One of the things I miss about sleeping with someone is the feeling of bare skin on more bare skin. My girlfriend has the tendency to wear something in bed - whether it's a T-shirt or some fluffy pyjamas (they are very fluffy, mind you) - whereas I've slept naked since I was about 12 and own a pair of pyjamas which I've had for approximately the same period, given how little wear they endure. Of the small comforts I have at bedtime (such as a couple of chapters from the book at the top of the pile, a mug of hot chocolate, and the gnawing insecurity that comes with the knowledge that my life is an inexorable spiral towards a hideous death), one of the best is the warm, soft feeling of naked skin. I don't often get that as much as I'd like.
This week, things have been different... somehow.
It started on Monday. We had been kissing in the rain while waiting for a bus to take us back home from the Cinema of Dreams.* It was an evening fraught with a mess of confused thoughts and feelings, and I'd no idea how it would go, until she suggested we have sex just as it was nearing midnight. The first sex of 2015, in fact. And it was - dare I say it? - glorious. Heavy, slow, measured, and long. Like, incredibly long. There were some orgasms. There were some kisses. And then possibly some glasses of water to cool off. And she remained naked for the rest of the night.
So I held her, the warmth of her body and the soft smoothness of her skin radiating through my arms and chest, making my back jealous. I didn't really get a lot of sleep - I never do, really - but in terms of rest, that one's a winner. As is the other night, where there was more sex and nudity. Or the nights where I cup her breasts with a hand to feel the relaxation. Or the ones where I kiss her neck and feel the skin there.
But I sometimes just want more.
[*Cineworld. I felt like I needed to give it a name.]