An open letter to my future boytoy

Geez, I am already 44 and still feeling 'girly'.

I admit. I have been looking at you, nay, staring, ogling even. I just couldn't keep my eyes off your beautiful face. You remind me of no one. Not Piolo, not Alfie Anido, not Brad Pitt. Your face is just perfectly chiseled that it's almost impossible to describe it. Ok, I am exaggerating. But for me, you've got a face that would make me forget that I had a bad morning, that would make me remember that there's always sunshine after the rain.

I melt. You don't look straight to me but I know you're looking, you're noticing my stare. This morning, you're seated beside me. I can feel everything. Your breath. Your skin. Your 'balahibo'. Your sideways stare. I was blatantly staring back. I was obviously hyperventilating. I had to pray ten Hail Mary's to temper myself, to control my growing desire to hold your hand or to pretend sleeping and lean to your right shoulder. I was not successful. I didn't grab your hand but yes, I ran my fingers to your forearm. I didn't just lean my head to your shoulder, instead, I silently kissed it. I know you noticed. I know you knew. I heard your deep sigh. I felt your heavy breathing, as if anticipating something else or something more. I thought I can do more. But that's enough hooray for the day.

I give in. I promised to be good, to give up 'desiring'. I am used to just looking, to staring, to ogling. I am used to just admiring. You must be Michaelangelo's inspiration, you must be a Greek god, you must be an Olympian warrior, you must be an apparition. But the admiring went to a different level when I realized you knew I was looking, staring and ogling. You started to flirt with your half-smile. You started to seduce. You started to make me feel weak, melted and totally girly.

I accept. This morning, both us breathing like we were running in a treadmill, you made an invitation, A proposal perhaps. I don't know. But whatever it is, I accepted. I got your number, thank you. I was surprised by your move. You opened your Samsung phone and showed me your name and contact info. I texted you as soon as I had the chance and you swiftly texted back.

I realize. You are a real estate consultant and you're selling me a piece of land in Ortigas. But I realized, all I wanted was just a piece of meat. I passed. Sorry.

I am 44 and still an 'ilusyonada.'