I love men. I mean, I really love men. I love the way they smell, I love the way they taste. I love the veins in their forearms and the little hairs on their chests. I love the feel of their scruffy faces and lightly calloused hands against yours. I love the dimples in their backs, the muscles under their skin. I love their freckles and their scars. I love their height and their strength. I love the V’s on their hips and the slight in their steps. I love their deep, gravelly voices in the morning and their stubbornness. I love the way they look in three piece suits, I love them in jeans and t-shirts. I love when that smile tickles the corners of their mouths because they’re thinking about someone they love. I love how their jaw clenches when they’re trying to suppress their rage. I love it when they lift you off your feet in a hug, when they nibble on the nape of your neck. I love their scrappiness, their softness, their unpredictability and their stability. I love when they play video games; when they read books; when they play soccer; when they answer your phone call with “hey, babe”; when they pet their cats; when they talk to their dogs in high pitched voices; when they hold babies; and when they sit on the other end of the couch with your feet in their lap and tickle your soles every time you let your guard down. I love their loyalty. I love their differences and similarities. I love that there are good ones and ‘bad’ ones and in between ones and that finding the right one for you can be a struggle but is usually damn well worth it in the end.
I just really love them—especially my man, and I felt like saying so. So I did.
