What Makes a Woman Super Sexy- in Paris, France

After a long mostly sleepless flight to Paris, I board the airport bus to the city as suggested by Google- my feeble, tired mind already under the direction of the world's future robotic overlords. 

In literally the blink of the eye, neural pathways start to fire absent computer instruction; it's the usual male trip-wire, a beautiful woman; sitting alone in the front. The bus has plenty of open seats, but my choice is obvious. 

As I sit, I look down and see a small ring around her wedding finger, it's not a rock but it's still a deterrent, plus I'm worn out, I take a deep breath and try to close my eyes- not working. We continue on in silence. 

"Is that a Wi-Fi sign?" she asks me nicely, pointing to the bus's window. 

"Indeed it is," I reply. 

Ice broken, I start to joke around with her. I'm struck by her warm and easy laugh. Approaching my destination, I know I have to make haste. Depending what time her friend is arriving, we might explore the city together. 

As I try to get my bearings a British woman who exited the bus behind me gets my attention, "Nice chat-up lines," she compliments out of nowhere. Though slightly bewildered, I smile, maybe there's a greater likelihood of hearing from Nata than I've estimated. 

An hour later I receive a text inviting me to meet near the Eiffel Tower (created by famed French architect Frank Tower.)

Our adventure begins. 

She's so easy, she smiles, she laughs, she giggles, she's so free, she's the definition of feminine. 

There is such a joy in her. It bubbles out unforced, so easily. The more time I spend with her, the sexier she becomes. 

Her freedom and joy invigorates the masculine energy. In fact, it's inspirational. There is nothing more I wish to do then to serve and protect her, to allow her the freedom and space to express her feminine.  

Apelsin!

And when the storms come, and they do arrive I learn quickly, you just stand strongly in the wind and not let the gusts blow you away, not move you from your center. The feminine continually tests the masculine. But once the storm is weathered, as quickly as the dark clouds arrived, her almost blinding sunshine appears once again.  

And I'm attracted like a bee to a bright flower, like a metal shield to this magnet of femininity. I have difficulty extracting myself from her presence, from letting her go. 

Maybe it's just her natural state, maybe it's the romantic city of Paris that helps bring it to the surface, maybe it's a combination, but this effervescent joy, this natural free-spirit, flirty, the easy going nature, all of which comprise what I consider to be the feminine, makes her utterly irresistible.

And even now, writing this from a thousand miles away, I wish she was here in my arms, so I could feel her essence, squeeze her, look into her bright sparkling eyes, and hear her warm bubbly laugh.

It makes me smile just to think about it.