It.

It.

I don’t know what It is, but I hope I have It.

You can’t want It.

Wanting It is a sure fire way to know you don’t have It.

But I suppose It will allow for me to hope.

Nobody knows what It is, but we know It when we see It.

We like It.

But It doesn’t care.

It doesn’t do It for the likes.

In fact, It doesn’t have a reason at all; It just is.

Charisma, swagger, beauty, gravity, style… train wrecks, car wrecks, catastrophes, collapses all forms of It.

I’ve met gay men with so much It they could have a room full of KGB agents doing the YMCA in minutes.

I’ve met other men with so much It their worst atrocities could be plastered in the headlines of every media outlet in America and we still couldn’t help ourselves, women and men alike, we’d all want a taste. We are entranced by It.

And women, some women have so much It we’ve created entirely new terms, names, and subspecies just to warn of their draw, yet still we succumb to It.

Sam Cooke, Aretha, James Brown all had so much It even the bigots and racists couldn’t help but move their hips.

It can make up for a lot of things.

You might not like It, but when Billie Jean comes on, damnit he had It.

It is like magic.

We can’t touch It, make It, or even describe It.

But we can feel It, whiteness It, sense It.

It is woven into the fabric of our universe.

The same as Time and Space.

It can’t be acquired.

But It is undeniably real.

Do you got It?