He had garlic salt on his hands. My beautiful roommate was engaged in some sort of kitchen fastidiousness and got the powder all over his strong, elegant hands. I could barely see the stuff against see the stuff against his tawny skin. Reluctantly, I responded to the plea in his large, dark eyes and dispensed hand soap in his cupped palms then turned on the water. I didn't want to. I wanted to lick it off his palms then suck each finger. But the suggestion would make him roll those expressive eyes at me. And there is no way to casually taste someone. I've thought about it a lot, but despite my creative reputation, that was a trick I have never been able to pull off. If the maneuver existed at all, it would have to be a very good one. My roommate had very fast reflexes. I have to repress these notions and simply enjoy his beauty. And I do enjoy this elusive soul who shares the rent and feeds the birds and helps me keep the kitchen cleaner than I ever have. All of my other senses know him well and savor each bit of information. Sights are plentiful, rich in detail and varied in content. His hair ranges in shades from honey brown to pale yellow in firelight along the deep waves and curls. It looks soft and warm in the morning when it's mussed up dusting his shoulder and flowing down the back of his red robe. I have touched his hair in just moving it out of the way for him. It was easy then to allow the long, wavy strands to run through my fingers and across my palm and savor it's softness. Amazingly, I have enough self control not to grab the mass of it and pull him against my mouth. Touches are relatively easy in the narrow kitchen on in the small though way between the couch and the computer desk. Brushing against his side or running a hand across his shoulders is easy. There is even the occasional playful pat on the rear or a caress of the thigh. I know he has smooth skin over firm, well-formed muscles. Scents are also easy and delightful. There are the wonderful candles with exotic floral scents and the spring flowers he tends on the balcony. He always smells faintly of soap and shampoo or some really wonderful food. The scents are delicate and elusive often prodding me to seek their source. The sounds are a pleasant backdrop to my day. His is a soft, deep voice and an infectious laugh. When his voice is fuzzed over with sleep, I wonder what it would sound like rasping against my ear in bed. That it's why it wisest not to try to taste him. If I tasted his hand, I would have to lick his collar bones. Then there is his navel and the base of his spine or the backs of his knees. There were far too many places my tongue wanted to go if encouraged. There were far too many places my fingers would go left unimpeded. He has flour on his chin just below that wonderfully full lower lip. His hands are greasy. And he's asking for my help... Home