Yardsale wins the gringo.

Oh man I can imagine the scene.

Her, tense, eyes incapable of focusing on any one thing for too long. They dart from your eyes to your hands to your seething bulge, and back again before anyone even notices. She sits, quietly wondering if you notice the opening she’s left.

Of course, nothing gets by Yardsale. You’ve been toying with her this entire time, guiding her down a path she thinks she’s choosing for herself, not yet knowing the inevitability of her defeat or your naked embrace.

You move your hand to the rook and remove her hapless queen from the game, pausing to give her a wry smile as you simultaneously say the word. “Check.” There’s not much of a sad tone to it. Instinctively, you pick up on the tense expectation carried in her voice.

The cat and mouse game is afoot. She makes a half-hearted attempt to defend her king, slyly licking her lips as she purposefully places him down, daring you with her eyes to take what’s yours.

A moment of hesitation. You both know the score, but you want her to know you’re in no hurry to seal the deal. Locked eyes, mutual knowing grins, and labored breathing dominate the scene until you break her gaze and move your graceful fingers to your last remaining pawn.

You take your time in simply lifting it from the board, knowing that even if the piece itself isn’t fragile, the entire situation could unravel with a single false move.

By the time you’re finishing up, she’s squirming in her seat. She wants it. Only you can give it to her.

With the heavy clack of plastic on cardboard, you become all that she knows. All that she desires. With the word “checkmate,” she lets out an involuntary moan and clutches your arm, absorbed in your masculinity and utter domination.

You are not an alpha male. You are the alpha male.

You are yardsale.