On boulevards there are always men with hats. There are women with parasols and men with hats, always. On boulevards there are other men too, men with beards or worn shoes or barely undone ties. Women, though, generally always carry a parasol as they walk along the boulevards.
This is unfortunate because it makes it more difficult for the men with beards or worn shoes or barely undone ties or hats to decide which woman to follow. Only being able to see the bottom part of her back side – which is to say the most dissembling part of a lady’s person – men are often led to follow a pair of thick but shapely legs only to discover a distended, fearful face, or perhaps a slender, supple pair enlisted in the service of a sunken, haunting face; in short, they are led astray, deceived by that most prevaricating of female accoutrements: the parasol.
A few women, though, do not carry a parasol. They walk about nakedly, tauntingly, allowing us to relish all that they have to offer: legs, torso, hands, and face. The paradox, though, is that these brazen creatures frighten us bearded, hatted men – their temerity makes us recoil in fear, terrified that these exposed, uninhibited things might actually be following us. Thus, unlike their covered, concealing sisters whom we follow about unabashedly, these candid creatures are a reproach to our watchful, wandering ways.
In any case it is a frightful, scandalous affair, and I, for one, am no longer frequenting the boulevards. Women may certainly feel free to go about however they wish, but know that if you continue about sans parasol you will continue to lose even the most inveterate of sidewalk stalkers, which is something I’m quite certain you cannot afford to do.
This is unfortunate because it makes it more difficult for the men with beards or worn shoes or barely undone ties or hats to decide which woman to follow. Only being able to see the bottom part of her back side – which is to say the most dissembling part of a lady’s person – men are often led to follow a pair of thick but shapely legs only to discover a distended, fearful face, or perhaps a slender, supple pair enlisted in the service of a sunken, haunting face; in short, they are led astray, deceived by that most prevaricating of female accoutrements: the parasol.
A few women, though, do not carry a parasol. They walk about nakedly, tauntingly, allowing us to relish all that they have to offer: legs, torso, hands, and face. The paradox, though, is that these brazen creatures frighten us bearded, hatted men – their temerity makes us recoil in fear, terrified that these exposed, uninhibited things might actually be following us. Thus, unlike their covered, concealing sisters whom we follow about unabashedly, these candid creatures are a reproach to our watchful, wandering ways.
In any case it is a frightful, scandalous affair, and I, for one, am no longer frequenting the boulevards. Women may certainly feel free to go about however they wish, but know that if you continue about sans parasol you will continue to lose even the most inveterate of sidewalk stalkers, which is something I’m quite certain you cannot afford to do.
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