L’amour, toujour, l’amour.
As the French so eloquently and succinctly say, it is all about love. And flirting has long been the delightful prelude to love.
In Victorian times, no properly brought up young lady’s education was complete without instruction in the gentle art of flirting with her fan. The placement of the fan, how she wielded it – all sent signals.
“Will she or won’t she…” her suitor wondered, “dance the next quadrille with me?”
The flash of her eyes above a bit of lace and feathers could thrill the hopeful beau, or dash his hopes to pieces.
As I observed at the YMCA the other night, the gentle art of flirting is still practiced, with a few small differences. A young lady still sends signals, but instead of a fan she now uses body language. Literally. Words embroidered on her clothing send a subtle message for the discriminating suitor to interpret.
“What” her eager swain puzzles, “can be the meaning of these words emblazoned across the tiny bit of Lycra clinging to her, er, um, booty? junk in the trunk? badonkadonk?” The message printed across her nether cheeks read:
Will she or won’t she…? I’d say she probably will.
Whether speaking with a fan or a skin-tight a** covering, woman continues to whisper to man – the subtle language of love. Or not too subtle. The message was about as subtle as a sledgehammer in this particular case, but still. You get my drift.