Frost

Frigidity has never been my problem, and quite frankly, I don't understand it.  We are sensual beings, and I couldn't sleep in bed next to my partner and not want to feel close to him.  I want to feel desirable; my self esteem issues plague me, and physical expression seems to quiet the demons, or temporarily quiets them at least.

I like to be seduced, but I often like to be the seducer.  I like stolen moments in the morning when he's groggy.  I like matinees.  And I enjoy late nights.  I am fire and candlelight; I am sinks and parking lots.

Today it would have been a walk in the snow and hot chocolate.    Not hot cocoa, but hot chocolate made with whole milk and Ghiradelli chocolate topped with heavy whipped cream. We admire the blue shadows on the blinding white snow.  We notice the ice crystals hugging the branches and carelessly toss a few snowballs.   We walk by the stream near my house, and in the stillness we whisper our hearts' secrets.  Hand in hand we walk home.  When it's time to return indoors, we stomp our boots on the step and sigh as we feel the wall of heat caress our skin.  After our hot chocolate and strawberries we tumble in the sheets to warm our toes, and you caress my wind-burned cheeks.  The words whsipered by the stream are repeated again; there is no shyness when we're naked and interwined like frost on the snow-kissed branches.

I think these thoughts while I admire the icicles on the tree limb outside my house, alone.