Every night, I shower and go sit with M, in front of his chair. He always rests his hand on my neck, strokes my shoulders and collarbones, plays with my hair – he is always touching me in some way. I always rest my head on his legs or in his lap. It’s one of my favorite parts of the day.
One evening last week, I was in a hurry to go sit with him. I hadn’t yet brushed my hair after my shower, so I took the brush with me and set it down on the ottoman while I got comfy at his feet. M immediately reached for the brush and began to brush my hair. He brushed it for most of the show we watched – well beyond the need for it to be brushed. He kept brushing simply because he wanted to, because brushing my hair became more than just brushing my hair. It became something else entirely. Not exactly sexual, but insanely erotic. It was more than erotic even, it was care and control. It was love.
I don’t even remember what show we watched. But, I can’t stop replaying how that brush felt in my hair. How he smoothed it with his hand after each stroke. How he’d run his fingers downward through it and pull it up to watch the curls bounce back, then run the brush through, again and again. How he’d guide my head from side to side with his hands on my neck, then caress my neck with his fingers, sometimes giving my hair a tug to pull my head backwards and look me in the eyes or kiss my forehead. I just closed my eyes and felt him, brushing my hair. I felt treasured. I felt safe. I felt like I belonged.