She was my kind of woman.
She was short and she was tall and she was just my height,
She was slender and she was stout and she was lovely.
Her hair was blonde and brunette and crimson and strawberry and raven and auburn and white.
Silver and gold, grey, ash, coal, and pearl.
Her eyes were blue, her eyes were brown. Her eyes were amber and gold and hazel. They were green and they were black, violet, and even steel grey. Her eyes were clear and full of life, and ah, how they shone when she laughed.
She was dark and she was light, a golden-skinned beauty, Mediterranean lovely, Latina jewel. Aryan, Asian, Native, alabaster and bronze. Nubian goddess. Albino queen.
Her complexion was clear, like ice cream.
She had freckles like a dusting of cinnamon, inviting me to taste.
Her skin was unmarked.
She had tattoos.
And I looked at her and I knew that I was doomed.
Her curves were subtle, and oh, her curves were grand.
She showed no sign of starvation.
She had long, supple legs.
Her legs were curved, stocky, and magnificent.
They were the kind you could
suck on for a day,
ready to wrap around your waist and hang on
for a year.
Her nails were short on her fine, strong hands,
with long nails on cultured fingers to rake along her lover’s back.
Intelligent. Educated. A willful woman with a good heart and a joyful soul.
There is no part of her that is not beautiful.
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