Find a Conversation
|Thu, 04-12-2001 - 4:33pm|
He stands in the moving candlelight, a forty-eight year old nude man, waiting for me. For just a moment I stop my approach, smiling my reassurance, and he smiles back. Years of outdoor work and his worship of the sun have darkened his skin, given it a rough edge, brought it deep creases, yet it is almost as soft as mine.
I have never seen this man in his youth. He has been my lover only nineteen months. I can only imagine what he looked like as a young man. I know that his wavy dark blonde hair and powder blue eyes still draw female appreciation. I know that his wicked smile under his wicked moustache make him a wicked fantasy in other women’s minds. I know that when he turns those blue eyes on me, I want to grab his hair in my fingers and draw his head to my breasts. I know that when he smiles at me I hear a thousand drums urging me to trail a thousand kisses down his body.
He stands in the candleglow, waiting, and raises his arms to me. I glance at the patch of hair on his chest that is just enough to drag my nipples through and feel it to my toes. I smile at the belly he complains is of my making because he cannot resist my cooking. I feel a tug in my own belly when I drop my eyes to his penis, to the dark thatch of hair protecting this part of him, and down to the coarser hair of his upper thighs.
“Is something wrong?” he whispers.
I shake my head. “I just want to look.”
He smiles and his eyes narrow on me. One eyebrow goes up. I know what this means. He’ll indulge me, but only for a moment because he has no patience for anything but what will happen after this moment passes and I am with him in the circle of candlelight.
But it is more than that. It is the vulnerability he feels when I look at his body. He cannot know that I don’t see its faults. I see where it has turned from the green of youthful spring to the mellow gold of autumn, my favorite season. I see where it has tightened and where it has loosened, and I know it is just what it should be at this time of the season.
I love this forty-eight year old man standing in the nude waiting for me. I love that he has all his own hair. I love that he has blue eyes and a killer moustache and a bass voice that vibrates against my softest tissues. I love that he is six feet tall and I have to look up at him when we dance. I love that he can still make love to me all night and that he cannot get enough of me. I love that he is tan and I am milk and that that is our greatest difference.
But what I love the most is that he is standing in my living room, nude, waiting for me.