As I come to the center of the city and find the perfect spot for me to stand in the main square, my anxiety, taking control of my mouth, makes me empty the cup of coffee I hold tightly. The liquid down my throat warms me just about enough; this might be the last warmth left in my body. The issue is not the cold. The problem is I'm lonely, and it would take a miracle to change that feeling tonight. I know, heavens are stubborn, and miracles cannot be forced. I might get mine anyways: I'm taking chances. I am doing what I heard others do to find company.

The stage is set: I have chosen a rather central square with plenty of passers-by. The streetlamps light my body and my face in a perfect balance that makes me look both mysterious and tempting at the same time. I want for the curious pedestrian to not miss a thing about what makes my looks desirable. In a way, it's like being exposed or sold. That's exactly how I feel behind my mask of flirtation. I'm new to the feeling of wanting being spotted and in a way dreading it. Some unwelcomed faces seem to respond to my game, but looking the other way proves enough to discourage those pervs. That one was too short. That, too old. Too queen. My body reacts once more to the cold; this is as far as the warmth from the coffee stayed with me. Watch out! The guy who just passed wasn't bad at all. It's a shame I was so distracted shivering that I caught his playful stare a little bit too late. That ship sailed. Not that I mind a lot, though; it has happened before. It's a common occurrence in my many attempts of cruising.

I'm kind of in the mood for a cigarette. I could use a drag. Unfortunately, I quit last Christmas. I had to; I was looking sallow, and appearance accounts for the ninety percent of the attraction in our world. What am I expecting standing here, anyway? I've deliberately defied weather to look for affection in the very wrong place. I'm surrounded by sluts, hustlers, and old geezers that pick the sluts and the hustlers. Horny and desperate, that's the impression I give. If someone hits on me, he will be likely to want to see whatever lies underneath the clothes, never beyond. I'm allowed to say I'm horny, but . . . lonely? Forbidden. Does he care about my feelings? Hardly. Time to come back to planet Earth and stay focused on looking hot. Deep thinking gives my face that certain unattractiveness sternness bestows upon. That's a no-no, a turn-off. My mission is to wander, not to wonder. Why am I up to this last resort? If I were any ugly or any stupid, well, one would understand why being picked up is so hard. But Jesus! My face has everything in its place, my dark brown eyes sparkle when I smile. Have they looked at my body? Wide shoulders, triangular back, O.K. butt, muscular legs: up for grabs as long as my ass can be kept untouched until further dates. Yes, my mind betrays me thinking of dates.

I'm all covered by goosebumps. It may be getting really late. Why is it taking them so long to approach me with a pickup line? It won't work now that I want to leave. Will he ask "are you waiting for someone?" "More like for anyone," my answer will be.

"How long?"

"All my life."

And so would the drill go until one of us, tired of the tears of blood, slaps the other in the face and walks away to get a more worthy piece of ass. There I let my mind drift: I have done the very thing I needed to forgo from the start.

I'm fleeing now. I don't have any money on me to go to hit club and continue the quest for being discovered. Maybe I have to strike back sometime soon, keeping in mind that yielding my ass will assure me some success. If I need to fuck somebody to get company, I say fuck 'em all! I don't see any other way to catch others' attention though, neither in the waiting spot nor anywhere else. I'll find that out when I feel miserable enough to go through this experience again, I guess. It might happen next month, next week, maybe tomorrow. Most likely tomorrow.