It is amazing to me the way I respond to his touch. I am new at this love thing—I mean, I am starting over again, and perhaps I was too young the last time, or maybe I just don’t remember, or maybe, just maybe, I never really had it at all.
My last love wasn’t affectionate. No hand-holding, no walking arm in arm or even side by side. He was what they used to call macho. I have decided it meant self-absorbed and unkind. For him, at least. But maybe I am wrong, too.
But this new love of mine is very physical. I crave his warmth, his hand on mine or touching the small of my back as we move through a room. Maybe it is a sign of possession. Maybe it is a reassurance that we are together. But I cannot go far from his side and whenever I hear his voice I want to touch him. To lean into his solidness or brush up against him. He is a magnet and I am the iron shavings sliding ever toward him.
It is not that he touches me sparingly. The opposite is true. He is generous with his handholding and his patting me on my shoulder or arm. His arm reaches around behind me to cradle me under his broad reach. He doesn’t feel embarrassed to be seen standing close to me or to kiss my upturned face now and then.
We aren’t too disturbing or blatant. No one tells us to “get a room.” We do not hang on each other or walk with our hands in each other’s back pockets. I would if he wanted to—I will ask him that. He will laugh and shake his head at me and then we will try it. I will probably stumble because I am clumsy and dorky. He will catch me and steady me, I already know it. Then he will hold my arm or my hand and the closeness of him will thrill me. So I will ask him.
We have our non-physical communications. I wink and he lifts a brow and we send signals across whole rooms filled with people. Bowling alleys, golf courses, restaurants, and family rooms. Maybe time will smooth out our physical closeness and we will let slip by these same moments we cannot now ignore. Maybe we won’t want to walk hand in hand after we’ve disappointed each other many times. Maybe. But I hope not. Because my skin revels in the touch he shares. My heart beats wildly and then quieter when he is sitting against me. I am sure he is good for my blood pressure. I hope he will always be the affectionate lover he is now. I plan to be.
I went too many years without a man’s arms around me. I slept alone; no warm, broad back to press mine against. No legs to tangle with my own and no breath—good or bad—to remind me that I was not alone. No one ever rubbed my neck or shoulders when I was tense or anxious or just not feeling well. Until now I never knew how much physical attention I craved. I need him. Need him. He needs me. We are a pair.
Thank you, my sweet, tender, affectionate man. My body loves you. And where my body loves, there thrives my heart.