My Favorite Part

“So what’s your favorite part?” I asked him one night after the chores were done and the folks had drifted off to sleep. We were in a room to ourselves, and once we heard the snoring from our parents in the next room, we knew it was O.K. to talk about anything.

“My favorite part of what?” he asked me.

“Of a woman,” I answered impatiently—as if he didn’t know what I was asking. After all, women made up the default thought process that rambled through any young man’s mind at rest. Men could start any conversation with any vague unreferenced question, and unless anything else were specified, by default it meant it was about women.

“My favorite part?” he repeated thoughtfully. He paused a long time before answering. “Her smile,” he said. “There is nothing more beautiful, more inviting, more endearing, more provocative, more exciting, than a woman’s smile meant for you.”

“But not all women have one all the time,” I argued. “Sometimes you have to wait a really long time to get one.”

“Exactly, which is why it’s so special. It’s presenting a soft side to someone, submission, an open window on the soul that begs you to climb in.”

He then went on to explain, putting it much more delicately, of course, that when it came to the oneness between man and woman, all most men ever thought about were the other lips of a woman, but it was the pair that smiled that said it all to a man. I guess he was right, but being the type of guy I was, I always wanted a smile from those other lips. That was me—using the wrong head to think about the wrong lips. And for sure wanting to climb in whether I was invited or not.