After having gifted this precious item to my love and seeing her properly drawing unicorns and fairies for the first time (previously you see, it was as if the other pens--my pens--would take over and draw muscular mutated beasts with great big fangs and saddles loaded with projectiles and an assortment of cutlery not suitable for any kitchen work!), I thought to myself, maybe she's born with it? maybe it's BIC! I couldn't wait for her to show off in front of her friends--and indeed she did, inflicting them with such jealousy leaving them no choice but to beg their husbands for enough spare change to purchase some of their own.
But that's when it hit me. Deep down inside, I was desiring a bit--or I dare say--a lot of what they had experienced among themselves. So I did the unthinkable. I bought a set for myself. My love asked me what on earth I was doing with another set of "for her" pens and I immediately snapped back, "they're for our daughter!" But she reminded me, we don't have a daughter. Alas, I was caught in my own web of lies, and holding the pens, I broke down crying like a little girl--the little girl we didn't have, except in my own heart. I wept with my dearest until I felt closure from it all and finally came out! I gently grabbed the flower-templated paper I purchased with the pens and began writing in big smooth curvy letters--not the crooked hasty one's I was used to all my life with those blasted man pens; and drawing horses and poodles--not the tall one's mind you, but rather the cute little ones--and then heart shapes and innocent love letters (not the raunchy hair-raising instant-blush & faint one's I naturally spun out of a man-pen) and my poetry was filled with a noticeable feminine charm. I loved it. It felt so natural. Yet so guilty. Guilty, for having taking it from whatever poor woman came to the store that day to find the shelf depleted, and for my own self, for having given in to the temptation of experimenting with a different orientation. I had to confide in my best friend. He took me by surprise by confessing to me first that he was swept up by it too! The pen it was, so sleek and fragile, we fell in love with its delicate charm. And we knew we couldn't go back to those so-called "man pens" anymore, except of course, in the presence of those yet still unenlightened. So we decided to educate the society around us one at a time, bit by bit, until it becomes acceptable for a man to write both ways. My friend Butch took his pen out shopping, making note to sign his name with the new pen wherever he could, shoving it into the cashier's face, to read, to weep, and to give in to it also. "You should have seen him!" Butch cried happily, "When I retracted the pen tip in front of one of the cashiers, he became weak at the knees and whipped out his pen as well, shouting with glee that he was not alone, no more." A round of pens for our friends! And I here tell the tale of the love of two men, seized by a stranger as it were, much closer to the bosom than that which we had been raised to believe was only proper for a man. So my final words to all women, let your man experiment with them too, and don't feel ashamed or guilty if you see him do so, but give him the privacy he needs until he is strong enough to wave his pen out in public without any fear and without any shame. I've gotten too choked up to go on!
UPDATE: Butch's wife filed for a divorce, citing that he keeps taking all her pens as if that's irrational behavior. Thus, I had to knock the pen down from five to four stars, not out of any weakness in of its own delicate nature, but due to its seductive charm, too potent to resist. My marriage is still intact, but I suspect my wife has gone back to another pen, a man's pen--the other day she said I've been thinking through my pen too much and she needed the assurance and security of a stronger pen that can write boldly in times when she needs that testost--I mean ink, whilst I have forgotten how to weld my own!