It can be arms canvassed in tattoos, eyes that flash with daring, an incorrigible smile or something as understated as a steady gaze
In any case, her eyes declare
I want inside your wilderness
From across the room, from down the hall, haunting eyes that buck authority and promise all sorts of dirty things
The language of her body reads “I perfected the art of fucking girls up against walls in the safe haven of these strong arms. And I want you.”
The swagger of her approach promises to pin me up against a wall, hold my arms above my head, kissing me like it is the end of the world and worshiping at the altar of my breasts, if it truly is the end, you goddess, are the only one I want rapture from.
Tasting her name in my mouth, I roll it around my tongue and suck deeply, licking the cologne that clings to her curves, treasuring a kind of woman-ness that isn’t taught in school or photographed for magazines. There is nothing in conflict or transition about your butch woman’s body.
Carressing her undressed form and applying a warm, wet mouth to her natural grace. This dance lays both of us bare and exposed, scarred beauties.
I can see where you have been wounded by eyes like nails, where your beauty has gone unrecognized in a world that defines woman, so narrowly.
You can see, where I have been accosted by intrusive hands, claimed and seized by those who perceive my feminine state as nothing more than plunder.
And so we wrap each other up a tangle of arms and legs, while the intensity between us burns like the oceans between our thighs.
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