani in a north eastern Scottish town I thought I could play up my sub-continental exoticness to get the girls, but I came to realise that over-spiced stomachs which cause nuclear farts don’t turn women on. Nor did obeying your father’s curfews for fear of death.

Or maybe the fear of asking a girl out has scarred me for life, given that, as a child, my brown skin made me stand out in school like a Nazi in a synagogue, and if I did have a girlfriend word would get back to my religious parents who would have prematurely expired my existence.

Or maybe, maybe the problem is the fact I thought my religious piety made me superior to the “pork-eaters” in my class. Maybe it was because I put up this barrier and kept myself shut up in my room, in the prison cell of my own company watching raunchy hip hop videos with a packet of tissues and a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Oil throughout my teenage years thinking all woman should constantly be in bikini’s (yes, even in Scotland), have champagne poured over their chests and do what I say when I say it, that I’ve never really been able to appreciate what it means to be with a real woman:

Someone who wants to share dreams and ambitions, concerns and anxieties

Someone who wants to love and be loved, kiss and be kissed

Someone who wants walks and dinners, laughs and giggles

And of course someone who wants, when the time is right, a man who’ll invite her home to put his lock in her key and open a new world where their bodies, entwined, transcend the physical limits of satisfaction, instead of a man who is too afraid to approach her for this because he doesn’t know how to start, because those hip hop videos with his oil and box of tissues just told him how to get to the end in the quickest way possible; and no amount of charades, scrabble and hot chocolate will disguise his suppressed convoluted feelings as innocent geekiness long enough to make her see this and take the lead…

So he sits alone in café’s dreaming his psychotherapist will take the initiative…but if not…he can always ask his parents to sort out an arranged marriage, right?!

Dasein Petals © Copyright 2013

      (Poem 23 of 99 to raise money for operations for deformed, poverty stricken children). Sponsor me.

@DaseinPetals #99poems

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