Calloused. 

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My hands are calloused. It’s been a tough week between work and workouts. Constantly gripping poles and bars. Trying to maintain balance and remained focus. I think how hard I was gripping the headboard tonight aided in the formation of this thick skin. Next time I’ll just hold your head. 

The house smells of pasteles y arroz. I have candles lit and the windows open but nothing can mask the smell of food cooking when a Latin woman is in the kitchen. My back is turned but I can feel your eyes running up my bare legs and caressing my thighs. I can feel you so I turn and ask “papi que tú quieres, tener hambre?” I guess it’s the language that excites you because the rice is burning baby. 

He put everything in his mouth last night. Allowed his tongue to explore. Flipped me over. Kissed me soft. Gave me chance after chance to catch my breath. I never did. 

I should have just gripped the back of his neck instead of the headboard. You have any idea how hard it is to cook with sore hands? 

Written: December 8,2013

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