My lover lies on his side on the sofa with his hands wedged between his legs. He has grown soft in the middle and his skin is laced with silvery marks across his ass, belly and shoulders. The marks look like scars, and when I trace them with the tips of my fingers the flesh beneath appears to fall away. I feel like I could slip my hand inside him through the fragile surface of these roads which travel from our youth to our maturity. I love the large-ness of his body, the hemispheres of his ass, of his chest. He is still hard and flat, almost bony in his lap, neatly tucked beneath the swell of his belly. His cock curves up and over this roundness. It once stretched past his navel. Today it looks diminished by his bulk, but everything is relative and I know this as I lower myself on him. It is better this way. There are no hard edges to catch and hurt and his abdomen becomes like the pommel of a saddle holding me in place and brushing into me, deliciously. His thighs, drawn up, buttress my ass, his cock burns into my center, his warm gut stirs and teases my clit. This is one part of growing older no one ever told me about and I could never have imagined. It is so much better this way.

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