Lanky

An image of a girl in fluid suspense.

 

It is no secret that I like tall, skinny men. It’s not something I immediately associate with sex.

In my most carnal of fantasies, I don’t paint an Abraham-Lincoln silhouette approaching me with questionable intention.Yet still, in reality, in the ebb and flow of a relatively painful and exhausting day-to-day, I gravitate towards this figure.

My scientist brain insists that correlation is not causality; my poet brain rolls his eyes. Is it because, today, I love a man like this, slender and tall, shoulder blades jutting from the skin, legs that meet a pelvis at my torso? Maybe I’m drawn to the others from an implicit association with him.

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I know, of course, it’s not really him, but an overseas mirage, a form that convincingly mimics the promise of his dark messy hair, and all the safety and happiness that comes with him. I picture this type of man, the lanky fellow, the towering academic, nerdy and aloof, long-fingers that most-likely play the piano…or did at some point… those yard-long phalanges curl around my modest paw, not just to hold it, but to guard it. If it is safety that I truly crave, then why not choose a mountain of a man? Fortified with muscle, an example of masculinity and athletic prowess. Never once has this man caught my attention after heavy sighs are heaved and the beads of sweat on the back of my neck dry.

But the lanky man is the perfect embodiment of the human condition, for he towers above most, yet for all of this power, his structure possesses a fragile charm. These structures require gentle care, and I am…anything but gentle. I am flighty and reckless. Perhaps this is part of the draw.

Tending to gentle creatures comes a responsibility. It grounds me. It is just enough security to quiet my neurotic oscillations, but still, awareness of his vulnerability calls me to action. We must work as a team. My short limbs are surprising in their strength, I make up for what he lacks. I am fickle but agile; he is decided and endures a greater battle with gravity.

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Humans are always waltzing through the double helix of their our own constructed mental paradox. Myself included, we sit on a swinging pendulum between the way that we see ourselves and the way we imagine others see us. I’m not sure how I see myself. I think it must change one hundred times a day. But I know exactly how he imagines me as he towers over me. In his eyes, I am small and sweet.

The water in his eyes reflects into my own, and his perception becomes our shared reality. Who can tell us that our experience is anything but blood-churning, pocket-watch ticking truth? To him, I am precious, and I want to curl into his arms to prove it to both of us. This is our love. To adore your never-ending, lanky limbs. Even though it is you who holds me, I will care for you,  the lanky one, who is fragile and strong all at once.

 

by Anonymous // Featuring photography from Wellington Sanipe

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