Him-notized

I love being a woman. I love the feel of sliding into a pair of five inch heels and I thrive in the authority they give my strut. I adore the moments after your hairdresser has laid your hair to the gawds and you walk out the door prepared to stop traffic. I love the way the shower feels against my smooth, exfoliated skin. And I live for the moments you’re sitting in a board room and you completely floor the room with your intelligence and knowledge when they were too distracted by your curves in that pencil skirt. Being underestimated and/or disregarded just increases my power, and I love that.

More than all that, though, you know what I love most about being a woman?  Men.

There’s nothing in this world better about being a woman than having the ability to experience a man. A man’s heat. A man’s strength. His hands. His baritone in your ear. To feel a man’s hands caressing your scalp as you fall to sleep or gripping your hair as you throw it back is one of the greatest pleasures of life.

I am feminist as they come. I am also as woman as loudly as I can roar. When I enter my front door after a day of tackling misogyny and going after that glass ceiling, I want him sitting on my couch with the TV on ESPN or Nightly News, beer in hand, with his arm outstretched so I crawl right into him. I want his hands to unzip this pencil skirt. And I want his skilled ministrations to reward me for kicking ass today.

Tout your independence as loudly as you wish. I’ll be right there arguing for your right to do so. Me myself, though? I’ll be “on my knees, waiting for him to come over and feed me.” (See today’s soundtrack below.) I used to think there was something subservient and weak about a woman wanting to please her man. I was always worried that even if I didn’t know, I’m sure his ass had done something to not deserve my submission. Or better yet, what had he done to prove himself worthy of it? Hell, he’s probably not just your man.

That was all bullshit. Because the sight of my bank account, my accomplishments at work, the “Senior” designation in my title…none of that makes me as happy as I am when I’m next to him. And if he makes you happy, how could anything or anyone’s opinion be more important than your own fucking happiness? When I stand at a dais and hold a room of executives enthralled by my words, when I convince a multimillionaire why he should let me steer his next investment, all I want to feel is my man’s strong arm around my waist and his lips against my neck. I’d rather have his hands gripping me and reminding me why God made me a woman than be sitting at Happy Hour listening to my girls whine about how ninjas ain’t shit and how mine probably ain’t either. Because miserable woman want other women miserable in their company. 

Tuh. I can take myself to that five star restaurant and could probably pay for my meal and the table next to mine. I could carry all these grocery bags to my apartment. I could pull a chair to the closet and reach the box on my top shelf. I could also bring myself to orgasm and turn over to cuddle my body pillow. I could do all these things because I am woman, and if nothing else, we are resilient.

I don’t want to do ANY of those things. I want him. Fuck that, I need him. I want him to be in control of me and these curves. Wield me. There’s no weakness in needing a man, and I need mine. Call it dickmatized. Call it love. Call it stupid. But I’ll be calling his name tonight while you comfort yourself knowing ain’t nobody out there cheating on you. Ain’t nobody calling you either, but you don’t want to hear that.

Be superwoman tomorrow. Get dick tonight. Enjoy being a woman.

Soundtrack for the weekend – “Not every man can handle a woman just like me/ I can be with you all of me/ Submissive, dominant, freaky/ Cause when I blackout/ And then I come back/ You still meet me in the eye/ And you’re still hittin’ that”

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