We’re very different, the lovely Mr Hunt and I.
Long, hard,rugby playing muscles when I first met him, have softened slightly in some places, and his lasting love of sailing has tightened and corded others. Me, always soft, but now shaped by motherhood.
I have always loved our skin together. Both of us fair, our colouring within that could not be more different. He has the honeyed skin of someone who tans easily and golden highlights are replaced with white in his hair. My skin is milky white leaving me hiding in the house without factor 50 or sleeves from March to November.
I am smooth. He is hairy. Coarse, thick hair that rubs deliciously against me. Bristly beard hair abrading my skin where-ever his mouth moves. A pelt of warm, curling fur over solid muscles. Those few tender bare spots of baby soft skin.
I love how flipping the viewpoint flips the picture.
His body is a tool made tough through work. Mine is home. Soft, padded limbs that fold themselves around him. A cushion on which to rest. Fragile skin that marks and bruises with possessive artistry. Even the stretch marks are a sign he was there, that I grew our children in my body.
He is much more comfortable with pictures that focus on me, but I love his body. Love how it is aging. Love how he frames me, physically and in life.