Occasionally I get obsessed with certain motions, which I fixate on until they become pure eroticism.

Often they are very little things:

Kissing my closed eyes.

Running a thumb along the length of my scar.

Hot breath on the small of my back.

It becomes such an obsession, such a fixation in my day to day fantasies, that should a man happen to stumble upon my current fixation, he pretty much has to do nothing else to get me into bed.

Last weekend, in my tent.

The sun was starting to come up, and my clothes were starting to come off.

He was highly sensitive, like tightly stretched strings, a beautiful instrument.

My hand, hovering to one side of his face, poised in fear or affection, too terrified to move lest this sweet bliss disappear.

As my mouth opened in a soundless cry, his face turned, nose pushing back my curled fingers, lips pressing against the sensitive tissue-paper skin of my palm.

And that was it.

It only happened once, but all shred of doubt dissipated.

It was beautiful. It was wonderful. I would catch the flu all over again to repeat that weekend.

I wanted to ask, to beg him to kiss my palms again, to press his warm mouth against that delicate flesh, but I did not.

I dared not touch the bubble of the moment, so I let it be.

And yet...yet I still fantasize about it.

Hands catching mine, turning them, palms up, and lingering kisses, deep in the hollows of my hands.

Someday. Someday it will be so again.

.

Rosie.

Before&After