I love men. It’s a simple thought, really. And as an average looking, twenty something year old college student who is well equipped with a sweet disposition and a fabulous brain, I can somehow manage to keep certain relationships with men intact.
I think about the men I’ve slept with, the men I want to sleep with, and those I simply admire and adore in a platonic context.
I love women as well, but not in a hetero-male perspective. I admire their soft curves, physique, and snarky comebacks. I understand the poems written about them and the paintings that burst with gratitude for their existence.
But I love men. I love their arms, their eyes, and their jawlines. I love how they sit with their worn out jeans, legs apart, and their wallets outlining their pockets.
I love their calloused hands, broad shoulders, and how innocent and vulnerable they look while they’re sprawled against the sheets.
I love their scruff and how they feel against my neck. Sharp needles that soften; rough textures my skin eventually loosens up to.
I love seeing them cum. Explicit, but it’s true. Heavy breathing, chest rising, and their shaking thighs. Bright eyes and a wet kiss; it’s like watching a beautiful death.
They are gross and intoxicating, beautiful and cautious. Just what I think I have them figured out, they pull out a stunt. A different ending and a perfect lie. He comes back knocking on your door and asks for another kiss. He calls you back. He does not. He can love you enough to hold you from behind and rest his chin on your shoulder.
Even if my mother reminds me of how deadly they can be, they still intoxicate me.
For my name on their tongue can be the most beautiful lie.