Thursday, April 23, 2015

what I miss about love

I miss her thigh. I miss it in my right hand. Left hand on the steering wheel and right hand on her thigh in the passenger seat. God damn there is nothing like driving somewhere with your woman's thigh in your hand. Sometimes her thigh would be in jeans and require a bit more effort in the squeeze. Other seasons it was bare beneath hiked up shorts and the true heat of her thigh would suggest all kinds of temptations in my hand and travel quick into my brain and I would have to pat it to hear that silly noise to slow down the fire. But sometimes that playful pat on her thigh would work in reverse and reveal a whole other world of teasing pattering sexiness that would drive us both nuts. I could tell by how her eyes would get all pleasant and slow and lazy. Damn. I miss running my right hand up and down her thigh and fingering all the cartlidge surrounding her knee bone. I miss pulling the car over because my hand kept moving from her knee to her thigh to her heart but stopped at the wetness in between her legs. And I'd be rubbing her and zigzagging all along the freeway and it wasn't as dangerous as texting and driving but it was loving and driving and dangerous in its own right. Her left thigh in my own right, my own right hand, while we headed home.