I love your proportions. Â I used to like taller girls, it’s true. Â At least, I thought I did. Â Perhaps I’ve changed. Â Or perhaps I grew up with the wrong role model. Â I didn’t used to like coffee. Â I used to find beer an acquired taste. Â Yet now I start every day off with a cup of joe and frequently cap a dinner off with a strong, dark beer. Â And now, I love standing behind you and reaching my arms around you, resting my chin on your shoulder, kissing your neck. Â Or curling up behind you in bed, and finding our bodies perfectly matched.
I love your hair. Â I love how it flows. Â 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. Â It’s soft. Â It’s smooth. Â I look at pictures of you 10 years ago and I see the same beautiful face I see now. Â 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. Â Grew them. Â Bore them. Â Nursed them. Â Your pregnant body was sexy to me. Â Not just sexy, but hot, erotic. Â Your dedication to lose the few remaining pounds of baby weight inspires me. Â Watching you do it excites me. Â Yoga pants have never been sexier on anyone.
For a time I resented you not wanting me to have fun on my own. Â Then I accepted it, and grew closer to you. Â Now you want to push me back out onto the world. Â I love you about that.
You like weird, sometimes long and boring movies. You insist we watch them, then promptly fall asleep. Â I stay up to watch so I can tell you about them. Â So I can try to understand what you see in them. Â So I can try to truly understand you.
I love your energy, enthusiasm, optimism.
I know your turn-on’s. Â Well, most of them. Â 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. Â If forces me to practice patience, to try to juggle ideas in my head and not lose them. Â At work, I’ve been told don’t let others finish their thoughts. Â I’ve tried to be better about it, and the practice is good for me.
You push me, challenge me, support me. Â You agree to all sorts of things I would never have imagined.
When you get angry you get self-righteous. Â You used to clam up and refuse to talk to me, too. Â I bet you don’t remember those days very well. Â And even though you get self-righteous, I know you always come back around. Â And I’m OK with that.
You are changing the game on me. Â For better, and for worse. Â I hope mostly for better.