Something subliminal in the way a man smells; his odor, his pheromones, his testosterone seeping from under his skin massaging my nasal passages making me dreamy and sleepy and tickly inside. There's a unique quality so pure and primitive in the movement of a muscle accidental not for show so private, the tension in a bicep. It acts without the knowledge of being watched and would move if no eye were there to witness, but sometimes we do and we see the knobs of strength pulled tightly under skin, dying to burst through flesh and reveal masculinity to the sun. Some kind of trivial beauty in the sweat on a face after a long day outside building a fence cutting grass tackling an opponent; the liquid rolls down limbs out of pores drips onto ground, nourishing the grass, enticing a nectar caused by labor and struggle, grunts and power energy. Something so simple in the sight of a male, sturdy, like a house a home to be enveloped in, protected from the elements trying to rust our joints. The testosterone fuels the movements, the thoughts, and desires.