Who Now?

Do you know what I'd love more than anything else? Not a girl who will let me fuck her and fuck her and fuck her (although my carnal side sure beams at the thought). I want a girl who will need me. I want someone who will consider with much difficulty any decision to leave me. I want a girl who will love me and whom I will love, and who will share the same interests as I. I want a girl whose idea of as close to a perfect evening as an evening can get is sitting together in a park on a cold night, sharing an iPod playing Edith Piaf or Louis Armstrong or Frank Sinatra or Anita O'Day, and keeping each other warm.
    But I do not have that, and I've nobody but myself to blame. It is I who becomes emotionally and characteristically cramped when engaged in social interaction, especially when around women. They do not know who I am. They do not know if I like them. I do not give them the opportunity. Instead, I remain introverted and simply dream of approaching someone and asking her, "Would you like to have lunch?" or "Would you like to see a movie?" (both asked with the air of a friend so I do not scare her with what may seem an uncomfortably forward romantic request). I do become frightened at the thought, though. A million alternate responses go through my mind. What if the girl laughs? What if she politely informs me that she has a boyfriend, and the note of "but we can still be friends" in her voice causes me to wonder if I was too forward, not confident enough? What if I look stupid? What if she hates me? What if I die? What if? What if? What? What?what?what?what?what?what?what . . . ?
    And my head spins and I sit quiet, alone, unsexed and unneeded another evening.
    How can I fix the problem when the problem is engrained in my psyche? How do I overcome what has been there from birth? Would killing the problem kill me along with it? Would I have to throw the baby out with the bathwater? The prospect is not such a bother. When every woman you've ever met has, in some way or another, referred to you as "such a nice guy!", and you just want to shake them all and scream "Niceness is ostensible!" but cannot because God forbid you give in to your own needs and act out, what reason is there to be? Pretty much, I am already dead. McKenzie Richards: R.I.P. – 1989 – 1989: Who now? What people see is a shy spirit using my body for clothing.
    Oy vey!