Cheeky Clarity

I am not a man.
There's nothing about me that is chiseled or hard.
I'm all soft curves from my breasts to my bum.
As I get older, even my hair is beginning to fall in gentle, blonde ringlets.

I am not a man.
I don't get turned on by visuals.
I like words.
I need to feel the burn in my belly. The need. The want. The tension.
And beyond that, for anything to happen, I need affection, adoration, a bond.
That doesn't make my fantasies angst.
It doesn't make it soap opera.
It makes me feminine.

Yes, I know it's odd to you that I can't just get naked --
and then get out of bed like it's no big thing.
Yes, I, too, know plenty of other girls who can -- or rather, who do.
But I don't know many girls who want to live their sex lives that way.

I am not a man.
I like love notes and sharing ice cream.
I like when your hand rests on my thigh.
I like when I catch you staring at me in delight across a room.
I love that you know I smell like coconut.

You may think me a tease, but I never withhold.
In fact, I'm often dying to share my body and my heart with you.
Biology built me this way.
It programmed my brain to seek a suitor.
It's me who also wants that suitor to be a lover.
Tender, witty, charming, firm, masculine...

I am not a man.
I want you to come in me not on me.
I know I drive you insane.
But year after year you keep coming back,
so I know you're endeared to me.

Yes.
I am extraordinary.
I am neurotic.
I am scintillating.
I am sexy as hell.
I am woman.
Roar.