I finish rinsing and turn off the faucet, the bathroom steamy from my shower, my skin pink from the hot water and scrubbing. I dry off with the towel from the floor and head upstairs to get ready for the day. You're busy, ironing a shirt, finding socks...until I stop and stand in front of the dresser, naked. I put both hands on the antique deep walnut top and lean over a little, sticking out my butt, stretching the muscles in the back of my thighs, my body glowing in the light of the lamp that's there.
You notice. You know what I want. You come to me and I smile.
You begin right between my shoulder blades your fingernails are trimmed nicely, so you have to really mean it to do damage -- I want some damage. Scratch my back. Work in slow circles symmetrically midway down where my bra strap would be, a simultaneous wax on wax off in reverse, and then lower, down the middle of my spine. Dig a little harder returning to my shoulders, the red now raising to the surface as my itch is temporarily satisfied. My skin is especially sensitive. I understand what scratching an itch is simply a distraction to those nerve endings, confusing a needy irritation for a little pain.
My back is a war wound remembering too much time spent lying on my stomach digging holes in the sand. Those burns so deeply layered. My freckles are fond battle scars; homage to the memory of sun worship. I miss Vitamin D.
Kiss the back of my neck.
My hands find you behind me...cupping...teasing.
I turn to face you and hold your gaze as I kneel at your feet. Dirty reverence and adoration given in gratitude at this altar lit in dim morning light. Favor for favor.