Last call for sapiosexuals.

You couldn’t help me keep it up if pixar let you borrow all the balloons from ‘up.’ You couldn’t get me hard if you beheaded Medusa with the sword of Perseus and forced me upon her gaze. You couldn’t get me erect if you spiked my jack & coke with an overdosed prescription of Viagra. There is no scenario where I could possibly end up sexually attracted to you. Because every time you open your mouth…you turn me off.

Granted, even thought you have the kinda body that reminds me GOD was our creator and we didn’t evolve from apes you own the kind of mind that a even map couldn’t find. Google maps for that matter. I lose all stamina as soon as ya fix ya lips to output data that couldn’t of been processed. If you put just a little effort into being mentally attractive you just might be. I wonder if it’s a generational gap or if I was really born in a world where I gotta download an app or talk to siri for some sign of intelligence.

I reside in an era where women rather be eye candy than soul food. Err. So many rotten apples I been leaning toward going Vegan. It’s as if every time I log into social media I want to jump off the tallest building. One quantum leap for Technology, one massive delete to social skills. How you have a trail of selfies but not a train of thought? For booking info click ya bio but we wouldn’t click even if you turned the light switch on. Your vanity bores me. The theory we evolved from tad pole into imbecile leads me to believe we were better off extinct with the dinosaurs.

I wish I could wear a do not disturb sign on my forehead whenever I walk down Melrose. Whoever told you to play dumb did you a disservice. There is nothing sexy about falling out of the stupid tree and hitting every branch on the way down. If looks are all you have to offer than time and gravity will make a fool of you. If you still believe men like their women to be seen and not heard you are welcome to go back to the 70’s, please take with you the first published edition of Stepford wives.

We’ve let ‘blonde moments’ last life spans. Small talk has become a big challenge. I rather sky dive with no parachute before I watch reruns of Jersey Shore with you. Terminate my subscription to any and all further dates that include us going dutch. You’d lose ya mind trying to understand mine. Ya inability to feed my needs has caused a short circuit that you lack the dialect to repair. It is clear a perfect evening to you consist of selfie sticks, VH1, a black guy who is 6 foot 1 & cigarette after sex. And I can remove at least one variable from this equation: myself.

Maybe intelligence & aesthetic talent are obsolete. But I can’t help but believe I’m not the only one that yearns for an incisive, inquisitive, insightful, irreverent brain. I want someone for whom philosophical discussion is foreplay. I want to feel commando at all times. Leave my phone on airplane mode while I take you to the mile high club. Go from coach to the cockpit. When I’m done you won’t be flying virgin no more.

Smoking weed under star projectors. Or hotboxing under a pillow fort. Interpreting dreams all the while getting moist as you slide down each slippery slope. Mentally undressing you mid antidotes. Straddling your IQ. Blowing out your cerebral. Leaving your head sprung. That is someone who can rub their clit against my mind anytime. Like if you could read it right now you’d have an orgasm.