Being a simple sort of man, my desires and tastes trace along the lines of familiar patterns. It might not surprise one to discover, therefore, that my desire for the woman who has now been my wife for eighteen years was first stoked by common things. She was a girl, a young woman. She was nearby, within arm's reach. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair, elfin eyes, fair skin and a body that made me want to... well, it was very nice.
Of course, she was also quite intelligent. I've never been able to connect well with people who aren't smart. She had a quick wit and a thoughtful personality. These are just prerequisites, however. They set the stage. My good friend Carl has a quick wit and a thoughtful personality, but I've never been attracted to him. With Susan, therefore, her mind just greased the wheels for my intellect to consent to allow my body enter into a long relationship with hers.
Being a woman, in one sense, is a very objective and scientific thing. Who cares, really, about that technicality? In a more interesting sense, being a woman is a very subjective thing. For me, my wife has always been an archetype of what I consider feminine, of my idea of the beauty of women. She can, when her mind wanders into carnal notions, take on a curve that boils my blood. It's a sort of sweeping in of the small of the back, a turning up of the bottom, a raising of the chest, a slight shift of balance to one side. You would know it, I'm sure, if you saw it. When she does this I forget whatever I was thinking. My priorities realign. My voice falls quiet. My breath quickens. My eyelids slide down to half mast. Usually the closest thing I can manage to verbal communication is a low growl. The time for talking, after all, has passed.
Many things have changed in the eighteen years of our marriage, but this curve and its effect on me has not changed at all.
