Oh, To Know Them
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Women make me sick. But in a good way. You see, they have this certain trait, this undeniable characteristic that irritates the hell out of me. They’re beautiful. That really pisses me off! Guys don’t have that. Guys aren’t beautiful. Oh sure, women will say they are, but they’re lying. How can a hairy chest, square blocky shoulders and narrow hips be beautiful? I suppose a guy who is tall, well built, and gifted with piercing eyes and a straight nose might be somewhat attractive, but beautiful? Sorry. It just ain’t there, I don’t care what the fairer sex says.
The soft feminine curves, the smooth luscious skin, the swell of the…um…cheekbones, the hair, oh the hair…don’t get me going. All of those things that make up the female form, what we call, ‘Woman,’ seem to challenge human comprehension. These are not mere women, they are living sculptures hewn from the dreams of angels. Hell, even the women who aren’t beautiful are beautiful.
You’re standing there with her, trying to figure out where the couch should go. She’s wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. She’s staring at a five and a half foot love seat that you just moved four times. She’s wondering whether that is going to work or not. You’re desperately trying to talk her into it while at the same time attempting to act as if you’re just as concerned as she is about the best place for the one hundred and forty pound leather sofa. While she’s thinking, she has one hand on her hip, and the other gently tapping her chin. The only thing on your mind is whether or not she’s going to buy your story about how, really, this is the only really good place for it, because, after all, over there, well, the sun would hit it and fade the material, and in that corner you can hardly see the TV, and, well, we should probably not move it around anymore anyway because you thought you heard the arm creak, so…we should probably just leave it there…because, I mean, it looks good there…right? I mean, that’s probably the best place for it anyway…right, honey? Don’t you think?
She doesn’t say anything. She just keeps staring. And in that moment of painful silence, you’re wondering what the maximum penalty is for kicking a woman down the stairs. Her eyes never leave the couch, never move. They don’t even flicker from the same damn spot on the cushion. Now you’re running through your mind a list of untraceable poisons you saw on CSI. Just then, you see her hand casually reach up and pull a strand of hair from the side of her head and slowly slip it into her mouth, just at her lips. You melt. At this very moment, you would have moved the damn thing to the roof is she would have asked. Of course, you do the only logical male thing there is to do. You attack her.
Twenty minutes later as you and she lay on the love seat in each other’s arms, you can feel her heartbeat returning to normal, and that glow that she always has afterwards that lingers with her is only now subsiding. At this moment you feel as if you absolutely, physically could not live without her, that life has meaning only in the this one creature beside you. Your eyes mist over, just a bit, and you thank God for this lovely and amazing gift that has been bestowed upon such a fortunate one as you.
You can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking. What she will say, what will her very first words to you be after such a moving and visceral co-mingling of souls. In one slow and fluid move, reaches that sweet, delicate hand up and, ever so softly, touches your cheek and your whole body tingles as you pull her closer. Then that smoky, sensuous voice fills the air, and the words, her words, words that you never in a million years would have expected her to say register in your mind and you just smile with knowing contentment as you hear her say,
“How ‘bout against that wall over there?”
Keck
