Page 2 of Body Language (Mind, Body, & Soul #2)
Niveah
They always say a woman’s body is her biggest weapon.
Nah.
Mine is my mouth.
And not in the way men fantasize about in group chats with their homeboys who’d fold over a wink and a lipgloss smirk.
I’m talkin’ conversation, strategy, and vibe.
That influence you lay down with words so soft, he doesn't even feel it lifting his pockets.
It’s 2:13 p.m. on a Tuesday.
I was on an island where the sun touched my skin like it’s in love with me.
My hair was still damp from the ocean and the man I came with had just left to get me another frozen drink with two cherries like I asked.
And while his absence is temporary, the other man on my phone was a permanent confusion.
His voice was in my ear. Deep. Low. That fake-deep where you can tell he’s never been heard, just tolerated.
And that’s where I slide in.
“Are you close with your mom?” I asked.
He paused. That kind of pause men do when they’re not used to being asked real shit unless it’s a trap.
Then he said, “She tried. But she was always tired.”
Mmm. There it is.
“Did she ever tell you she was proud of you?”
Silence. Breath. Then a soft, “Not really.”
I leaned back in the chair, let the salt breeze hit my skin, and whispered,
“That’s probably why you work so hard. You’re still trying to earn something you should’ve been given.”
He didn’t say a word. So I kept going.
“You ever wonder what version of you would’ve existed if you were just… loved without expectation?”
That man exhaled like I’d just baptized him.
And when I said,
“You were a little boy who wanted to be enough for a tired woman,”
I swear I heard his trauma unzip itself and take a seat next to him.
I don’t flirt. I listen.
And every “Mmm,” every “I get it,” every “Have you ever told anybody that before?” wrapped around him like warm bandages over wounds he forgot he had.
He started telling me things. About how he used to sit on the porch, waiting for his dad to come back. About how he used to show his mom his report cards, hoping it would make her smile. About how every woman since then has felt like a test he was trying to pass.
And I just felt like a safe place.
But inside, I was focused, strategic, but still on my vacation.
Because here’s the truth:
I don’t care. Not like that.
I mean, I care enough to make him think I do.
Enough to let him be the vulnerable version of himself no other woman gets to see.
But I’m not here to fix him. I’m here to finesse him.
Men like that… the ones with scars they dress in designer and trauma they mistake for drive…. They just want to be seen.
So I look. Not at his body, but at the parts of him that never got held right.
And I hold them. With words. With tone. With silence.
He said, “You’re so different.”
I said, “Baby, I’m just paying attention.”
Then he asked if I needed anything.
Anything.
So I smiled and said, “You know, I’m working on something. Something for women like me. Taking care of siblings and an addict mom is hard… and sometimes the funding feels like a fight.”
I wasn’t working on shit, but that man wired me $5,000 before our call ended.
No titty pic.
No sexy voice.
No emotional manipulation.
Just my mouthpiece and a mission statement.
I hung up and turned back to my view like nothing happened.
Because right on time, my favorite man walked up shirtless, with the drink I asked for, two cherries and all.
“Miss me?” he said, handing it over.
“Of course,” I lied, sipping slowly.
And that’s the thing y’all don’t get…
I don’t do mess.
I do math.
I don’t steal. I strategize.
God gave you a mouth and a mind before He gave you hips.
So, why lead with your ass when your intellect clears checks too?
Let these men think your superpower is sex.
Let them underestimate the art of your voice.
Let them believe the only time you’re dangerous is when you’re naked.
Then smile, speak, and finesse the house deed from under their name.
These men have money they don’t even know how to manage.
Too many commas. Too much ego. Too much desire to be “understood.”
And I major in understanding with a minor in getting what I want without giving what they think they need.
So no, I didn’t touch him. I didn’t kiss him. I didn’t promise a damn thing.
I just reminded him that he was human.
None of this is for me.
It’s for the little brother who still sleeps with the light on because we can finally pay the bill.
For my baby sister who deserves to see a different kind of womanhood than I did growing up.
For the version of me that used to wish to get the new shoes and pray food into empty fridges.
I had to learn how to hustle.
How to stretch charm like rent money.
How to use what I had—my mouth, my mind—to build what I needed.
Because life didn’t hand me shit but struggle and a strong back.
Do I feel bad about it? Not really.
I don’t scam.
I don’t sell dreams.
I just know my worth and invoice accordingly.
I never lie.
I might not tell the whole truth, but I still don’t lie.
God dealt me this hand because He knew I could play it.
Bad cards and all.
Still win.
Still smile.
I still leave the table with a full plate and my dignity intact.
So, if a man wants to feel seen? I’ll look.
If he wants to feel heard? I’ll listen.
And if he wants to feel needed?
Well…
There’s always a price for that.