By Our Selves

There is a picture on my desktop of a woman sitting on a chair, she is wearing trousers, smoking a cigarette. She is wearing no blouse. Her small breasts are free of restraint and she wears them proudly.

Another picture I have is of a grown man sucking on a woman's nipple.

I look at these images and wonder how many of us, female humans, are proud of our breasts. Their shape, size, girth, how they droop or perk, how they feel when we touch them, how aroused we feel at their sight.

I wonder how many of us would walk around our very own houses without a top on, and feel it to be natural.

Me, I would love to be naked all the time. I'd love to wear clothes only when leaving the house, and with no underwear at that. I'd love to come home to my partner, leave my outer outfit on the chair and continue my day wearing only my skin. I'd love to feel his skin against mine, all of it, whenever we hug.

What an excentric world, this one, where we hide from our very selves.

Recurrence

I had a dream, I've been having it for many years now, in which a woman is making love to me, or I am making love to her.

She is always the same woman, Her hair is black, her complexion is thin and delicate. She's fearless. Her face may vary, sometimes she looks like a girl, sometimes like a fragile woman, sometimes like a lioness. Sometimes she makes love to me, sometimes I make love to her.

Every time it gets better. Every time I let her in further into my soul, I care less about her seeing the pleasure I experience from her touch, or I care less that she will be off put by the way I touch her. I've learned she likes it, too.

The right kiss in the right place.
The right pace of movements...

This time we were at a cozy hotel by the beach. Our friends would never suspect our actions, we were totally free.

Loving Bodies

There's nothing I can do about the way others see of me, what they understand of me, what they drink in from my presence.

But I can do that for myself. That is under my control.

There's nothing I can do to teach you how I like to be touched, I can only hope you guess it through my body language. I can only hope you care.

It starts with caring, me, myself, about how I am.

Let's not worry about disilusionment. Lets have some hope on feeling what we desire, at least once, before we trascend into the otherworld.

I´m only another human who likes being touched the right way. Often, very often. Like I'm made of feathers, like my skin is silk, like I'm fragile but resilient to the correct amount of strenght.

I can take it. And I'd love to listen to you while I do.

I can only hope you care. I can only hope you dare.

I can only hope I can read how you like it too. I kow you like to be touched as well, and I'd love to touch you.