It’s not fair really. Men either are or aren’t born with the wide upper skeletal structure that so enamors me. In this they have no control. The ones graced with such a foundation catch my attention before all others, and they’ve done nothing to earn it.
Broad shoulders on their own speak of power and protection. For what else can encase a woman so poetically, serving as both shield and shelter. I don’t want your body ripped, sculpted and carved to harsh extremes for where is the comfort in that? I long to nestle in the hollow where limb joins torso and rest my head on the pillow of muscle and skin that coats the upper arm and joint. See? Look how nicely I fit. We merge like two interlocking puzzle pieces. My head is heavy. It holds so much—my dreams, ambitions, memories—I need shoulders strong enough to support its weight.
When I run my fingers across the expanse of a back I want it to take a while to trespass from one side to the other. I want my hands dwarfed by the enormity of your shoulder blades. As you lie sleeping I want to see a felled giant, peaceful in repose but a force with which to be reckoned if roused.
And when aroused, hover over me, supported on twin pillars of strength. Pull me in close and wrap me up so tightly that not a molecule separates our points of skin on skin. Reach up and under my arms, claiming me, crushing my breasts against your face, locking your fingers against my back so that even if I bucked against you and tried to escape, I couldn’t.