I love you. No really, I do. Not you in the specific, as you may or may not be some kind of dog-kicking, child-beating, elderly-dementia-sufferer-fucking home care aide (or a Republican) but in the general, plums, I love the hell out of you.
A goal of mine is to fill my life with only those I cherish, as I hardly ever leave the house these days, lest I miss a very special episode of “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” (™ ABC, Inc). I’m a little short on new people to dote on and thusly have to mash swoonily all over those I already know. Not just like, not only admire or feel a little fond of, but balls-out adore. Head-over-heels, heart-squeezing, moony-eyed and droopy-drawered lurve.
Everything feels better with a little love up in it. A phone call ends best with “love you.” So does prayer. A friendship without love is just ride-sharing. Food made without love “tastes of window” (™ Gabriel Garcia Marquez). A marriage without love is just laundry. Ego without self-love is just a personality disorder. A job without love is, well, just a job. And sex without love is not much more than swollen pink bits slapping together until someone has a bus to catch.
Am I saying that we should all be In Love with those we fuck? Gracious no, sugar—as a freshly-minted gay divorcee I’m the last twit to wish the sack of vicious pit vipers that is commitment and monogamy on any of you chumps. What’s good for you ganders goes for this goose; I’ve filed a restraining order against commitment and monogamy. Fifty yards at all times. (Confidential to E.Vedder: this doesn’t apply to you, sweetness. Call me—we’ll have coffee, maybe go for a drive, get married in Versailles and make 12 earnest rockstar babies. Something fun.)
But fucking with love? With respectful adoration? With utterly blissful infatuation and abandon? Amen and pass the KY. Listen, my turtledoves, I want you to get righteously on down and filthy dirty with how much you love your humpy partner, piecemeal and whole cloth, part and parcel, stück und gestalt. I want you to spend the next 12 hours just worshipping their elbows (their gorgeous little elbows!). I said elbows, damn you. If not elbows then that soft, sweaty spot behind each knee. Their kissably furry (or lickably bare) armpits. Their eyelashes, and how they curl just so under each brow. Each astonishing brow. Contemplate the color of one delightful eye versus the unmatched beauty of the other. Their earlobes like delectable wedges of fresh cantaloupe (or chocolate, or matzo, or brie). The miniature valley of each lovely clavicle, where you can lay your head (or your spanky) and feel safe and quiet for a while. How many absolutely flawless toes does humpy have? Count them, kiss them, pinch them, treasure them; those toes are the foundation for the exquisite brick house you are currently fortunate enough to be touching with your own naked self.
I want you to fervently, and conscientiously, lap, lick, caress, stroke, tickle, taunt, tease and tousle each and every centimeter of the sublime creature you’ve got in front of you. (If it’s just you and the mirror, lamby, it all applies.) Carefully. Fondly. As though you cannot get enough of their delicious, delicious stuff. Nibble their fingertips. Hell, nibble their fingernails. Does their lustrous hair (or ambrosial bald head) smell more like fresh milk or clover honey? Can you comfort someone, soothe someone, as you nail them to the bed (or back seat, or bathroom wall) like a runaway freight train? Of course you can.
Scritchy scratch their itchy parts, pitty pat their hurting parts, tenderly kiss everything that you don’t know what else to do with. Have you ever felt a cheekbone so perfectly perfect under your happy palm? You have not. Their knees like lemon meringue, their ass like a dream. Their lips and their skin and their smell, the sweet (bitter, salty, sour) taste of them and the little (or outrageous) sounds that they make when you hit their sweet spot just right. Take a break there on their wonderfully soft (or edibly taut) belly; rest there, cuddle up, press your ear against their chest. Hear that? That’s their heart. You are loving on someone, lusting on someone, thrusting in someone, with a heart. Be careful with that..
populargirls<at>tabletmag.com
|
