She’s the kind of woman that some men...that many men...covet…the kind of woman some men...that many men...want on their arms…want in their beds. They want her primal womanhood…so intoxicating and so terrifying at once…they want to imagine the light in her eyes shines only for them and the torrid mysteries of her womanly body have been waiting only for them to discover.
She the kind of woman that some men….that many men…covet. The kind of woman that some men imagine as everything they need to soothe their own needs: a goddess and a lover and a whore…a passionate savior and a selfless healer…a willing and nurturing receptacle for all of their hopes and dreams and their most carnal masculine indulgences.
If they see her pain…most do not…they dismiss it; if they hear the rueful echo in her sensuous laugh…and most do not…they recast it as something musical and magical that suits them, something musical and magical and meant only for them.
She’s like Marilyn, the kind of woman some men…many men…covet. She’s like Marilyn, the kind of woman that some men…most men…don’t care to really try to understand.
(He wants her too. He is a man and her feminine essence inflames his senses and quickens the blood in his loins too. But he sees the pain…sees the longing for someone, anyone, to try to see the little girl inside the powerful woman. He puts aside the aching to be her lover and makes himself a safe harbor…a place she can pull into with her tears and her laughter…her dreams and her foibles and her longing to be really seen and understood rather than just selfishly coveted and callously used. He loves her...as confusing and painful as that can be sometimes... and he passionately wants to be her safe harbor as much as…perhaps even more than…he wants to make her his own.)
She’s the kind of woman…she’s like Marilyn, full of passion and sorrow, longing and disappointment, full of the weight of disappointments and the lingering light of a hopeful, passionate heart…she’s the kind of woman that some men…many men…covet.