It turns out that he is, authentically, a large man.
But no, he really is.
I found this out because I gave him a shirt in size L and he said, “It won’t fit.”
And I said, “It’s a large.”
And he said, “It won’t fit.”
And I said, “Try it on.” And he said, “It. Won’t. Fit.”
And I said, “Now you’re just being a jerk.”
Which might sound like a strange position to take, given the exchange, but I am a woman. So it’s not.
His jaw got tight and he closed his eyes. I could almost feel his internal quest for patience, which I loved, because it means that he considers me a lot of work. (How long I went in life without being any work at all, and what a waste of time that was!)
Drawing in an overlarge, nostrilly breath, he stood up from my bed and crossed to the bamboo towel rack that I’ve set up in the corner as a decorative display for sexy underthings. It’s my bedroom’s latest stage prop. I’ve wrapped it all up in ivy vine, and it’s dangerously seductive. He didn’t seem to notice that as he slung the size L shirt across its top and began to pull off the one he was wearing, but trust me. It acts as an awful tease to the unlucky men who don’t hold his ranking.
(He’s the only one allowed in my bed, so if you are any other man in my house who thinks you have a shot in hell with me, SURPRISE! You totally don’t.)
I like watching men undress.
Whether or not a man undresses with ease says a lot about his character.
Whether or not a man undresses me with ease says more.
He pulled off the shirt he was wearing by bowing his neck forward, grasping the back of its collar in both hands, and pulling it over his head in one fluid yet somehow aggressive motion. Completely engaging. I almost applauded.
The shirt I got for him was a shade of black heather with some kind of cryptic skeletal images in a destroyed red. Tough, right? But the twist was that it was made of Egyptian cotton, and was irresistibly soft.
Which doesn’t matter now, because it didn’t fit.
At first it looked like it did, but then he showed me how it was all binding in the shoulders when he lifted his arms.
I was fascinated, and I thought, “So it’s his shoulders that are huge…”
How was I not specifically aware of this anatomical structuring before?
(And for that matter, what else am I missing?)
Apart from the size, it captured him well. So I was surprised when he said, “Did you really get this for me?”
(He wonders if there’s something that he’s missing, too.)
“Of course I bought it for you. Look at it. Who else do I know that would wear something like that?”
A rhetorical question, because he has yet to meet anyone that I know.
He did the violent/graceful shirt-removal/striptease again.
“Why?” he asked next.
Naked from the waist up. The broad shoulders. The even tone of his skin.
I understood the question. But I don’t know what I’m doing with him any better than he does.
I didn’t mean it as a parting gift. At least I don’t think I did.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. To be nice?”
He sneered and expelled a short, audible breath that said more than any words could have in its place.
He threw the shirt at my face.
I caught it before it hit.