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Seriously, Irish, I know you're not THAT into me. But I'm content with the degree of into-the-me-ness you're experiencing, because it causes you to hold tight everytime we meet, and it lends a kindness to your gaze that I've never had focused on me.
I told my friend I was digging you, he asked if I was in love. I told him I didn't know. He asked me if I'd be sad if you died. I said yes. He asked if I'd be inconsolable. I said yes, for a while. He asked if the very thought was fucking with me a little, and I said yes.
So, puppy love it is. Obviously, I'd like it if it turned into more than that. But honestly, that's later. That's several thousand hugs and kisses, at least a hundred love making sessions, maybe fifty instances of you pretending to eat my nose, and a few joints down the road. So I'm going to enjoy those things, and worry about it later.
I like it when you pick me up like a feather, and call me a scaredy-Jess for squealing and flailing. Next time you do it, I'm calling you a scaredy-Irish for being afraid of a scaredy-Jess. I like it when you're talking about something, whatever it is, and you're so into your eyes are almost glowing. Your eyes are beautiful. I liked it when your tipsy ass grabbed my head, pulled it close, and mumbled "I heart you." I like how you get off on me getting off on the fact that you're getting off on me getting off. I like running my hand over your short short hair, and feeling your sweat flick all over me, as I tighten around you and ride the orgasms you basically hand to me. I like how when I'm tickling you, you state "THAT TICKLES!" As if there's been some kind of mistake, and I can't possibly be tickling you on purpose. I like how safe I feel in your arms, I even like the fact that trying to wrestle something from your hand is pointless. Feminism be damned, I like how strong you are. It's comforting and erotic. I love the way you smell. Not your soap, but the actual Irish smell, the smell of your skin. It's hard to explain. I like how incredibly sweet you are. Sometimes, when I kiss you, I feel you should taste like pure sugar. I like kissing you. And kissing you. And kissing you some more. I love your half-lidded sexual glances. Those do more for me than some men have been able to do with their hands. I liked cuddling with you while you slept. I didn't sleep, just felt you breathe.
But you're so cautious, and when I fall for someone, I fall hard. I'm terrified that miscommunication will end this, that I'll accidentally scare off the scaredy-Irish. That's really what I'm a scaredy-Jess about.