He isn’t my type.
Nothing about him, really, appeals to me physically.
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
when he merges with it, opens his mouth
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
He’s not my type…
but when he steps to the mic
Ooooh, I wish he was!