Here’s the thing, anon. Men don’t fall in love with me because of what’s in between my legs.
They love the way I sway. There’s a secret in the way I walk. It’s a melody, it’s a rhythm. When my thighs touch, a symphony of sensuality reverberates up and down my spine and into my smile. And, oh, anon. They love my smile. It can be sweet and sinister, tight lipped. It can come accompanied with a playful wink, or a smirk. It can be toothy and wide, brazen and bold. They love my mind. I’m inquisitive, I’m intelligent, I’m interesting. I’d sit for hours listening to them talk about summers with their grandma, then transition into the NFL playoff outlook, then have a rousing discourse on the merits of community property laws and round out the discussion laughing about the most ridiculous line on the latest Jeezy track. They love the fact that I’m passionate. I’m a hugger, a kisser, a grabber, a rubber, oh, baby, I am a lover in a thousand different ways with a turtleneck, snow boots, and a parka on - I don’t need to take my clothes off for this. I don’t need to show any skin for this. I’m not confident about much, but I can affirmatively say that the best lovers are the ones who can make your consciousness climax, who can send shivers down your spine via snapchat, who can make your toes curl via text, who can make your encephalon ejaculate via email. So anon sweetheart, keep your man from around me. He might wind up getting mind fucked.