I touched him, constantly, without conscious thought. At the lights I would stroke my fingers over the shining gold strands of hair crowning his knuckles. Or the short, almost velcro like, fuzz at the back of his head. If we were close together I would find myself with my hands on him. The line of his ear, finding his collarbones by touch alone, the soft flesh on the underside of his arm. But nothing compared to running my fingers through that patch of hair low on his belly leading down to the thickly furred patch between his thighs.
Untitled, unfinished, no idea where it’s going.