It's your turn to share

"That's it?" Tom's clearly disappointed in your brevity.

"I guess." You shrug, "I'm a harpy, I lived in the foothills all my life till now. I died a lot. I got tired of it, so I stopped. It's all pretty much what it looks like."

"Yeah, but what now? Surely you have some plan or ambition."

"Nope. Tom, this might not seem like much, but I can finally feel good about myself. I can fly! Look at me, these hips, these tits, this voice? I love who I am now; is it wrong to be content for a while?"

Tom got stuck on looking at you. You can't blame him. You don't have the ludicrous proportions of the adventurers you've seen; you do still need to fly. Instead, you have a classic aesthetic you'd find painted in a church. Assuming he could overlook your inhuman parts, a priest would certainly find you beautiful.

"Well, Tom," You croon as you approach, "do you think it's wrong to enjoy this body?" You take his hand and place it on your navel; his heat merges with your own. "What has you so deep in thought you can't answer a simple question?" He only needs a little more; you lace your words with your harmonious song, "Show me what you're thinking."