Oh I know you too well.
Brandishing your reputation like it's something new, untarnished, brilliant and desirable.
You're like all the others.
Your feverish gaze, the starkness of your body against the night, desperate for someone else to entangle with.
It's brutal, isn't it? How crooked your smile hangs, how perfect your lines are, how amazingly well shaped your body is.
And how no one wants you despite all that.
You don't harp on it though. No one wants a complainer either.
You're so busy shaping yourself to everyone else and their standards.
You don't have a blemish on you. Not one mark, no whisper of lips along your collarbones, no indentations from fingernails sinking in the heat of passion and the wrongness of being so damn right, the rightness of feeling so incredibly wrong.
Yes I know you far too well, society's mannequin of a perfect mate and I don't get turned on by plastic perfection. Look somewhere else for your date.