If that hormone fueled Tom turkey that proudly strutted his stuff  for the entire nearby animal kingdom  to see at the edge of a clearing in  Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore thought he was enticing the nearby hen; and he dreamed that his deep gobbles, curved leg spurs, sexy beard (well-perhaps for her) and flashy throat displays of engorged flesh and tail fanning would fuel her with lustful desires, sadly for him, he had another think coming. She could have cared less. She contined to poke about in the dirt for grubs and dried seeds.  Sex - at least with him  - was not in the cards.  And from the vantage point my friend and I had (eager voyeurs we were) as we watched him try to make the ground tremble one thing became perfectly clear: There was not even a hint of lightning running through her veins. I did my best imitation of a gooble to show him how it might be done. He gobbled back but could not quite figure out who I was and where I was. Perhaps that was just as well. As for the hen, enough of this game. Without even a backwards glance that perhaps would have equaled a scribbled phone number on a moist bar napkin she walked off into the woods leaving him with nothing to do but peck at the ground. And that he did.  But I know that just like a wanna-be stud acting womanizer in a bar with an open shirt flaunting gold chains and far more flash than substance, he would just trot to the edge of the field and try again.  He was not searching for romance.  He was a Tom, a Tom on the make, and in 'turkey world' it's the same for feathered turkeys and male humans that act like that lustful tom in an empty field. Closing time and last call had arrived - - - and she was gone.