My kind.

Fables of the second class, second compartment
And second door are known.
But I like my men in first.
A little classy,
Or at least pretending to be.
Cheap deodorant whisking off their shirts,
In combinations they call formal wear.
Brands, from the cheap export surpluses,
Sporting a nice watch sometimes.
All carrying the touch phones though.
These men, they travel south everyday,
Oblivious to the grit and struggle.
These men, low on ambition,
Saturated in mottos and money.
Content probably in lovemaking as well.
Here I find some gems,
Polished and unpolished.
Some who can afford my fancy and my wild.
Men of taste, strugglers and strikers,
who touch first and quick.
Men who aren't afraid and show sleepy,
Men who don't pretend to be unaware
Of their hands brushing against me,
Or accidental crotches.
I like these men, who
In their pretentious deodorants, bearable armpits,
Make a move on me.
I like them who don't give up,
Even if I sport a disinterested sullen expression
Whilst cheaply smirking from behind my book..concealed.
I like to be won over
Too much to ask ?