i love skin.
i love biting skin, feeling its thickness and strength, its fragility. i love the way skin smells on different parts of different bodies, the way it blooms out so clear and damp after a warm shower. i salivate over the tawny, olive skin of my slightly jewish husband. pale-to-translucent porcelain skin takes my breath away.
there is nothing i love more than nuzzling another person with as much skin as we can possibly share. noses and necks and collarbones and breasts and bellies and thighs, the backs of knees and insides of elbows, fingers and knuckles and palms, intertwining, cupping, brushing… yum.
i love foreskin and scrotum, so thin and elastic, and yet so impossibly strong, holding life and pleasure and pain.
i love the tiny, almost invisible hairs, the way they feel against different body surfaces. i love the texture of thicker hairs. i marvel over scars, large and small. there’s magic in the way a tattoo can be looked into, to see the depth and the fading and imperfections, the pores winking out of unexpected color.
skin is the place we meet. where we feel. what separates us from and joins us to the rest of the world.
