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.

And the ribs … I can lose myself in a man’s ribcage. You can hold your palms against the abdomen, and reach up just a little, to feel the edge of his chest hesitate with his breathing. Stretch your fingers out along his side, to press each fingertip in between individual ribs. For a moment, I think I held my breath, my whole attention absorbed in the way the heel of my hand braced just against the bottom edge of his ribcage, as he breathed and his stomach flexed and his ribs expanded against my palm. And then, arms wrapped around, hands on his back, feeling the spine twist and the ribs appear and disappear, teasing, beneath the back muscles. A shoulder blade sliding down, ribs disappearing, an arm reaching as they reappear again.

But the hipbones. I have just barely glimpsed their contours, dimly lit by a movie and candlelight. Him, shifting, relaxing, breathing, lying on his back on the floor… shirt pulled out of the waistband hiding the hips, leaving only shadows to call my eyes back, again and again, imagining the contour, pushing the palms of my hands against the curve, digging my nails a little, and saying hello to the bones I have not yet met.