If I’m taking a shower at yours, stack fresh towels. Thick and white and fluffy. More than I’ll need. A toothbrush. Conditioner. You know that awesome serendipity when you descend into a friend’s basement to watch a game and he’s got the scene set—hot wings, cold beer within arm’s reach, a video console set up for half-time? That’s how I want to feel in your bathroom. Body scrub. New razor. Holy shit, a loofah!
Kiss me for longer than you can handle, even when you know that more is on the way. Openmouthed, and bench the tongue. Urgent but not desperate. Your arms are tight around my back and my waist, and they stay there.
Don’t shave for three days, and then…
Kiss my neck.
Smell like something all the time. Choose a small world and invoke it. Maine, a forest. The wet end of August. It’s warm and damp, you’re felling trees in a flannel shirt. Moss and sweat and hard-won timber. Try Kiehl’s Original Musk Blend No. 1 so I can wear it when you’re not around.
Now kiss my neck again.
Hold me like nothing can slither between us, but so I can detach if I want to. The key is in the grip—encompassing but not fierce. One arm around my waist and the other across my shoulders.
Hands are a Goldilocks dilemma. They shouldn’t be as soft as mine, but they shouldn’t catch skin, either. If they’re oyster-shucking rough, use a drugstore lotion. If they’re too soft, build me a desk from raw wood.
Don’t pull my hair. Push it.
Use fabric softener (such as Ultra Downy, in lavender and vanilla).
And when I say, Don’t move, really, don’t move.