His Arms Deceived Me
Photo by Flickr member Tanworkboots
I’ve always been a sucker for a man with prominent veins in his forearms. They say forewarned is forearmed, so this information will inadvertently invite many men to show off their biceps, their triceps, their strong and manly upper arms.
But I’m not interested in that. I want to go lower. I don’t care about the size of the meat. I’m interested in the thin blue veins popping out near the wrists. That one giant artery slicing straight down the middle. The way the flesh curves in at the wrist, then back out, then dips back in at the elbow. A manly hourglass, counting down the seconds until he finally leans in and kisses me, scooping me into his lap and devouring me the way I’ve been picturing it since he came over for coffee four hours ago.
His forearms are beautiful. This sounds absurd, for how can an arm, removed from context, be beautiful? Especially a man’s arm, covered in hair, not at all delicate, the way women’s arms are—the kind I like to watch gracefully gliding through the air in a ballet movement, sweeping like Vanna White displaying letters on Wheel of Fortune.
But that’s just it! His arms are powerful. They are the arms of a man who can lift heavy objects easily, but who spends most of his time doing more delicate work with a brush. His arms have propelled thick, deft fingers into my back, kneading the distressed kinks out of my armoured body. His arms have wrapped around me, squeezing tight, lifting me off the ground in a bear hug like he’s genuinely happy to see me. His arms have laced themselves around my waist so many nights, holding me to him like a life preserver, anchoring me as we sleep.
His arms… I’ll never forget the way they feel. They’ve made their mark, branded me with their searing heat, decorated me with internal tattoos that remind me to listen—the hidden twin to his visible markings.
I keep listening in the darkness to the sounds of his breath, to the subtle moans that rise from his throat every time he fucks me, waiting for words to come back to us that we may speak, that we may face each other in context instead of picking apart our bodies, focussing on the individual movements of our own orgasms, listening to each other without hearing.
I keep waiting for those words to return to us, that we may voice them. And his arms keep embracing me, holding me close, even when I feel he has pushed me from him for good, but the words never come, no matter how long I trace them into his flesh.
