Oh I love women. Not girls. Women. I love their hourglass shape… how they walk like so, sashaying through the halls, floating on something sugary delectably sweet – how they flow from side to side in slim pants and smoothed cardigans; their swaying hair – I love their scents, perfumed intangibly sexual and sweet - makes me think of bubble baths and springtime orchards and sex. But aromatized, genie in a bottle pink-purple cotton candied poetic sex and not the squirming sweaty grunting biological sex. I love their femininity, those girlish ways of using exclamations, those pouty loaded questions and vague intent answers. I love their smoothness and the lotioned fingertips, the nape of the necks and the lean lines of their legs. Legs and thighs and wrists and ankles and shoulders. Fluttering eyelashes and peekaboo darling eyes and peach tinted lips, lush and lascivious. I love how women retain their “it thing”, their charm even under duress, when stressed they still glide like so… like swans. I love their whispers and their irrationality. Of course, I only love certain kinds of women. To quote my buddy M, “Fat chicks need loving too, just not from me.”