There are a certain amount of things that can automatically be considered as sexy in my life.
The way he wraps around me in the middle of the night.
The way we banter, as if we’re speaking in a secret geek language that only we understand.
His kisses. Any of them.
The playfulness, me grabbing his arse, him pretending to roger me from behind.
I love it. It’s all fucking sexy and it makes me love him even more.
Of course, some things are less than sexy. These things can be shelved under “daily irks” or “life” if you will.
The fact that we seem to be the only people who do the washing up here.
Toilet paper appearing as a luxury commodity.
Our landlord’s mother being on the phone for five hours (loudly, without taking breaths. We don’t think she ever breathes. I think she absorbs air through osmosis.)
The entire family being over for the Easter holidays, and taking over the living room.
Our landlord (bless him) waking us up by playing Battlefield 3 on his PS3, on a volume so loud, I could have sworn downstairs had transformed into an actual post-apocalyptic war zone.
But you take that as you will and you adapt to the little irks. Because what matters is that you’ve got each other. And to me, he’s the sexiest thing about my life. Warts and all. The little things are what make life so colourful. And in the end that’s all I want.