He’s not my type

He isn’t my type.

Far from

Nothing about him, really, appeals to me physically.

But

when he stands to speak

walks casually to the mic,

quiet manhood oozing strength

Not the overstated

not the in-your-face, all talk and no substance “manhood”.

His feels born of life’s pain

fired by resilience-birthing experiences.

His manhood whispers “I am a man!”… and no one challenges it

When he walks to the mic

easy

casually

when he merges with it, opens his mouth

he captivates

pulls me into the world of his creation

allows me to hang on every word

My ears gulp the elixir that is his bass

I vibrate to the frequency of his melody

eyes fixate on his 6ft frame

smile at the naughty promise hidden beneath his jeans and blue polo shirt

When he speaks his truth

my mind, body and spirit momentarily converge

in conscious awareness

complete

suspended

timeless

He’s not my type…

but when he steps to the mic

Ooooh, I wish he was!

© 2013

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