She is too much. And you can’t get enough.
She is loud. She laughs with her whole body. It shakes and shimmies, and she lets out a pelting, machine-gun bark that shatters eardrums and makes you look.
She is not a quiet bird.
Her clothing tries in vain to contain her, but she overflows. Round, seeping mounds along her bra line. The flesh of her breasts straining for release. The fabric of her stylish garments stretch taught in various places, and her lady bits move all over. She wiggles and jiggles, all woman, all the time—her body, it rings like a dinner bell.
Here she comes, you think. A tall stack of buttermilk pancakes, dripping with gooey sweetness. Your mouth waters she looks so good.
She’s over-the-top. A piece of work. A pain in the ass. She’s a force to be reckoned with, the only force, a cosmic force, a divine force. She draws you in, she protects you, she makes you feel safe, makes you feel connected, to your tender, loving feelings, and your not-so-innocent, virile masculinity. That woman makes you feel vulnerable, but alive.
There she is, you think. A five-alarm fire you can’t put out.
Her smile lights up the party. It cuts through the darkness. It beckons small flickers of humanity inside a million damaged souls. It sparks conversation. It pushes you to do the right thing, to keep your thoughts to yourself for once, your mouth shut, to listen, to pay attention, to think instead of speak.
Her smile checks and corrects you, but you don’t mind.
Because her eyes swim with possibility and kindness. Her eyes see inside you. They drink you in and understand you because you are so much like her, a wounded warrior healing. Her eyes shine like headlights blasting through the night. They show you the way.
That woman is raw beauty in a dirty world.
Her arms are full, all filled up with you, and groceries, and small dogs and plants, and living. She is always giving. She is mixing, and rearranging, and creating art from nothing; she is doing and reaching and dancing; and oh yes, she is just way too much.
And you love her.
There she is, you think.
She is all nouns and verbs and adjectives. She is all chapters and verses and paragraphs. She is page after riveting page. She is a whole damn Pulitzer prize-winning book.
Her soft thighs like clapping thunderclouds. She slaps them together on purpose and you laugh. It sounds like a spank, and you are jolted awake. You laugh and laugh and you tickle her into oblivion, right off her carefully placed towel, and you chase her to the shoreline, to the crashing water, you grab her waist and send her under.
Her happy screeches are inside every droplet, every salty splash. They are inside you, and it’s a rush so complete that time stands still for just a moment. You look around and find yourself exactly where you want to be. Right now, right here, with her.
This is heaven, you think.
Her arms say hello and goodbye all at once. They wave in the wind. They swing and sway like dance hall days, they rub up against you gently as you sleep. They are soft and warm, but oh, they are strong. You have felt the strength of a thousand women when she envelops you—when she pulls you in.
But, she’s the only one, you think.
She’s a bit much, and yet you can’t get enough.
Here she comes.