Happy Anniversary To Us

On Friday, my delightful husband and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary. This is truly a testament to him, and not me, since I don't believe I'm at all easy to live with, and most times he'd more than likely love to bash me in the skull with a Louiseville Slugger (the traditional gift for five years IS wood ...). Not that he's ever said that; it's just a hunch. After all, life with me is rather like a roller coaster ride with Sybil at the switch ...

As always, I'm loathe to write about him because whatever I put down doesn't do him justice. Anyone can say that their husband is loving and caring and sweet. Blah, whoopee. But mine isn't like that. He's entirely different.

My husband lives with a woman who was diagnosed after marriage with two mental illnesses. He's taken them in stride, and no matter how wretched and ugly, no matter which corner of the house I'm hiding in, no matter how deep the depression, he insists on pulling me out and loving me. When there is nothing left within, he WILL find the good, no matter how small. Every single time. And when I'm ranting and raving, raging out of control, he's still calm, his eyes clear, his hand out, waiting for me to stop. And when I do, he WILL find the good, no matter how small. Then when the mania hits, and I cannot stop the running, the chattering, the non-stop yammering about absolutely nothing, he'll laugh with me, and monitor it, keeping tabs on my safety, watching for the crash, and he WILL find the good in me, no matter how small.

And how I love him for it.

You can describe the physical aspects of a man, and it's easy for another to see and understand then: softly-curled hair, kept just long enough to appease me; if he had his way, he'd cut it short and severe. But that beautiful dark, wavy hair ~ such a travesty to cut it all off! His deep hazel eyes, so warm and welcoming, his straight, no-nonsense nose, the tidy beard that teases me lightly, and the lips that kiss me ever-so-gently into arousal, or bite me until I writhe against him; arms that crush me to him in passion, or hold me lovingly when I'm frightened; hands that soothe, or excite; perfectly formed fingers, always so warm, with that one cracked nail that drives him to distraction: I finally have a nail file in my purse for him.

His legs are straight and long, with full calves, made strong from years of hiking and walking. I love his legs. I love his ass! Cute, high, round ... it's been fodder for more than one internet discussion between my friends and I. Even his feet appeal to me: wide, straight across, with high arches. This, THIS is my husband.

Some nights, I'll sit in bed and watch him in the shower at the other end of the room; the glass door will soften his image into a blur, yet he's still so familiar to me. I KNOW every INCH of that body! And the familiarity feels so sweet to me. There's a heavenly comfort in knowing that his body belongs to me. NEVER do I watch and take it for granted! There's always a frisson of excitement in seeing him there, naked, knowing he's mine alone.

There are some women and men who say that the idea of a one-night stand is the very epitome of excitement: that the idea of not knowing is what makes it so titillating. I will never understand that. For me, it's the polar opposite! It's the KNOWING that makes it so wonderful!

Ah, my lovely, delightful husband:

He never lets me take the garbage out. It's "man's work". That's so cute.

He believes it's the "man's job" to take care of the woman in most cases, and does so. He will always ask if I have what I need before we go upstairs to bed and offer to carry it, like water, or my computer, despite me wanting to do those things for him. It almost turns into a competition! These are not "once in a while things". These are EVERY NIGHT things. He's the most unselfish, giving person I've ever met, barr none.

I love that if I climb into bed after getting up to use the restroom, he will, in his sleep, pull the covers back for me, then cover me back up. How unselfish is this? Then no matter how cold I am, he spoons me to warm me back up.

If I begin to rub his back, or head, or chest, he will lay as still as possible, so that I will not stop. He loves me to touch him.

Leaning over the bed without pants on is going to get me molested. Every single time. Sometimes a sure thing is a good thing. Wiggling in that position will get a lovely, healthy smack on the ass. Gotta love it! Ok, so we're twisted. What's your point?

Biting his chest when he is aroused will put him over the edge immediately and in a way that brooks no misunderstanding. Game over. It's a powerful feeling, and I love it!

I love to rub *him* against my cheek, against my face, and inhale. I love his personal scent. No other person has it, and no one else will ever know it. I love feeling him harden in my mouth.

The size 34 boxer trunks look GREAT on him; but they look even better when he's hard.

His butt cheek is the perfect size to squeeze in one hand. Or occasionally swat! He's flexible like no other 47-year-old man should be, and is willing to try anything, anywhere. He doesn't want any other woman but me, and he loves me despite my faults. How damned cool is that?

Being with him isn't just about a man and a woman living together and being in love. It's about two people being together and laughing our asses off; we work really hard at not taking the world too seriously. That's pretty important, you know? Anyone can do the serious stuff, and we have a lot of that, anyway. But the laughter? We NEED that.

And so we laugh. Sometimes we even laugh in bed. There doesn't really have to be much of a reason; it might be a little thing, like he's tickled me in some way and it gets me started, and then I cannot quit. That's baaaaaad news. But it doesn't slow us down much. We just laugh our asses off and continue. In fact I seem to recall one time him telling me to shut the hell up and fuck him! Then we burst out laughing AGAIN ... and I fucked him ...

After all, a girl really should follow orders!

Oh, my dear, I do love you so. Forever and Always,
Your Meggy