Comfortable Isn’t A Dirty Word

Words have meaning, what’s funny about that is the different meanings that words have for different people.

I called you comfortable and you got mad.

“What am I, a fucking sofa?”  You launched at me.

I was taken back.

“No.  You’re comfortable for me.  I’m comfortable with you.  I don’t have to try so hard.”

As soon as those words left my lips I knew they were wrong.  Your eyes narrowed and your arms became unfolded.
The only thing worse than a woman looking at you while her arms are folded is when you say something that makes her have to unfold them.

“So you don’t bother trying when you’re with me?”

The exasperation in your voice had lowered to a laser-pointed focus.  I felt as if I were  under a spotlight and you were interrogating me.  My words were now going to have to be chosen with precision.

“That’s not what I meant.  I meant that you aren’t high maintenance.  You aren’t a girl that needs constant fluffing of her ego and reassurance.  When I want you all I have to do is walk up to you from behind and slip my arms around your waist.  I hook my thumbs in your waist band and hang them there so gravity can pull at them.  My cheek rubs against yours and you can feel the day and a half hair growth scratching against your skin.  You melt when I do that.”

You only let out a “mmhmm,” that was barely audible.  It didn’t let me know if you were reconsidering your stance or if you weren’t convinced yet.  Either way I wasn’t done.

“You are comfortable to me.  The word must have different meaning to you.  We work well together.  There aren’t any games we play.  There isn’t that confusion of what the other person wants.  We know we just want each other.  We’re comfortable enough that you can walk up and kick my feet apart and drop down into my lap before you shove your tongue down my throat.  All in one continuous movement.  It’s the sexiest fucking thing when you do that.”

It really was the absolute sexiest thing you did.  There was a hunger in your movements when you hunted me like that.  You would purposely stay out of my line of vision so I didn’t see you coming, as if you were a cat hunting its meal.

When you finally got to the clearing and there was nowhere else for you to hide you would pounce.  Your path took you in a straight line towards me and you would kick my feet apart.  Occasionally you’d drop down to your knees and I’d go unconscious as you wiped the world away from your lips, but most of the time you’d heavily set yourself on my lap so I could feel you.  A hard thud of your body onto mine so  I’d look at you in your eyes and I’d see the lust building.

“Yeah well, I’m not a god damn old blanket, okay?  Find a better word.”

You never admitted defeat, you just changed the subject.  Battles were never lost that way.  Uncomfortable moments were never allowed to linger.  The topic moved to the next train station as abruptly as possible, so much so that to question the change would be even more awkward.

I didn’t stop calling you comfortable though.  I didn’t do it on purpose, it just happened.  It was something that was deep in me because my soul was at ease using that word for you.  Being close to you was like laying in my own bed after a long trip away.  If that’s not comfortable then I don’t know what the word means, and if being called that isn’t a good thing then I don’t know what anything means.

 

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