I want a man who smooths my thigh under every table.
I want a lover.
A man who looks at me like maybe, perhaps, I am magic.
Who ignites within me a fire of possibility; a feeling that the world is our juicy oyster.
I want someone who can’t be around me without undressing me with his eyes, whose hands know my body better than I know it myself; a man who feels safe to share my innermost fantasies with.
I want someone who thirsts for me when we’re apart, and devours me insatiably when we’re together. The kind of lover who can’t return home from vacation without tearing my clothes off the second he walks through the door.
Who pulls me into dark corners with a sly smile and discreetly slides my panties to one side while he uses his free hand to comb the hair out of my face in a way that’s reserved only for me.
I want the man I dreamed of; when I was 13, lying in bed one night.
The man who bloomed inside my brain while my fingers found a warm, delicious space. With dusty golden hair so fine the sunlight shone through it like speckled glitter. And wide blue eyes that danced like pinwheels when he smiled, and brilliant white teeth that chimed in every time he spoke.
I want a lover who’s like no other human I’ve ever met, and yet, more familiar than the lines stitched into the back of my hand.
Who knows me, even when we’ve only exchanged fumbled small talk across a tiny, crowded bar.
Whose laugh reminds me of music, cascading into every crevice of the room when it erupts; impossible to ignore.
I want a lover whose text messages read like poetry, transporting me to the romance novels I read as a girl, filled with possibility and magic.
A man who loves all my annoying quirks, including my incessant need to fill every silence with words, my relentless question-asking and my insomnia.
I want a lover who can’t keep his hands off of me; who smooths my thigh under every table, caresses the small of my back at every party while we mingle in the crowd, and proudly interlaces his fingers in mine everywhere we go.
Someone who’ll fight with me about everything, and nothing, and dance on the bed with me like we’re unruly teenagers when it’s all over; falling into a mess of tangled sheets, laughing and undressing.
I want a man who won’t be afraid for us to uncrack each other like eggs, who’ll let all his vulnerabilities spill out like warm yolk until we both realize that, in fact, we’re the same inside.
I want a lover I can call when the world gets too much; who’ll know just the right things to say to ease my aching heart from the other end of the phone.
A man who yearns for me when we’re apart, and lets me know it with racy messages reserved just for my eyes. Who asks for scandalous photos of me, because he wants to remember my body when he’s not there to touch it.
I want a lover who doesn’t make me feel silly for crying, but wraps me up in a tight embrace and tells me he thinks I’m beautiful, even when I’m sad. A man who’ll remember the little things he knows I’m stressed about, and ask me at the end of the day how each one went.
I want someone who’ll never tire of my playful daily texts, but instead, look forward to them, and sneak moments in his day just to respond to them, because he loves our little exchanges.
I want a lover who’s all in when we make big decisions together, but never pressures me to do things I’m not ready for. Who schedules in holidays with me months in advance, because he wants me to know I’m in his future.
I want a lover who never makes ball-and-chain jokes, but speaks about me with pride in his voice, openly bragging about me to anyone who’ll listen, because he’s so pleased I’m his.
I want a lover who speaks to me softly, and stops mid-argument to kiss me because he can’t stand to see tears in my eyes. Who knows when to stand his ground and put me in my place, but also when to stop and pull me in close with gentle, kind words.
I want a lover who calls ‘home’ the place where I am.
I want a strange, dazzling, messy love that never gets complacent.
I don’t want a flatmate. Or a friend. Or someone to tack their name onto mine.
I want a lover.
Not just any kind of lover.
I want you.
Image via tumblr.com.
Nadia is a journalist, media commentator and editor with a penchant for hoarding makeup and an opinion on just about everything. Her work has been published in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, Thought Catalog, Cosmopolitan, and many more. She's a passionate advocate for destroying mental health stigma and sexually empowering women, and has absolutely no concept of TMI. Follow Nadia on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.