Younger men, much younger, wash up against me.
Sometimes desperation, sometimes belt notching.
It's not a matter of age or experience or skill.

It's the unearned arrogance and presumption that puts me off
And it has nothing to do with chronological age, either.

I don't want to be with a tally **' of any sort. And it's not about what he can buy with money. Thoughtful generosity is quite another thing, though.

I want...I want...someone who's been hurt, who's experienced loss and reeled under it, lived through it and who has survived and thrived.
Who is both softer and harder for it. Who has compassion for and expectations of me. Who can be harsh and tender with me.

And me no less for him.

//
What is physical attractiveness, anyway?
It's not conventional, plastic perfection. You cling to that fallacy, you lose.
Sometimes, I am toppled into vulnerability by the shape of his mouth, the feel of his cheek when I touch, the way light or emotion moves in his eyes, his voice when he is on the phone for work, the way hair lies on his arm, how he is in conversation with a child or pet, the strength of his legs, personal scent, the unguarded expression caught. The way he hums.

An unexpected sweetness that moves me.

Grace

"Like a tornado through a trailer park,"

That's how he described his emotions when he told me he loved me, the man who tapped the mother lode of sarcasm.
Pragmatic, harsh, carnal, brutal in his analyses and honesty.
Lyrical and tender.
A man of unflinching integrity.

Something still goes zing when I see photos of him.

~~
What the hell is this
Why am I missing you now?
We're words on the screen

But I do miss you.
Biting words, intensity
Sometimes my toes curl

I get that feeling
High up in my chest and low
Down in my *****

Do you feel me holding you, protective?

You're part of my sphere of influence, mine to care for, to feel for.
It doesn't stop when you **** me off, when I'm impatient or uncomfortable.

When my heart expands to include you...and yours.

Hacked
Every hook
Every cue
Every one of my references and internal pantheon
He's wired into it.

How did that happen?
He's a stranger
I didn't even know he existed two weeks ago

And yet...
He gets it so right every time.
~~
self referential
I like it when he writes of me. To me.
That curly feeling.
His revelations, and the mirror held up.

Tribute, affection, the wry smile of a stranger.
The slightly bonkers obsession and fascination.
Glimpses of a convoluted mind.
~~
Rib Ice
Standing on thin ice
Peacoat open, arms wide
I step into that hug

Burned by warm skin and hard ribs
Even more by his kiss

He likes to hear me moan
~~
Whose mindfuck now?

Are my actions consistent with my words?
Am I as I say I am?
Do I mean what I say, or am I playing you?
How's your ******* detector?

cards on the table time
abdicate or defecate
ante up
~~
headlong

He leads me on a scavenger hunt, insinuating, enticing, pulling me into dark corners to kiss me and probe me intimately, until we're off to cross the next threshold in this trip...

I have no idea how I got here. Turned round, disoriented, down the rabbit hole.
~~
Deep Purple

On the way out
Curious discoveries

Door handle sticky
Musk in the air

Who's that knocking at my back door?
~~
Goddess, lit**

I like this intimate touch I have on your mind and emotions. It makes me feel powerful and protective of you. And pulls me closer in.

When you say I am a goddess, your goddess, I suspend disbelief and nod in acknowledgment and agreement. Yes, of course. In those times, I know I am powerful, wise, feminine, and mysterious, And that you are before me, kneeling, clasping my legs, leaning on me, head against hip and belly, worshipful.

And sometimes, you clasp my wrist as I'm turning to go and pull me back, quietly certain and not to be resisted. Inevitable. And then what? Kisses? Your hand on my breast bone? Gently steadied to meet your gaze, interminably and for no time at all?

I begin to believe you won't vanish.

A kiss on the top of your head.

I think about the colour of your eyes, the colour of your skin, the shape of your mouth when it smiles, the curve of your cheeks, and the mischief when you look at me out of the side of your eyes.

A kiss on the forehead.

I contemplate your neck and shoulders. How your ears are shaped. How lovely your collarbones and shoulder blades are. The fragility, grace and strength there.

A kiss at the top of your ribs.

The roundness of belly, ******* and bottom. The curve of your back and hips and the shape of your thighs.

A kiss on the tummy.

The lushness of you under my palm. How can your ***** be described as anything other than pink and sweet, and the way your hips rise when I touch you, or tongue you - endearing? Demanding and vulnerable at the same time.

The ticklish place behind knees. I think of your legs: Calves arched, feet flexed, and silly toes spread wide.

A kiss on the top of your foot.

Unknowingly marked, the bruises still float under my skin a week later
His gloating messages raise further stigmata

Hush, he says.
Be still. Your voice echoes too loudly.

I wonder how he can ask me to shut the **** up
When my voice is one of the truest, most honest things about me.

"If you love me, and if you're truly worthy , you will.
Your voice, it is too loud. Too harsh. Too brash. You assume too much.
You expose too much of yourself.

Too much of me."