I’m not saying F*ck Feminism. Not that at all.

But I am saying This.

I like feminism and femininity to co-exist. For a woman to own her womanliness while a man owns his manliness.

I like chivalry and manners and bravado acknowledged, and I like fluttering eyelashes and summer dresses and homemade meals awarded.

And I like pink.

I like bouquets of flowers. I like dainty and delicate and pretty things.

I like a man that walks on the outside of the sidewalk and holds my hand and opens the door for me.

I like feeling protected by gallantry and elevated with courtesy.

I like a man with a deep voice and gruffness and grunting—at least sometimes.

And, yes, I like a man that leaves his socks on the floor or wears them mismatched.

I like picking them up—his mismatched socks—and laundering them and finding their right match—when he’s my right match. I like taking care of him in these small ways that allow me to connect with my inner nurturing nature. I like that a lot.

I like a man that waits patiently while I get ready because it took him 10 minutes—including him showering. I like a man that doesn’t primp and fuss and spray things in his hair.

I don’t care if that’s anti-feministic or antiquated. I’m the princess, the primper, the sprayer of things. I am the irresistible goddess.

I like a man that doesn’t know what the hell concealer is and couldn’t care less. I like a man that can swing a hammer but that doesn’t wear Axe.

I like a man who doesn’t need to swing, because he knows damn well what he’s got right here at home. And he likes that. A lot.

I like a man who can wake up next to me with my hair tussled and knotted and grab my ass and say, “Come over here, my sexy, beautiful woman.” Because even though we don’t own each other, and we know it, his fervour makes me sexy and I reciprocate in earnest yearning.

I like a man who doesn’t know the brand of the silky lingerie on the floor that he’ll step over afterwards as he strides to the next room naked.

And I like wearing silky lingerie and gender-specific lacy things.

I like a man that I can feel naked with—emotionally exposed and fragile and tender. A man who doesn’t feel threatened by my blatant femininity.

I like a man who can occasionally cuss without apologizing, mixed company or not, and that will laugh heartily and mightily and amusedly when I do.

I like a man that supports me and this doesn’t mean money.

I like a man that doesn’t always need to be right, but that will stand his ground when it matters to him, whether the mattering seems grand stadium or grain small, a man that will hold me in my defeat because I didn’t hold him when I got my way last time. I let him be.

I like a man who will use his voice to stick up for me—yes all women—when warranted with other gents. I like a man who knows it’s always warranted.

I like a man that compliments my physical body—my hair, skin, eyes, breasts, everything, anything regardless of their merit in my ill-perceiving eyes—because he wants the whole of me, and despite my shunning such praise and shying away, I like that he likes all of me.

I like a manly man because I am not a girl. I am a vulnerable and powerful and unapologetic woman.

And they do exist, these men of myths, when we give them permission to be our heroes. I know this, because I have experienced this bliss.

So, yes, I like pink. And bouquets of flowers and dainty and delicate and pretty things.

And I like a man who appreciates all of that and all of me and…

I’m okay with This.

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Editor: Travis May

Photo: Imgur