Sexy.
Sexy is like a freshly honed blade reflecting lamplight.
Sexy is like a leather-bound collector’s edition of
"The Lord of the Rings" or a 200-year-old copy of Milton’s
"Paradise Lost" with
engraved
panels. Sexy is like a blood-red
Katana
and a midnight-black Ninja racing down the street,
hugged between thighs clad in worn leather.
Sexy is like grapes, like strawberries, like a
cherry popsicle on a hot day.
Hot.
Hot day.
Sexy is like a perfect dead-on shot between
the eyes, executed while dropping upside-down from the rafters of
a high building with nothing but
luck
to catch the fall.
Sexy is like chocolate.
Sexy is like the near-silent snick
snick snick snick snick
of a well used blade flipping open.
Sexy is like a tailored black suit and a loosened tie.
Sexy is like the clean lines of a perfectly oiled
Beretta M-82 handgun. Sexy is like a formal red shirt half
unbuttoned, like the quiet clink of chains
shifting in the dark.
Sexy is like a flawless
flawless
spinning jump kick, like flipping up
into a standing position without using any hands, like a gothic
cathedral viewed by the light of the moon and stars.
Sexy is like boots, big black leather boots with
strong soles and steel toes and buckled straps crisscrossing, crisscrossing.
Crisscrossing, crisscrossing.
Sexy is like a dark velvet rose with water-bead-diamonds
shining on its petals and blood glistening on its thorns. Sexy is
like chopsticks and Chinese food, like a plate of good sushi.
Sexy is like a narrow-eyed glare and a smile that isn’t a smile, like
bone-white
teeth framed by picture-perfect lips.
Sexy is like that guy in your class, the one who would be
totally quiet
if it weren’t for the fact that the zippers and the straps and the
buckles on his pants jingle every time he moves,
the one who walks like he owns you,
owns you
who stands with his hips cocked to one side and his shirt riding up
just the tiniest bit over that flat stomach, who never says a thing
but who knows all the answers.
All the answers.
Sexy is like fire, like a flame, a candle, a liquid tongue
of light chasing away the shadows
only to cast more.
Sexy is like jagged bangs, like tousled hair, like the
wind whispering and playing through a gun-metal earring.
Sexy is like being in the back of the line and being let in
first anyway. Sexy is like a martini cradled on fingertips, like
a shot of vodka tossed back hard.
Harder than hard.
Sexy is like a long smooth calf, like
slender ankles wrapped in leather. Sexy is like dark sunglasses, and
everything they do and
do not hide.
Sexy is like a trench coat swirling around a street
corner, like a city in the rain, like fog creeping along the surface of a
lake, across the ground, across a forest of skyscrapers.
Sexy is like a new moon in winter, like a thunderstorm, like
an earthquake, like a tornado that’s found water to play with.
And play with.
Sexy is like finding the perfect words on a page buried at
the back of a library and realizing that you already
knew them,
know them,
will always know them.
Sexy is like teeth on a collarbone, like lips on a
shoulder, chest, palm, like a tongue sliding up the back of a
thigh.
Sexy is like a scarf, like warming hands numbed by the cold,
like flushed cheeks. Sexy is like the first hesitant brush of lips
in the park, like a hand tangled in
hair,
gripping,
pulling back head,
baring neck,
tongue,
teeth,
thrusting,
ravaging,
taking hold and never letting go.
Never Letting
go. go.
Sexy is like an old, overstuffed, worn leather chair.
Sexy is like a hand on a hipbone, fingers in a back pocket, chest
pressed to shoulder blades.
Sexy is like a polished mahogany desk, a full bookcase,
a grand staircase.
Sexy is like hands tangled in sheets,
white knuckled,
gripping,
holding,
desperate,
breaking,
rushing,
free.
Free.