Scissoring My Husband
In my mind — in my marriage, in my monogamy — two truths make a whole.
You know how your hands tingle near a delicate object? Excited and afraid of handling something important and breakable. Like your grandma’s grandma’s Christmas bauble.
Nervous touch is a sexy feeling.
A lawful marriage isn’t dainty. It’s robust. Obviously capable of breaking, but more sturdy, more Lindy, than a one-night stand. But I like to imagine those two opposites exist in tandem. Not unlike that Christmas bauble.
I like to reach for Joe and imagine his body is a priceless artifact. In many ways, it is. Life is precious. Delicate. Isn’t it so incredible that we found each other and have managed to maintain the use of our bodies despite it all?
I covet touching Joe’s chest. It’s wide, barrel-like, hairy, and strong. I covet his eyes — from the sockets to the balls — because they say more than words. Next, his penis, for similar reasons. And his feet, but not in a fetishist’s way. Then, last but not least, his thighs.
I love thighs. Joe’s are muscular, with just enough dough. Strong and soft. I like to hold them with reverence and care, even though they aren’t anything I’m worried about breaking. I can suck them longer than his neck without breaking capillaries. I can even ride them.
Like last week…
