As those of you who babble on twitter with me know, I've been very sick for the past few weeks. I've started into the fourth week of severe bronchitis, actually. It's very unpleasant, makes me feel like crap, leaves me with cabin fever from being cooped up, and getting mopey over the prednisone-weight. Regardless of how hard I'm coughing, this leaves me feeling completely, totally unsexy.
Which is where my boyfriend proves yet again how incredibly lucky I am to have him.
I'd strained by back from coughing, and was having trouble lying down comfortably because of it. He grabs all the pillow-like objects in the room and gets me as comfortable as possible, then breaks out a minty massage bar to work on my back. He didn't just massage my back, he worshiped my body, like it was an ancient love goddess laid down before him for his adoration. It started as a loving pain-relief massage, and turned into gentle, loving caresses from neck to knees. Then, we got out some flavored massage oil, and he massaged my breasts. (Because they get heavy, of course. Boobies need massages, too!)
No matter how crappy I had been feeling, I couldn't help but feel sexy. He spent an hour worshiping my body, fully expecting me to thank him, kiss him, and fall asleep. He valiantly hid a ginormous boner from my naked, recumbent body so that I wouldn't feel guilty.
Until he noticed that I was enjoying the massage as much as he was. I'll leave the rest to your ever-fertile imaginations.
Memo to self - A dozen orgasms can do AMAZING things for congestion, aches, and pains. Seriously, if I can get going, they're the best medicine.
Just, for the record... epic bouts of coughing during sex? A sense of humor is needed.
I've always said I didn't want him to make a big deal of my body. For a long time, I was incredibly self-conscious about it. In many ways, I still am. I didn't want him to mention by body, because then it reminded me of how awful I thought it was, and I'd feel un-sexy, and it would turn me off cold. I've done a lot of growing up since I told him that, though. I've discovered that I like being worshiped. I like being made much of. I like being told that I look like a statue of Venus, or like Marylin Monroe, or that when I'm wearing nothing but my hair I look like a fairy queen.
Hell, I'll even forgive him for calling me his little marshmallow. Because, sick as I am, I'm still riding the high of that evening of loving and worship, days later. Moments like these remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place when we get to sniping over money or jobs or politics or whether I take good enough care of myself. They make our relationship deeper, richer, and more fulfilling, and remind me that no, I'm not the only one pouring my lifeblood into this relationship. We just do it in different ways.
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