He's Sprouting All Over

The soft, virgin skin on the inside of his forearms is covered in hair. Sparsely so but it's there none the less. She can't bear it. It's like he's sprouting all over. Fine dark wavy hairs in inappropriate places. The backs of his shoulders crawling across his scapulas and marching down the middle of his  back. Crawling up his ribs and wrapping themselves around his waist, carving in and out in every direction. His facial hair has no discernible boundaries by the end of the day. He leaves home clean shaven and returns after work with a full shadow, leaning towards a three day beard. It's his superpower, he says. Ch ch ch chia runs on a loop through her head. A clay head smothered with seeds to grow and groom. She shudders, furrowing her brow. She's shy around the subject but she knows he can feel her visceral repulsion when her engagement ring gets caught in the forest of curls on his bum at the top of his thighs. She loves him so much, she does. She truly believed this wouldn't be a problem for her. She wouldn't let it. She lied to herself. They've shaved, waxed, even electrolysized together, in an attempt to embrace and tackle her phobia head on, under the guise of foreplay and sexual exploration. He couldn't withstand the pain, rightly so. She stopped brazilians years ago. She's blessed with alabaster smooth virtually hairless skin. At first she was oblivious to it. Not turned on per se; more fascinated by, curious about someone so foreign from herself, so different, autre. Once the fascination began to wane she struggled to stay in. How can someone once thought so attractive become so, well, repulsive? She questions her commitment, her loyalty and character. Petty, selfish maybe, definitely superficial. She loves him, LOVES him. His heart, his brilliant mind, his hands and kind laugh. But she can't touch him. His skin, his furry, fuzzy, hirsute birthday suit repels her.

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