He adores women.
Their curves, their elegance, the softness of their silky skin. The way their bodies sway when they walk, Their sense of humour, their warmth, their generosity, their clear, incisive intelligence.
He adores their hair, their eloquent eyes, the hallowed velvet of their throat, the aching sensuality of their thighs.
He adores their femininity, their courage, their balance, their insanity. The way they talk so intimately amongst themselves.
He adores their resilience, their vulnerability. their anger, their passion, their truth and their lies.
He adores their motherhood, their sisterhood, their sainthood, He adores their independence, their sociability, their ability to survive.
He adores the fact that he finds them all so desperately, outrageously fucking sexy.
And yet there is something. Something that turns adoration into hungry desire.
Something intangible, wild, expressive, beautiful, endearing, submissive, strong and utterly mesmerizing that compels him. Something that captivates him completely.
She has it.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic
Art by Francine van Hove
I originally posted this eight years ago. It is my hymn to women in general. Although when it was written it may well have been for one in particular. And who knows, it might even be for one now.