obviously I’m on a business trip right now
God, you have great hair. You don’t think you do, which is kind of a bummer, because you do.
You don’t have to have great hair to, like, have “touchable” hair. I’ll run my hand through it regardless, wherever I have to chase it around or down your skull or work my way through or around what you don’t like.
But you… you actually have great hair.
Like that spot I like to grab — dawg, the crown, obviously — when you let it grow just long enough to come up over the tops of my fingers (but not too long) is fucking perfect, and I sometimes think about it when I’m away.
I want to touch you gently, so as to barely graze the scalp.
I want to touch you roughly, and pull your head back a little. Just enough. Just to remind you. And then reassure you with a kiss.
The back of the neck
We just talked about it, but I’ll tell you again: this touch means eons.
Guys: if you ever wonder how a woman feels about you, watch where she puts her hand while you hug. A woman who wants you — wants your “bone” but also your very bone marrow — will wrap her palm around the back of your neck.
Maybe the base of the skull. But never the shoulder. Neck and up.
Specifically, sometimes when I’m driving, I imagine reaching over with my right hand and wrapping my palm around your jaw, gently but in that firmly-affectionate way, as I do.
(And then you do that ever-so-subtle chin-lift like you’re offering up your jaw and being to me, and it just slays me.)
I’m not sure where this touch of mine comes from, but it comes on so strongly it’s like I can feel your jaw in my palm. When I’m driving a car 500 miles away.
Man, you have such a fantastic fucking nose. Nose of a god, right there.
Apparently there’s a lot of face.
I like your face, what can I say? And the cheeks are especially veal-like.
The hollow spot between your pec and your delt
With my face, yo. With my mothafukin face.
You guys like when we “lay on your chest?” Most women will tell you: it’s this hollow spot that makes us love it, too
I wanna lay my face in there and nuzzle in for the long haul.
The waist and hip bone
I touch my own sometimes — never around you, I mean damn — and sometimes when I do, I think of touching yours. Or you touching your own, anyway. As you do.
I mean. Obviously.
The lower back
And lifting your shirt just a lil to get to it with my slightly-too-cold hand.
Just like I like, and you hate.
The whole body
With the whole of mine. All of you with all of me, all meshed up like puppies like we like.