Baby man

It was almost the ultimate, masculine, grown-up interaction.

I stood when she entered the restaurant.

I drew her chair from beneath the table, then slid it gently back in as she sat down.

I ordered a big piece of meat and a little piece of carbs.

I told a story in which I seemed vulnerable and emerged the hero.

As you talked, I positioned my elbows on the table, with my hands under my chin, the picture of attentive listening, while emphasising my biceps as they strained against my shirt.

I wore an outfit that showed how progressive and fashion conscious I am, while emphasising my biceps as they strained against my shirt.

I pointed to a painting on the wall that I said I thought was beautiful, having selected one that was in a position that would mean that my pointing to it would emphasise my biceps as they strained against my shirt.

I forewent the tiny biscuit that came with my after dinner coffee, though I did in fact want it.

I was jovial with the male waiters, and paid almost no attention to the female ones for fear that you would think I was being flirtatious.

It was almost the ultimate, masculine, grown-up interaction.

A friendly embrace was my planned end to the evening. Just enough contact to show I cared. Just shy enough from intimacy to show my respect for womankind.

I positioned my body to invite you in, my arms outstretched. You mirrored me and moved forward. We embraced. My head over your shoulder.

And as you squeezed me, a burst of bodily gas erupted from my mouth.

You had burped me. Like a baby.