Something interesting happened last night. I became fully aware of it because someone close who cared to ask did and I answered.
I don’t like to be touched all that much.
Obviously, I like physical contact and some of the best I had recently included being held tightly, arms entwined with face-to-face full body contact, stacked like those old school Tupperware bowls that fit together so nicely in the cabinet.
But I struggle with the casual, warm touch. Come up behind and kiss my neck and the first reaction is to pull away. Bit of a mood breaker. It may go back to teenage body image and issues that lead to taking just Diet Coke with large chunks of lemon into my mouth for weeks at a time. Even after starving down to 120 pounds on a 5’8 frame, I couldn’t bear the feel of fingers on phantom fat rolls. It may be rooted in childhood. Mine was not a touchy family.
Massages are tough. I’ve had just a handful, the first part of a full spa extravaganza for some milestone birthday, the number of which escapes me. I wasn’t uncomfortable with the naked part, although I left my panties on, yet nervously chatted with the Goth and slightly tattooed masseuse for the duration. She begged over and over, “Relax”, but at times it felt as if she was the Kung Fu Fighter, me the block of wood. I had a series of work done in a physical therapists office. The family is cursed with bad backs (strong backbones rarer yet). One heavy spring snow and a newly diagnosed condition that creates quick degeneration in discs sent me into PT for a three month stretch. Again it was a woman, a woman I ended up adoring. Perhaps it was the pain talking, but I was open to the deep lower back and top ass work she did; her hands rubbed out the knots and got me upright again. I’ve thought about challenging myself to return to the PT office for some back up back work since I tend to carry extreme stress there. And I recall a handsome, smallish but 100% Boulder-bred masseur in the office.
I am and can be touchy to others casually and in small doses. I’ll lay my hand briefly on your arm or knee when we talk, place my hand in the crook of your arm when crossing the street, or hold a girlfriends hand to lead her through a crowd. Perhaps there's work yet to do in order to not be so turned off by the power of touch.
Spanking is touching, yes?