If I could imagine heaven, I mean really wrap my mind around it and know what that word meant, I’d say heaven was Sunday morning. Not every Sunday, mind you, just some of them, the ones that turn into my ideal of a perfect moment of life. Not to say all Sunday mornings aren’t perfect, waking up without alarm clocks, snuggled in bed with the covers pulled up to my nose, my love and lover tucked tightly along my back, that really is perfect.
We’ve been together so long that I find it next to impossible to leave the bed without him. It just doesn’t seem like a good day can start without his stumbling around while he looks for his pants or his bitching and moaning about needing coffee. Or, better yet, the way he literally hogs all the hot water in the shower. How can life start without those little things?
For me, it simply doesn’t. We work at the same high school, I teach biology and chemistry and he tackles the less logical world of American and English Literature. The man is an absolute, would be, hippy flake, he even has a pony tail for God’s sake. He wouldn’t know an atom if it bit him on the ass either and the scientific method? Pure speculation to him. But oh, he can recite poetry at the drop of a hat, he’ll whisper snatches of love sonnets into my ear when we’re making love, he actually compares me to the classic lovers in his stories.
Lucky aren’t I? Trust me, I know it too. How a dolt like me caught his eye, I’ll never know but I did and he’s right here, pressed against my back on another lazy Sunday morning. The paper is on the porch, the coffee maker is waiting to be turned on, he still has papers to grade, I’m sure of it, but for right now, the world is a figment of our imagination and the only thing that matters is the feel of him next to me.
Because of my almost phobic desire to stay in bed with him until he wakes up and rises with me, most Sunday’s I’m awake, lightly dozing, in his arms. It’s a great feeling to feel his breath along my neck, his warmth enveloping me but on those special Sunday’s I always pretend to be more asleep than I am and on the really lucky Sunday’s, I actually am asleep.
It’ll start with a little stirring of his face along the back of my shoulder. A slight rub of a nuzzle. He whispers a little soft, sighing moan before he pulls away from where he’s been spooned to my back. I hold still and force myself to continue breathing the same, even though I can feel his eyes on me. His hand will trail across my shoulder, a touch lighter then the weight of the blanket, down to my spine, dropping lower to curve up to tease my ribs and arch over my hip bone.
He’s the reason I sleep nude. I’d never do it other wise, never dreamed of it before him. Not surprisingly, he’s slept in only his skin his entire adult life. Once, we went camping, and still he refused to put a stitch on. Me? I was worried about bear attacks and didn’t like being caught with my dangly bits too exposed to the wilds of nature. But, I have to admit, feeling his soft sex pressed against my hip, or better, tucked along the bare skin of my ass, is well worth sleeping nude for. Even if I worry sometimes about fires and having to stumble out into the lawn bare ass naked for the entire world to see. Wouldn’t need to worry about the batteries in the smoke detector working or not, if that happens I’ll die of embarrassment anyway. |
