Friday, 24 August 2012


I love the way he holds me.

And he holds me a lot. 

When I'm in his arms and I feel at ease. It's a strange feeling. I don't want to struggle or bolt. I just want to be there, in the strong, soft and comforting space, feeling his hard muscular body against mine. There is not an inch of spare flesh on him - just long, graceful lines of his body, with his broad chest and beautifully shaped snakey hips pressed into me.

We fleet around each other, his closeness being constant when I am around. I reach out for him quite comfortably, without fear of rejection or inappropriateness of my gesture. And so does he. We dance together, jumping around to some mad electro swing, touching briefly and then losing ourselves again.

He takes me into his arms when we say goodbye and I place my hand, flatly and squarely on his chest. And it is not a gesture of defence but one of affection. I want to feel his heart for a moment.

He strokes the back of my neck in return. 

'Sorry, I am sweaty from all that dancing', I say looking up, not really being sorry.

'It doesn't matter'

And I know it doesn't. I have a feeling he may like my sweat. In the same way he likes holding me.

We haven't even kissed yet. I am looking forward to it.

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