What Women Can Do

There is a lot we can do. Of course, in the big scheme of things, we can make babies, you knew that, but we can make dinner too, and make a bed and lie in it. And make civilized dinner conversation and build civilizations, that is, we can people houses with people, little people who grow into big people.

We can invite people over and single one out we particularly like -- one like you. You might take us by the hand and ask us to dance. Because you want to feel our round and fleshy girlishness next to you, pressed up against you. And for all this kingdom building we need you too. Can't do it without you. We love to take your measure, man. We wonder -- secretly -- how we'd fit together.

We need to feel your enthusiasm. We can see it in your eyes, yes sir, but as you lead us to the dance floor, we love the way you encircle our waists, above our bottoms, which might be just so slightly elevated and riding high in your direction, as we look up to you, stealing a glance. Our high heels help that nice "S" curve, bosoms pushed up and out in front and buttocks rounded up in back, to say in a word, "I'm game."

The way I trot asks, "Do you like my skirt?" My little girl cover-up skirt and like a silly girl I want to yank it up and play show me, but no, no, no, not yet. Later, later, yes, I calm my girly self down and save it. All good things come to those who wait.

And when the music swells, we want you to press up against us, and slowly, you do it with this spin, that grab, that dip. I'm imagining the whole dance without these cumbersome clothes, guessing how your chest might rub my breasts, your hips might grind my belly, and all the rest.

And then that great "Thumbs up!" happens. You-man press against me-woman and tell me the secret YES! Actually not-so-secret for you and me, a flush of delicious welcome, your hardness pressing against my party dress. What a compliment to feel your eagerness pressed against me. Thank you. It can make a girl's knees quiver and forget the most studied dance steps.

You're at my door and you want in, I know. I love that male enthusiasm. But would it be ladylike to let you know how much I want you back, the wetness you make between my lips, upstairs (kiss me) and downstairs (come in). I'm ready to put out the welcome mat, believe me boy, the one that says, "Home Sweet Home."

But the music can end just like that and some ... something ... can happen to pull us apart. Some "she" needs to rush off to the ladies room with me, some "he" has to show you his new blue car out in the driveway. I feel our hands pull apart, disconnect in air with a thud to my side, creating a weighty sadness like an old building demolished downtown, crashing to the ground. It seemed so solid moments before. What happened?

Later, but not much, you find me, messing about with the ice cubes floating melty in the red splash of punchbowl, and some other Mr. Wrong trying to chat me up who doesn't see you coming. You're fast, grab my willing hand, you take me away, lead me out of the swirl of people and party dresses in a flash.

Outside, we are polite animals in heat, in your car. You think I might say no, but it's highly unlikely. We begin, but suddenly I say, "Slow down, not here!" I want more. I want it all. You understand. You need to find a soft place for us, very private, where we will not be disturbed, where the night will be long and maybe dawn light will remind us we're still on earth. But maybe not.