In a strange, exciting way, I feel like her woman.
I’m not a macho-man type, but neither am I the feminine kind. I guess I’m pretty much the boy-next-door, content in my easy style of being. I talk less, but generally straight. I’ve had my share of crushes and infatuations, but I was never among the over-sexed men. In my boyhood days, I did the same things that most boys did, but somewhere along the path, I did grow up. Or so I would like to believe. People around call me mature and balanced, but this is not about me. This is about her.
She’s magic, you know. No, no…you possibly can’t know. There is no other her. You couldn't know till you knew her. And saw me with her.
I've never felt this before. In my modest experience with women, this strange feeling, of wanting to be the woman in the relationship, never quite fascinated me. Is it my age? Is it some repressed inner need? I couldn't tell.
It is like this. When she’s around, I love her taking charge. She’s so sorted, so sure…it is pleasing to watch her reaching logical conclusions, unmarred with biases and egos that afflict lesser mortals like us. And just then, when one is beginning to wonder at her mature mannerism and perfect conduct, she will crack a joke somewhere around the belt, and deliver it with such good-heartedness…
Of course her personality is magnetic. But I’m digressing. This is not even about her personality, it’s about her. A quality that penetrates outer appearances. I’ll tell you what. There is a masked aggression that runs like an undercurrent beneath her translucent skin. When she looks at me, I feel freshly washed in her attention. I wait for her to tease me, I bite my lips and blush in the after-effect, and love the further assault she unleashes. Does she know how I love, often beget, the entire process? I bet she does.
Another of her beauties. She reveals exactly what should be, with shocking boldness, but never stirs what should be kept quiet.
Sitting back with admiration and joy, I watch her mingling with others, winning hearts, breaking proposals, fixing deals, enjoying life…with a confidence that could seem cold. But cold? That’ll be the last thing that she is. This is what surprises me. She is so sensitive, so soft…like the inside petal of a just-blown tulip. I have, much to my sadness, seen her breaking down once or twice on matters others won’t give a damn to. But the clarity with which she gathers herself later – marvelous.
That is why I feel so safe in her company. I know I will be judged fairly, I know I will have love, even pampering, when I need it. I know I will be humored, and taught, in a way where I can’t distinguish one from the other. I know that she will be my emotional fortress. My role model. I look in her eyes, and melt. I surrender. Waiting for her to gather me in her arms…and…no, that’s not for you to know.
Does that make me effeminate? I don’t know. Ask her.