I'm the kind-a brotha who comes out on days when the sun is up and flowers in parks are in bloom, dressed to kill in a blaze of glory, thoughts camaflauged behind tinted windows on wheels shined to the brilliane of a new nickl. But no one knows the story. I'm a walking talking encyclopedia, stacked upon a frame six foot four, what ever the topic, I know more. I woo the best because I am the best, and I could tell a few sad stories about thoses who looked to put me to the test. Yet. I'm a gentleman who aims to please. I'll open doors as if I was your personal doorman, bring you flowers in the dead of winter when Jack Frost is pounding furiously on doors and making windows opaque. But you'll never know me. I'd have all cylinders on full blast when your family and I met. They'd treat me like an old friend from the past and tell me things you couldn't know, even if you asked! They would bless you and I in the depths of their hearts out of a surety that we were meant to be, and your cousins and Uncles and Aunts would all ask the same question when we were gone: "How in the hell did she get invited to that dance?" But catch this: they'd never guess the half, of who I am, and all the things I can, and be totally ignorant of why I never show my hand; players out there would understand, I'll keep you on a natural high, serve you goose bumps for dinner and surround you with an aura so rarefied, your blood will become thinner with the altitude of my attitude. I offer late night showers with Barry in the background, personal manicures and pedicures and breakfast fixed in the wee hours before four on some far away Pacific shore like maybe.. Tahiti. I'll pour hot oil by the drip from your heels to the back of your neck then massage from there to there, to THERE!! with a sensual trek... But I'll never let you in.