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Watching Him Sleep

There are a few times that I have the opportunity to watch him sleep.  We take advantage of when we can and I am always more grateful than words can express when I get to lay next to him and wake up with him in the morning.

In past relationships, there was always a routine.  This was good because I knew what to expect, and bad, because I knew what to expect.  Brush teeth, wash face, get in bed, have sex, roll over, sleep.  This was my vanilla life.  With Daddy, it is different every time.  I don’t know what to expect and while it is frustrating it is also exhilarating.

We assume our regular cuddle position and lay there, still and quiet.  Cuddling with him is the most relaxing thing in the world to me.    There is the warm feeling that starts at the outer limbs and slowly moves to meet in the middle of my body as I melt from the heat of him.   I feel my body relax one muscle at a time, realizing how tense I am on a regular basis in my daily life, even when I feel I am ok.

I feel his beard on my neck, the warmth of his breath on my face like veils of protection.  These are reminders that I am alive and the numb feeling that dwells in me, the doubt, the loneliness for him dissolve.  They leave my body like a thin vapor I can almost see.  I keep myself as close to him as possible.  I love feeling his body close to mine.  Where our skin meets, our sweat mingles, our hearts beat in the same rhythm effortlessly.

At some point during the night, I wake and I am facing him.  I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.  The sound of the air conditioning is louder than I remember when I fell asleep and I am frustrated that it drowns out the sound of his breathing.  I touch his face, trace the line of his beard with my fingers.  I am careful to not wake him up because sleep doesn’t come easily to him.  I want to tho.  I have so many different fantasies about waking him.  Sexy ways to arouse him run through my brain and I’m smiling at my own thoughts.  But I don’t do any of them.  I don’t because one of my greatest pleasures is watching him sleep.

He struggles with sleep and it racks his days with blood sugar dip and spikes, and stress and grumpiness.   My desire to be sexy and play out any of my many fantasies that I never experience because we don’t live together must take a back seat to his sleep.  So, instead of a sexy fantasy of a midnight blow job being played out, I prop myself up on my pillow and watch him sleep.  Watch him breathe.  Watch him.

His face seems relaxed, there is no wrinkled brow.  The darkness under his eyes is not visible in the night and his skin is even and clear.  His breathing is slow, steady, with an occasional larger breath in, and maybe a baby snore.  The smallest cutest snore ever.

I smile at his boyish figure.  Gone is the strong stature.  Gone is the facade of happiness and calmness, coolness.  Gone is the need to be strong for everyone and keep his needs to himself.  In sleep, rare as it is for him, he finds peace.  He finds calm.  He finds rest.  The bad dreams are gone.  The worry of his future life is gone.  It is all gone.   In these brief moments, he is vulnerable.  He would hate it if while he was sleeping he could feel how vulnerable he was.  Perhaps that is why he wakes so often at night.

I openly and bravely continue to spy on him as he sleeps.  Eventually, I close my eyes and join him in his vulnerability.  As I do, I commit everything I see to memory.  Each line, each shadow, each curve of his body will be embossed to my mind so that on those horrible long and lonely nights, I can recall them.   If I  only recall a small part of the peace I feel in this moment, perhaps it will help me rest in those moments when my sleep is wiped away by the need for him.

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