A man is a facade ...

I put on a clean shirt, clean pants and a tie every day. I scrape off the beard that insists on trying to grow anew each morning. I behave in a serious, respectable, responsible manner. I project dignity, gravitas and maturity -- or at least make an effort.

It's all a sham.

I am just a little boy trapped in this overgrown man-shell, who would happily spend the day examining ant hills and splashing in puddles if I could.

And I am just a teenager still riding the raging stallion of passions that will dog me,probably, until the day I die. I cherish the gold band upon my left hand and my beautiful Beloved is and always will be my Goddess, She and no other. But I would be a liar if I were to say that there is no other beauty in the world and even if there were, the presence of such beauty would have no effect upon me.

A visitor came to my office today -- like my Sweetie, a trim, brunnette Lady with a delightful smile. She wanted to talk about a computer system that we have installed. I kept a professional air, forced myself to look away when She leaned over the desk, refrained from drooling -- in short, struggled mightily in a manner that I certainly would not have, in the presence of some aging, balding man.

Why is it so hard in such a situation to even make eye contact?

Ah, I am pathetic. All men are pathetic. Marionettes dangling from invisible strings. Monkeys nicely dressed up to mingle with the crowd.

Do You Women just laugh at us amongst Yourselves?