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For March’s topic “define sexy.”

Sexy is in the way she walks. I notice her legs first, almost always. Her stride. The S curve of her ankles to her knees to her ass. Sexy is in the posture, in her spine, erect, in her shoulders, held back and confident.

It’s the power that is sexy, especially when combined with femininity. There’s nothing passive about it, she makes the space for me to walk in and sit right down, she puts the ideas of undressing her, unbuttoning that blouse, unzipping that skirt, into my head with just a glance. She knows how to engage, how to make it look like it’s my idea, like I’m in charge.

But I’m not.

Sexy is in the physical communication between us. The way I compensate when she pulls back, which is the reason she pulls back in the first place: she likes to see me strain. Likes to pull desire from me like a soul-sucking kiss. Likes to entice and invite until I reach that breaking point and just have to take her down. Have to hold her still, keep her from moving, break those charms from her mouth and remind her that I am a little stronger, a little bigger, remind her that there are consequences to her toying.

This place in me is just what she’s been seeking all along. She wants to be taken this way, she wants to know, to feel, how much I want her, how I cannot resist her any longer. She wants her intellect to be jolted, her physical body to be surprised so she can no longer theorize or prosthelytize, she can only animalistically respond with her primitive back brain, opening to force, opening to pressure, letting me take her, wishing it would never end.