Patricarowlee

I melt when he leads me confidently in dance, hand firm on my lower back, eyes locked; whispers low commands in my ear, mixes strength with tenderness; notices tiny things — a strand of hair, my fingers on the flute. Crude pushy grabs, cheap dirty talk about my body, ignoring my feelings or stories, weak hesitant leading in dance, smell of sweat or alcohol, loud jealousy, controlling instead of protecting, trying to “score”.