It was his photograph which first caught my attention. I had been hastily responding to text messages on a dating site, surprised by my alleged popularity. I hadn’t even reached out to him but found myself responding. And then I saw his photograph.
For years and years I’d been attracted to the Northern European type: blond and blue-eyed; pure and gentle and open. But since the crash and burn of my very longterm relationship, I’ve found myself hopelessly attracted to men of the dark and swarthy variety. I know you know the type. And in case you don’t, let me describe it.
Piquant. Savory. Succulent.
Now do you know the type? The type that at first looks deep and dark and delicious, then nips at the back of your lips like cayenne pepper; the thick full lips which peek out from behind a well-trimmed beard that sits low on high cheekbones; soft and dark cross-grained hair that begs to be finger-combed; a lithe throat that empties in to two distinct pools of the clavicle which are the perfect touchdown for feathery kisses; the chest that’s hidden from sight, yet branches off in both directions, both east and west, to the identical twins of shoulder caps, then down the arms, past the rapids of thick veins on the wrist, to the delicate hands which often tilt my face to meet his gaze; cascading down through narrow hips and onto a pair of lusty thighs which appear like glaciers that scrape to his knees and follow down to his rope-like calves.
Just like that. Better, exactly like that.
And yet, when he first reached out to me, he, this stunning man, called me handsome.