Most of the time, people don't notice me. I'm anonymous at the mall, blending into the crowd in my t-shirt, shorts and sandals. You might see me in my hard hat and jeans, dirty and sweaty at a job site. I might be outside a downtown office building, a wage slave, faceless in my baggy khakis and wrinkled polo shirt. You would hardly give me a second glance. But every once in a while, I change that. I become more than what I am. I become something just a little more special.
I know, I know. I've heard it countless times. I don't need to do this. All the ladies want is for me to be clean, polite, respectful. I'm sure having that all-important envelope with me doesn't hurt either. Besides, I'm just going to take my clothes off right away anyway.
But no. I don't do things in half measures. I already have those basics down. But I'll go just a little further. Just that little bit more. I dress up as if I'm going on a real date. I wear what I think will please her. Sometimes she doesn't even seem to notice. Sometimes I just get a quick 'nice clothes', after all my efforts. But that's OK. I'm really doing this for me anyway.
For you see, the clothes are part of the ritual for me. They put me in the right frame of mind for the evening. I slip on my Birdboy persona along with the clothes that will best complement my lady. I want to live that fantasy to my fullest. I'm going to be just who I want to be. I want to show only the best of me, even if it's only for a few hours.
My evening starts well before that door opens and I step through. I begin with a shave, thorough hot shower, deodorant, hair gel, cologne. After that? Well, that depends on the lady.
Take this evening, for instance. My lady is slim, charming, classy. Mature, a delight in both the drawing room and those wonderful more private spaces just a few steps up. I know we'll get comfortable on the sofa, sip white wine and chat. She loves loves loves clothes. I know just how much trouble she goes to, to dress for me. It's only fair that I do too. I don't hold back when I dress for her. I know she'll notice.
I slip on a new pair of silk boxers. I know that she'll see and feel the cool slipperiness under her warm fingers, and my firm buttocks under them. I pull on my pants, finely woven tan linen for this sweltering summer evening. They are tailored to perfection. I put on a pair of fine silk socks, woven with a tiny intricate pattern. First one, then the other.
I think for a moment, then pull out a shirt from my closet. I love this shirt. It's Egyptian cotton, thin, crisp, the colors bright. Its blue, tan, and white stripes reminds me of a lady I fondly remember, and magical moments on her striped blue sheets. I button my shirt, and tease a pair of cufflinks into the cuffs. They make me smile. They have an enameled blue bird on them. My calling card. My namesake. I put on my watch, a family heirloom. Perfectly polished and poised on its leather strap whispering sophistication, rather than shouting for attention.
My shoes. Oh, those shoes. My stylish Italian dress shoes. They've borne me over her threshold many a time, to joys untold. I know they will many more times yet. They match my belt to perfection. I had burnished them to a dull glow only moments before. I pick them up from their repose beside my bed. I shoehorn them on and tie their laces.
I reach into my closet and pull out my tailored sport coat. It's warm outside, but my unlined navy blue linen jacket is cool. That extra layer will be welcome when I leave her home later. Much, much later.
I'm almost ready to go. I pick up my keys and sunglasses. I slip a small white envelope into my jacket inside pocket. I take a last look in the mirror, and then I step out the door.
My ritual is over. My evening has just begun.
I know, I know. I've heard it countless times. I don't need to do this. All the ladies want is for me to be clean, polite, respectful. I'm sure having that all-important envelope with me doesn't hurt either. Besides, I'm just going to take my clothes off right away anyway.
But no. I don't do things in half measures. I already have those basics down. But I'll go just a little further. Just that little bit more. I dress up as if I'm going on a real date. I wear what I think will please her. Sometimes she doesn't even seem to notice. Sometimes I just get a quick 'nice clothes', after all my efforts. But that's OK. I'm really doing this for me anyway.
For you see, the clothes are part of the ritual for me. They put me in the right frame of mind for the evening. I slip on my Birdboy persona along with the clothes that will best complement my lady. I want to live that fantasy to my fullest. I'm going to be just who I want to be. I want to show only the best of me, even if it's only for a few hours.
My evening starts well before that door opens and I step through. I begin with a shave, thorough hot shower, deodorant, hair gel, cologne. After that? Well, that depends on the lady.
Take this evening, for instance. My lady is slim, charming, classy. Mature, a delight in both the drawing room and those wonderful more private spaces just a few steps up. I know we'll get comfortable on the sofa, sip white wine and chat. She loves loves loves clothes. I know just how much trouble she goes to, to dress for me. It's only fair that I do too. I don't hold back when I dress for her. I know she'll notice.
I slip on a new pair of silk boxers. I know that she'll see and feel the cool slipperiness under her warm fingers, and my firm buttocks under them. I pull on my pants, finely woven tan linen for this sweltering summer evening. They are tailored to perfection. I put on a pair of fine silk socks, woven with a tiny intricate pattern. First one, then the other.
I think for a moment, then pull out a shirt from my closet. I love this shirt. It's Egyptian cotton, thin, crisp, the colors bright. Its blue, tan, and white stripes reminds me of a lady I fondly remember, and magical moments on her striped blue sheets. I button my shirt, and tease a pair of cufflinks into the cuffs. They make me smile. They have an enameled blue bird on them. My calling card. My namesake. I put on my watch, a family heirloom. Perfectly polished and poised on its leather strap whispering sophistication, rather than shouting for attention.
My shoes. Oh, those shoes. My stylish Italian dress shoes. They've borne me over her threshold many a time, to joys untold. I know they will many more times yet. They match my belt to perfection. I had burnished them to a dull glow only moments before. I pick them up from their repose beside my bed. I shoehorn them on and tie their laces.
I reach into my closet and pull out my tailored sport coat. It's warm outside, but my unlined navy blue linen jacket is cool. That extra layer will be welcome when I leave her home later. Much, much later.
I'm almost ready to go. I pick up my keys and sunglasses. I slip a small white envelope into my jacket inside pocket. I take a last look in the mirror, and then I step out the door.
My ritual is over. My evening has just begun.
