The Dateable Dork

As we lie in bed, him completely naked, me with my light summer dress hiked up above my waist, I slowly and carefully run my fingers up and down his chiseled body, trying to memorize every curve, every muscle, every delicious inch of him before he vanishes into the night.  As my hands graze over his thigh, methodically but softly, I attempt to soak up his essence through my still-tingling post-coital fingertips. 

How much of him can I absorb in these precious few tranquil minutes while he lies in my bed, my face buried in his neck, our legs intertwined in some kind of intimate-but-casual purgatory?  Are we friends, lovers, or somewhere in between?  Do I have a right to want to soak him up like this?  Are my wandering, yearning fingertips trespassing on another’s territory? 

I dismiss these thoughts and focus on the task at hand, as my hands slowly and purposefully move from his thigh to his stomach to the little curve of his waist that I’ve long known is one of my favorite spots on the male body.  I linger there for a few moments, caressing the soft skin of his side, allowing his body to cradle my hand, to warm it, to comfort it, to envelop it with its sensual yet innocent embrace.  Simultaneously, his arm is wrapped around my back, and the skin of his side is wrapped around my probing fingertips. 

I sense the softness, the smoothness, the warmth of his skin radiate from his side into my fingers, traveling up through my arms and into the core of my body, where it festers and ferments until a soft but subtle smile makes it way to the corners of my lips.  I don’t think he notices. 

Having wantonly taken what I desired, my hands move northward up the side of his chest and up to his outstretched arm that lies peacefully on the pillow above his head.  I wrap my fingers around the biceps that I’ve grown to worship over the years, remembering each and every curve as I rediscover them for what I imagine must be the millionth time. 

My arm is outstretched over his as we lie there, breathing, touching, resting, and I acknowledge my yearning to wrap his fingers in mine.  But my fingers know better than to reach for the hands of the gods, and so I soak up the last of his biceps and move back down his arm, his side, his thigh, where I start my journey all over again. 

His hands are left untouched, undisturbed, full of the radiance and warmth and comfort and belonging that I dare not steal from their precious vessels, for the body is overflowing with sensations to be stolen, but the hands require a certain permission that will never be granted, and I dare not reveal my desire for it, my yearning for those fingers that will never be mine. 

And so I go back to memorizing his thigh, his side, his arms, as my nose buries itself deeper in the heavenly scent of his neck, doused with a cologne whose name he refuses to divulge, claiming it as his signature that will forever link the scent in my mind to his body and his alone.  And we lie there, breathing in, breathing out, as I soak up the last few moments with him, flirting with the line that I dare not cross, that shall never be crossed, that will forever tease me as his scent draws me closer, but as his hands remain just out of reach.