Men, please know one thing and know it well:
Women rejoice when they are met by a man who appreciates and genuinely enjoys engaging in foreplay.
Let me paint a more poetic, appealing picture for you. Consider it foreplay from a woman’s perspective.
Foreplay feels like a seductive snake slowly uncoiling on the floor of her pelvis.
See, you can’t force a flower to blossom. Even when you want to boil water, you must wait patiently until you see the heat rise as little bubbles clinging to the sides of the pot, just asking for it. You must tend to things, with care, as they begin the process of unraveling.
It’s no different for women. You can’t expect her temperature to rise rapidly. Ever tried instant coffee? It sucks. You must saturate the grounds with hot water and the longer you wait, the more potent their effect will be.
Remember this when you’re with a woman. Let her steep in your care, your love, and you’ll get the gift of the most potently exquisite elixir.
Even if she gets hot quickly and you feel a surge run through her body in response to your touch, stay patient. There is still more attentive unfolding to be witnessed. There are still light touches, kisses that feel like whispers, advances that don’t have the “I just want to f*ck you already” energy behind them.
This is what a woman craves. Sure, there are times when she’s begging you to just bend her over the kitchen island and get to it. But how will you know that she’s secretly asking for that if you haven’t taken the time to get to know the underground murmurs of her body’s most intimate desires?
I want the slow unraveling.
I want my entire system to trust you, over and over again, before we go further.
I want to feel that every time we’re intimate, I’m learning yet another detail about you—small yet wildly significant details that will imprint themselves in my mind and show up every single time you take me to the bedroom.
Like the way you look at me when you think I can’t see you.
Or the way you just barely brush my skin with your slightly quivering fingertips.
I want to feel the heat of your breath as you move from my face to my neck.
I want to feel the weight of your body on mine and know, once again, what safety feels like.
I want you to tell me how beautiful I am, ask me what I want, make it known that my consent is your first priority—so that the armor around my heart can be stripped away.
I want your hands to blindly search for the curves my body keeps and navigate them like infinitely fresh territory—the downward slope of my outer hips toward my thighs, the crevice of my waist, the canyon-like structures of my two protective hip bones.
But also the unexpected curves—the narrow ledge of my collarbones, the rounded hills of my shoulder heads, the curve along the back of my neck.
I want to feel your fingers run a line down the dried out river bed of my spine and the barrier my muscles erect around it.
I want to feel the vibrating hum of your voice as it transfers from your throat to the skin of my stomach—you, traveling down toward the opening between my legs.
I want to wrap my small hands around the definition of your arm muscles until I learn them like a new language.
I want all of you,
every little nuance,
so I can gather them up and hold them close
once you’re finally inside.
I want to slowly open for you
until the natural invitation of my body pulls you in.
You see, men, if you wait for a woman and exhibit authentic
at the feet of her sacred body,
you’ll receive the gift of a
and unveiled woman.