"Every Angel Needs A Halo"

I have to give my girl credit. Lately SugarAnne has been quite the angel. As promised, she has truly made up for last week’s…hmm…should I say…uhhh…theatrics? (for lack of a more accurate and immediately available term). Since last weeks emotional "rescue” she’s been in a pretty good mood. She’s been joyful as a little girl running through confetti, and charmingly, disarmingly sassy too. And because she’s been all “girled up” all week, well, let’s just say we’ve “burned a few sheets”.

There’s one girly thing she been doing since we started “this thing we do”: dry brushing her body. It really does wonders for her skin. I usually try not to look. Or, I should say, I usually try not to look for too long or too hard. But I just can’t seem help it. It’s quite mesmerizing. It’s a wide open look at what one would only expect to see through one eye with a keyhole field of vision. I’m sure she did this before TTWD, probably. But now, my 25 pounds lighter, non-smoking (read about that challenge here), more comfortable with herself confident wife, walks around the house as pretty as you please and naked as a jaybird – just a brushing away.

Her strokes are smooth, as if spreading an even layer of whipped cream all over her body. The body brush gently surveys the terrain from her shoulder, across her chest and down through the valley between her “upper hills”. My gaze tends to lock onto that brush like a tracking beam from the Starship Enterprise.

“You know what you’re doing don’t cha”. It’s more an accusation than it is a question. I follow the brush, gawking, as it eases down her side and then retraces its steps back to her shoulder.

“Wha-, wha-?” she says with the innocence of an angel with a bent halo. Yet convincing enough to be believed. Does she really have absolutely no idea of what she’s doing to me?

Her eyes bug, she squints. And through hairy eyeballs she says, “Why are you staring at me like that?” A flick of the wrist abbreviates a stroke as she attempts to knock my gaze away.

But my eyes, like dander, are sucked back in by the static electricity of primal urgings stirring within me. They follow the bath brush as it moves around to her back out of sight and then down. I crank myself up into a high tip toe and look past her into the mirror on her dresser. I’m trying to reap a glimpse of this tender sweeping of her “lower hills” to compensate for the sudden “gawkus interruptus”. I have no shame. I love those “lower hills”. The short handle bath brush hyper-charges this exercise with a hint of masturbatory sensuality. The act oozes girly girlyness so thick I could spoon it up and roll it around my tongue until it melts.

Ahhhh, the body brush! That body brush is my little angel’s little friend. Yes it is...uh-huh. The way she handles that thing when she's dry body brushing you'd never know that...

...with one good turn…

...that very same short handle body brush becomes “the Heatstroke”: MY little friend.  SugarAnne despises “the Heatstroke”. Unfortunately last week I had to turn her loving body brush around and lovingly “tenderize that brisket” wit'it. Funny thing though, ever since then:

She walks like an angel;
She talks like an angel.

It's good to have "the Heatstroke". After all, every angel needs a halo.