Turn me up, turn me on

Sexy is the little things.

Sexy is a business shirt, tucked out, sleeves rolled up to emphasize that delectable curve of muscle along the length of forearms. It's in the unfastening of the top button, so that a frustratingly tantalizing glimpse of the chest is exposed, a loosened tie adding a counterpoint to the stark whiteness of the shirt. The whole thing indicates a relaxing of control, a certain louche decadence which I can't resist. It drives me insane, that unbuttoned shirt. It's like a call to arms for my libido, a white flag calling for the surrender of resistance.

That moment when a man lights up a cigarette, his eyes narrowed against the flame, the inhale, and then jetting smoke through his nostrils like a dragon, or exhaling through parted lips, and making eye contact when he knows you were staring at him- that moment is pure sex. I don't know what it is about it, but the casual snap of flame and the intense pleasure in their eyes, it's just horribly exciting. I don't like cigarette smoke, even though I'm riding the black lung train myself, but there's still an undeniable allure in the decadence inherent in the moment when a man's lounging, cigarette dangling loose between his lips, and a world of promise in his eyes. I blame it on The Boy, because for some reason the memory of us standing almost illicitly close in the shadow of supposed justice, and the sight of him taking slow, deep drags (oh boy) on his cigarette while I try not to grab hold of him and kiss him there and then, is something singed into my forebrain.

Sexy is the smell of Cool Water mingled with smoke, Paco Robanne on skin and nothing else, CK One. It's in a knowing glint in the eye, a certain tilt to the smile, an unconscious confidence in the walk. Sexy is the curve of shoulder in a white business shirt, overtly masculine hands, it's when a man's the centre of attention, or when he's concentrating, it's about a certain style, a seh-ness. It's in an intense gaze which does not waver, a wicked way with words, a specific sort of laugh.

It's the spiked-up hair that makes me want to run my fingers through it, in the way a man will cup your chin or hold the back of your head when they kiss you (oh so masterful, so manly! said in tones of overt swooniness).

Sexy is the way a man looks in a suit. Something about a sharp jacket on a man amps up his sex appeal into double digits instantly. Sexy is when a man is looking at you and you just damned well know he's thinking about how you look naked, right at the moment when you're wondering exactly the same thing about him. Sexy is That Look, the one that unhinges your knees and cuts loose inhibitions from it's moorings. It's that look, framed by long lashes and completed with a kissable mouth, that's been driving me abso-fucking-lutely insane the whole damned day. Gah.

Sexy is also a whole bunch of things which are patently unprintable, some things about some parts and some people and some hmm and ahhh and et cetera.

I've been thinking about all of this ALL. DAY. LONG.