Sweet Little Nothings

What Turns Women On

Just a hint of this, a dash of that — we’re riddles, wrapped in an enigma.

“What,” you ask, “turns women on?” I could tell you, but it would be a bald-faced lie To pretend that we are rheostats or a Toggle switch marked “Everywoman” to be flipped — Yearning — at the touch of a fingertip.

Reality requires more finesse. Chocolate. Empathy —knowing that it’s not about the nail Protruding — yet you’re convinced it is Always about the nail, and you‘re the perfect hammer. Respect the delicate edges of her tender walls; a Trebuchet never built trust. But wait! As she Exhales and cries her last defenses, you — Encircled by her shuddering senses, know.

Now, did you really have to ask? O, Knave! You Fool. Ever unobservant! And yet, we know you crave Vast, uncharted curves marked, “Here be dragons!” Echos of your past pursuits and pleasure; Riddles wrapped in velvet fur, sharp teeth — bare.

Hunter, Huntress —predator, prey — give chase! Until the trampled road leads pack to home and hearth; Rutted, blooded, muddy — weary, too. And there, The answer’s obvious: for her, it’s you.

Somewhat inspired by Charles Roast’s poem: