‘What do you look for in a man?’
Well he has to be buff and sexy and rich with a six pack and big dick because that what we all want, right?
Wrong.
Look for details. The details give the story substance. Look at his hands, how calloused they are.
Means he was a fighter, works hard. Stories, memories, mistakes etched into his skin.
Those same scarred hands are tender. Soft. .
Each time he enters you, he holds your hand, intertwined, you become one, equal. Each time he puts his humble hands together in prayer, whispering thankful words under his breath.
Gaze into his eyes, the dullest, most ordinary shade of brown.
No speckles of emerald or topaz dancing along his iris. Like the mud and dirt and earth, it conceals diamonds and gems and all things precious.
They reveal nothing, but resemble the same eyes of a monk who killed for a living, an assassin who now speaks to you about sinner’s redemption and masks everything from his torturous past.
And what is more alluring than a man filled with mystery?
His lips. Rarely smile. Speaks only wise words.
You will always appreciate the silence. How comfortable it, he, makes you feel.
Silence that resurrects your senses.
He is the perfect book.
Your favourite movie.
The most beautiful song.
And he has his flaws, I’m aware. He is not sculpted like Hercules, nor any demi-god.
And his hair is not the type you can always run your hands through, nor the type of person you can always hold.
So when you ask me ‘What do you look for in a man’, I’ll give you the longest list of lies,
Instead of admitting that I want someone completely imperfect, like myself.
