Carelessly he removes his shirt, the thin afternoon light filtering through the drapes stroking the contours of his arms, shoulders and chest, shimmering over skin that has soaked up the sun like a sponge in water. As he turns to fish a clean shirt out of his dresser, those rays opalesce along the faded lines of two scars that run under each pectoral muscle—lines I love to trace as we share a smile in triumph from what those scars signify, memorialize.
This skin is a golden canvas and it has been painted well, by sun and by artist alike. His life and passions are delineated in the designs etched carefully into the skin of his arms, chest and back—lines I love to trace with my fingertips, followed by my tongue all the while smiling wickedly as I watch goosebumps ripple in the wake of my touch.
This afternoon is no different; I can’t resist the call of the lines of and on his body. Entranced, I touch and soon the dresser and all the world outside is forgotten as I drown in the sheer delight of skin.