Dangerous Charm

She moves to the edge of the bed and looks back over her shoulder at him, looking at her. His eyes trace the line of her naked shoulder. Not for the first time he wonders about how her skin tone matches his almost perfectly. His gaze wonders down the curve of her spine and takes in the narrowing of her hips. She speaks but while lost in admiring her body he didn’t hear what she said.

“Coffee?” she repeats. “Could I get you some? Are you hungry?” He doesn’t respond. But he does smile at her. A disarmingly warm smile. And she realized that it was that smile that got her into his bed the night before. His smile, his knowledgeable hands, his expert tongue. His charm.  She wonders if he could see the goose bumps she feels when thinking of the night they had.

But he has no idea how that smile cracks her heart in two, for what was just a night of wild sex to him was a night of intense love and passion to her. He has no idea how dangerous his charm is. He couldn’t know. Because if he knew, it would mean he wields it in the most mercenary manner to get what he wants.

Swallowing down the lump in her throat she grabs a sheet to cover herself as she gets up from the bed. Covered up she feels a little calmer, but needs to escape the room before she blurts out how badly it hurts to love him.

Outside the bedroom door, wrapped up in a bed sheet, she realized that he didn’t answer her about the coffee. And as she enters the kitchen she also realized that she was in his house, in his kitchen and that she had no clue where the coffee was.

Midnight Insight

Maya Angelou might know why caged birds sing, but I know why a certain gentleman, against all logic, is attracted to me, when he is dating someone who looks like a runway model / exotic dancer.

I'm his aesthetic norm.

The fact is that out of all the women in our circle I'm the one who looks most like him. I'm the one who looks most like his people.

His attraction to me is the attraction of his blood to his roots. Pardon the mixed metaphors. Simply put I remind him of home.

For days, like an indicator light, i flashed happy then incredulous. Now, thanks to my midnight insight, i feel just plain ... disappointed. Bleh!

Sociology of Chronology

A wise man tells me that what one finds appealing at one age may be less appealing at another. Now I can agree with this if we're talking about skiing or bungi jumping, or even clubbing.
 

But he's point was that a man might find a certain type of woman attractive when he is younger - the catwalk look, skinny, minimal clothing etc, etc. But with age he's likely to develop more realistic (my word, not his) tastes. He may even find himself attracted to a more matronly figure.

To this, I said to my wise friend, BULL SHIT! Dogs chase cars till they're too old to chase.

So then I got to thinking, is it that the male ego is forced to face its own reality, and admit that his chances of catching a runway model have run out and that he may have better luck landing a lady lower down on the beauty pyramid?

Also less chance of said matronly figure being stolen away...

Happiness is feeling light and beautiful and tingly all over. 

My little secrets warms me inside. That warmth radiates as a smile I wear all day. All day I feel wrapped up in love.

I deserve this happiness. I deserve this love.

For however long it lasts.

Wiring vs. Upbringing

A non-Muslim friend confessed to me his attraction to the mysticism of Muslim women, complained that he had never had the pleasure of a Muslim woman, and wondered if he ever would.
 

After some light banter about tasting halaal meat I suggest that the reason he's never had the opportunity and is not likely to make use of the opportunity should it be granted, was because of his view of Islam - that he speaks of Islam and Muslims with such awe and reverence. (I've often thought I heard a note of longing when he speaks of our customs and culture, a yearning to belong).

I guess he thought that there may be an element of truth to my point, because he added that being raised by a Muslim grandmother, he always thought of Muslim women as pure and veiled.

I tell him the story of the two sweets. How a man once criticized the way Muslim women are required to dress. A wise man took two sweets, unwrapped the one, and then threw both sweets on the floor. He then picked them back up and offered them to the other man. Of course the man opted for the wrapped sweet.

My friend called my story an interesting analogy but then asked what happens to other women - the unwrapped sweets.

I found his concern for the unwrapped sweets quite funny. And I explained, that I could be as good a Muslim wife as I could, chances are that my husband would still be carried away by an unwrapped sweet.

He agrees and says that men are just wired differently...

So that left me thinking ... I was so sure a moment ago that my friend would not take advantage of a Muslim woman, out of respect, because of his upbringing.

But in the battle of wiring vs. upbringing ... where would you bet your money?