I love your proportions. I used to like taller girls, it’s true. At least, I thought I did. Perhaps I’ve changed. Or perhaps I grew up with the wrong role model. I didn’t used to like coffee. I used to find beer an acquired taste. Yet now I start every day off with a cup of joe and frequently cap a dinner off with a strong, dark beer. And now, I love standing behind you and reaching my arms around you, resting my chin on your shoulder, kissing your neck. Or curling up behind you in bed, and finding our bodies perfectly matched.
I love your hair. I love how it flows. If it was longer, I would make you put it up, just to be able to see and kiss your neck, to imagine what it would be like if you cut it.
I love your skin. It’s soft. It’s smooth. I look at pictures of you 10 years ago and I see the same beautiful face I see now. A face with beautiful eyes, luscious lips, and a fantastic smile.
I love your body, your ass, your thighs, your B-cup breasts. I love how you are not some thin stick of a model, but a beautiful, curvaceous MILF.
You carried our children. Grew them. Bore them. Nursed them. Your pregnant body was sexy to me. Not just sexy, but hot, erotic. Your dedication to lose the few remaining pounds of baby weight inspires me. Watching you do it excites me. Yoga pants have never been sexier on anyone.
For a time I resented you not wanting me to have fun on my own. Then I accepted it, and grew closer to you. Now you want to push me back out onto the world. I love you about that.
You like weird, sometimes long and boring movies. You insist we watch them, then promptly fall asleep. I stay up to watch so I can tell you about them. So I can try to understand what you see in them. So I can try to truly understand you.
I love your energy, enthusiasm, optimism.
I know your turn-on’s. Well, most of them. When we’re in bed, I love being able to bring you pleasure, to feel as though our minds are joined like our bodies, all without saying a word.
You don’t let me finish my thoughts when talking. If forces me to practice patience, to try to juggle ideas in my head and not lose them. At work, I’ve been told don’t let others finish their thoughts. I’ve tried to be better about it, and the practice is good for me.
You push me, challenge me, support me. You agree to all sorts of things I would never have imagined.
When you get angry you get self-righteous. You used to clam up and refuse to talk to me, too. I bet you don’t remember those days very well. And even though you get self-righteous, I know you always come back around. And I’m OK with that.
You are changing the game on me. For better, and for worse. I hope mostly for better.