Men Aren't That Bad

I, like a lot of men are driven by the visual. I'm enticed by beauties with brains. I find nothing sexier than a matured frontal and parietal lobe carried by a dark skin beauty, caramel, milky way or look like he just stepped out of Green & Black's chocolate factory; I do not discriminate.





Starting from the low cut Caesar with deep waves. 
His eyes that look into your soul; undress you by watching your every move, sparking up something delicious in the pit of your stomach and at the meeting of your thighs.

The curve of his lips; that Colgate smile. 
I enjoy listening the vibrations of his deep masculine voice, deep laugh and the huskiness when he says sweet nothings or when he's telling a story.

I love the muscles on him, from his trapezius down to his biceps and triceps. The bulging veins that run down his fore arms to his metacarpals. I like something pretty to look at; not necessarily in the feminine term but in a way that I lick my lips and do a low grunt "mm!" when I watch his back shirtless while he moves around nonchalantly. 







It's also in his height, the confidence I take in wearing 5 inch heels knowing I'll still have to look up to him; metaphorically as well as literally. When he looks down at me, suddenly I feel small. I feel protected. I feel like he is King. My king.






I'm not shallow, I promise; I just like what I like.
Abercrombie and Fitch type guys, the abdominis rectus so defined, so cut and mesmerizing with his boxers hanging low enough to see the "V"; if you know you know.



From their waist down to their glutes he walks with such pride and purpose. A stance that dares to be challenged, that of a gladiator. He is a man with purpose, a goal. He is not perfect and he knows this. A man who treats his woman like his mate. He is King and she is Queen.