If you think I can't feel you shying away from my stomach when we have sex, you're wrong. I feel it. The stretch marks that bled the last weeks of my pregnancy are now silver and pink tiger stripes that surround my belly button like amp waves. I feel you avoid them. You’ll touch me in the most intimate places, but your hand has never crossed the threshold of my waistline. It’s a wasteland. It’s become a base of secret research. Area 51 just inches away from the Greatest Place On Earth.
One orbits the curve of my hip with his hand, across my stomach, over my breast, and back again as if worshiping a single star in his universe.
One pulls the hem of my shirt up over my face, trapping me inside and exposing the skin, the stripes, the stomach. “What are you gonna do now, champ?” he teases.
One prefers me on all fours because he feels differently about fat distributed to my rear. He tugs the hem of my shirt over my hips and lunges lazily at my ass.
One runs an eager tongue from my neck to my navel.
One grabs a fistful of my belly and shakes it. “This is what I love,” he says as I lay across the tailored sheets of his Park Central bed. “Stop losing weight.” He squeezes until I wince, and place my hand over his. “I love this. I love this.” He moves my skin on my bones like paint on a canvas.
Dear Lover. No one said you had to hold on when the hourglass was empty on the night. You have balls lying half naked in my bed when the horizon of your eye line floats above my shoulders. If a ripple in my skin makes you shudder, roll on, Lover, roll on. I have no skin in the game where beauty is skin deep.