Garden of Chest Hair
Everyone has their Garden of Eden, whether its in your Bible, your backyard or your boudoir. Mine is on my H’s chest. I love to nestle my head there on the soft skin covering hard muscle, surrounded by the lush hairs of fleshly paradise, running my fingers through his foliage. Then my hand tends to follow the happy trail down into the southernmost part of the Garden, where the Snake rises to seduce me…My fingertips are usually the first explorers, but my mouth soon follows. Or sometimes I just handle his Snake, while my lips kiss and tease those sweet soft hairs on his chest.
Which brings me back to my Garden of Eden: the male chest. The hair just seems to belong there, curling sensuously around the pectoral muscles. Not that I want a guy to be covered in fur. I love bonobos, but I don’t want to make love to one. The perfect amount of chest hair, for my personal taste, allows plenty of skin show through. Not to brag or anything, but my H has the perfect amount of chest hair. Just enough to play with. Not so much that it resembles any mammal other than human.
His chest is strong – no more man-boobies now that H has slimmed down! But it’s not so buffed up that I feel like I’m nuzzling a mound of steroids. It has hairs of every color: brown, blonde, black, white, even a few red ones, all curling around his pecs and down the middle of his stomach in a very pleasing pattern. If I wasn’t such a Darwinist, I might even think it was intelligently designed. However it evolved, his chest has become my pleasure garden, my magic carpet into idyllic erotic bliss, my refuge from pain, perma-war, terror and the general madness of humankind.
Some people like a sweaty chest. I prefer to relax in my Garden after H takes a shower. Then his chest smells like flowers. That might not sound very masculine, but when l’odeur des fleurs mixes with his natural androgens, it’s intoxicating. I feel like I get drunk just sniffing around his chest. Or maybe it’s the meds I’m taking.
Then there are the nipples. Keeping with the Garden of Eden theme, when erect, you could say the left one is the Tree of Life, and the right one is the Tree of Knowledge. Well, maybe the Shrubs of Life and Knowledge.
I love male nipples, partly because they’re so much fun to squeeze and bite and play with, and partly because they serve no clear, practical, function. Evolutionary scientists are hard-put to explain why men have nipples. Yet they can be such intense pleasure buttons, especially in the more mature, sensuous man. Male nipples are almost as mysterious, fascinating, reproductively useless and seriously sexy as the female clitoris.
Without doubt, each of H’s nipples has it’s own hot line to his cock. Together they make up his Trinity of Pleasure. All three get hard when they’re happy. Sometimes, I think of his nips as excitable little nephews of their big Uncle Dick.
Of course, I’ve never been able to make either nipple squirt (and I really wouldn’t want to). However, with a properly directed hand-job, steering the trajectory of the ejaculate, I have managed to paint each nipple creamy white. This is the Smart Bomb of Male Ejaculation. Of course, even smart bombs cause collateral damage. And hitting the nipples with the jism generally means you’ll have to clean a lot of spooge out of the chest hair. Yes, you can always lick it off. But, much as I adore chest hair, I have a tough time pulling it out from between my teeth.
Well, enough bloggamy on this for now. I think I’ll go play in my Garden…