bones

I divided my attention between watching a movie and looking at the lovely, skinny boy lying on the floor next to me, with his arms behind his head, so his shirt pulled up just enough to expose about three inches of skin, and the shadows of his hipbones at the waistband of his blue jeans.

I love bones. Bones on boys who have enough muscle to almost hide them to the eye, but not to the touch. Collarbones, shoulder blades and shoulder sockets, ribs, and oh my lord, hip bones. I’ve felt all those bones now, except his hips. I suppose, in the normal course of “getting to know you” the hips would logically come last, above the waist generally coming before below the waist, and all.

And so.

So.

What fantastic bones.

Collarbones. I can press my palms against his chest, and curve my fingertips over his collarbone, and hang on a little. I can press my fingertips into his upper arms, and run my thumbs along their underside, pressing in just a little against the muscles. I met the collarbones first. And they’re the best collarbones I’ve met in many, many years.

Then there are the shoulder blades. Not sharp at all. Shoulder blades should be hidden under enough muscle that you need to try to feel them, until they move just right. Shifting and disappearing beneath your hands as the muscles flex, but always right there when you dig your fingers in along their edges. The upper edge of the shoulder blades, like the mirror-image of the collarbones, should be right there to flex your fingertips over and hold onto. And they were perfect shoulder blades.

Clutching the shoulders suddenly, and the barest edge of his shoulder socket pressed into my fingertip.

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