Winging It! 02

02 - On Touching

I'm very touch oriented. My ladywife read a book once upon a time called "The Five Love Languages" or somesuch Venus-oriented self-help title. When she finished reading it, she came and declared unto me this Great Truth - "You are a Touch person. You tell people you care about them by touching them." I looked down at my hand, which was busily fondling one of her delicious boobs and said something truly clever and witty along the lines of "Imagine that!"

Apparently the inverse is true as well – until you touch me, I'm not convinced you care about me. I crave being touched, just to know the person I'm dealing with values me as a person. It's not necessarily a sexual thing – I have absolutely zero interest in hopping into the sack with any of the coworkers I routinely shake hands with or whose shoulders I slap.

No, it is about defining my world. I am a sensual person and love the feel of things I touch. I think it is part psychic as well, on a small level. Right now, my arms are resting on the edge of a folding table, the corner is smooth and rounded and changes to a slight textured finish on top. And it is cool, compared to the heat I just came in from. Under my fingertips, the keys are smooth with crisp edges, almost but not quite sharp. It is a pleasant contrast, from arms to fingertips.

Sometimes I catch myself idly touching things (shaddup, you perverts!) while I'm working on something else just for the sake of knowing how they feel, rubbing a fingertip over it, picking at it with a fingernail, smoothing it with my palm. Safe, dangerous, pleasant, foul – to me all of them are worth experiencing, from a sharp shard of glass to sun-heated metal to a soft fleece blanket to the soft, hot, wet core of an aroused woman. These sensations are how I define my world, how I make it real.

As I walk past something, I am very likely to lay my hand on it, partially so I can keep track of where it is if I'm not looking at it and partially just to know its "feel." If I'm passing a person, putting my hand on them so I know where they are and so they know where I am. It helps me know if I need to change my course if they start to move.

Of course, touching a living person is an entire world of sensations in itself. You feel their physical warmth, their emotional heat or frigidity. Below that is their core solidity, their physical reality and their emotional stability. You can – well,I know I can – feel the roiling of emotions under the person's demeanor. The sharp tug of "I really like that touch and wish it could continue" to "I hate it when he makes me feel like this at the wrong time."

I enjoy the shock of an unexpected touch – bracing myself against a pipe coming up out of the ground, expecting the feel of sun-heated metal only to encounter a pipe that is almost freezing because it is holding 900psi of natural gas. Maybe a pretty lady accidentally (or not) brushes against me as she passes.

I love haircuts, too. I'm wondering if beauty schools give classes like "how to artfully tease clients with your boobs through contact and near contact." It definitely causes me to give a bigger tip. (Of money, you perverts! Sheesh.) And getting change from a cashier – some seem to not want to touch the customer. I like to stroke my fingertips along the inside of her wrist as she hands me my change. I really enjoy it when she does it first, hiding her caress behind giving me my money.

So I need that physical contact with my world, that sensual rooting in reality provided by touching my surroundings. And with people, that sensual can easily fuel the sexual, if it is an appropriate person. Moving past someone in close quarters and putting my hand on her hip, to know where she is and to let her know where I am, leads to the delicious temptation of sliding that hand up under her shirt and along her ribs to feel the pull of soft skin over bone. Or instead of her hip, putting my hand lightly at the nape of her neck as I lean around her to reach something leaves the desire to trail my fingers down her spine to the curve of her buttocks.

Sometimes I do give in to those urges – my ladywife will tell you I NEVER resist them! - but only if the person involved is appropriate for such activities. You know, if it is my ladywife involved, since she doesn't share well at all. Otherwise, I just use the momentary contact to enjoy it for what it is – a brief moment of touching a part of my world that produces its own set of sensations.

Because if I don't touch it – it doesn't exist.