I feel like it's been raining or gray forever. I'm afraid to check the weather report to see if it's going to continue for much longer, for fear that it will. I think I'd rather just be optimistic that tomorrow I'll wake up and the sun will be back in effect.
I had a conversation yesterday about my fondness for thighs. Actually, it started off about baseball, which led to me thinking about the player that gets me the most hot and bothered, and since my fondness for him is all because of his thighs, it started me thinking about where that thigh thing came from in the first place.
The very first time I saw the film The Spanish Prisoner, I think I only paid attention to about 60% of it since I had my hand on the most perfect thigh I'd ever felt and it was difficult to pay attention to what was going on on the screen. It felt like a rock, encased in faded denim material. I didn't rub, I didn't squeeze, I didn't caress. I just let my hand rest there on that thigh, perfectly still. The reason I wasn't more active was because I was still in love with the owner of that thigh, and this was the first time in a year we'd seen each other. It took all the courage I had to my put hand there in the first place.
So now I look at legs. I think it's a little bit masochisitc of me. Whenever I see a pair that look like they'd probably feel just like those belonging to that man I loved, I feel a sharp stab of wistfulness. But I just can't help myself.