D.I.Y

This is not an entry about do-it-yourself home renovation projects. It is, rather, an entry about a different acronym (or differing words, for the same acronym?). Either way, today's comments are not about my house, but rather, about my boyfriend.

The first thing I have to do, however, is give him a fake name, just like everybody else. Except my sister's boyfriend, who has been referred to by his actual name. Actually, I'm going to go change that. Be right back.

Ah. Much better. According to me, my sister's boyfriend is called Norbert.

ROFL.

And MY boyfriend shall henceforth be known--for the purposes of this blog, anyway--as Duncan. My boyfriend. Duncan. Like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but gayer (sorry Duncan). And so, onto today's acronymous title--Duncan Is Yummy.

:)

Right, I can actually stop there, if you guys want. What do you think? Shall I stop there? No, I think I'll keep going. I feel like being a bit nice today, mostly (but not entirely) because I've been a bit of a bitch over the weekend. In the interests of fairness/diplomacy/not boring to tears *everyone* who reads this, I shall limit myself to a short mention of the first 5 yummy features of, hehe, Duncan, which occur to me.

Right. My very first thought. His smile *smiles, as usual, every time she pictures it* He has a lovely, almost shy, slightly crooked smile; it's almost the opposite of the way everyone in my house smiles. Some people smile instantly, broadly, with their whole face--usually me, and usually the kiddlywinks, smile like that. My boyfriend's smile is, uncharacteristically for him, a more subtle affair; if he smiles properly, a full-faced grin, he's probably not smiling so much as laughing, and smiling by default. If he's simply smiling, though, it's a quiet little smile, the barest lifting of the left side of his slender pink mouth, a glimmer of small straight teeth and a hint of softness in eyes the colour of Brazilian blue apatite.

His eyes are the colour of Hugh Laurie's, actually, if that description works better for some of you. Gemstone blue, with gold and chocolate framing the pupils, little lightning bolts of contrast, to make the blue even bluer--eyes like wild forget-me-nots, sunshine-yellow centres surrounded by a burst of English summer sky (as opposed to a summer sky where I'm from, where the heat and fire of the sun bleaches the sky to a pale, washed-out remnant of the glory that was the winter sky). His eyes are not dark enough to be sapphires, or brilliant enough to be diamonds, or uncertain enough to be turquoise; they are blue, blue, blue, and only as bright as they are soft.

I think that counts as two things, and it's goes against my principles to have so much about Duncan's physical attributes, without mentioning the things that really count (although smile, well, that was kinda half-and-half, I like the way it looks because of what it implies, if you see what I mean). But. However. Moving on to something that matters a little more.

He is so nice. I know everybody says nice guys finish last (well of course they do, after their partner's gone half a dozen times) but all double-entendre-ing aside, sometimes, genuinely nice guys don't get the credit they deserve. Mind you, in my entire life, I've met about... well, I've just counted up 4, and 1 of them's a stretch. Of those 4, 1 *may* be married: the rest are currently single, or were single when I met them. I *love* nice boys. But genuinely nice--so nice you really don't like hurting people, so nice you find it easier to let something go than hold a grudge, nice without compromising the moral fibre that it takes to have a backbone and some principles--that kind of nice is exceptionally rare. I mean, most men who call themselves nice, are assholes masquerading as decent fellas, and they deserve what they get; but actually, they stand a fair chance with girls. It's the absolute angels among men, who get trampled all over. Or, no. They just get ignored. And finally, one day, something snaps inside them, and they either give up entirely on finding anyone, or decide to settle for the next thing that comes along (whatever it is) or, worst option of all, they turn into complete bastards. Bitter, unhappy, lonely little whinges, probably with a twitch and a hygiene problem.

Not my boyfriend. I found him in time. He has been unaltered, by the wretchedness of this world. He still *feels* things, as if he were a child, or an innocent. He's shiny, bright, sweet, clean. He is nice, nice, nice, his soul is as nice as his eyes are blue, and I love him if for no other reason than the fact that there's not one truly nasty, gleefully cruel bone in his entire body.

Right, 2 reasons to go, and it's not that I'm running out, it's that it's difficult to narrow it down at this stage...

Briefly. Briefly, I will mention the fact that he can read. He's, oh, something like a scientist, or a maths geek at the very least; but he understands English, he understands it well, no, very well, he has a thorough grasp of grammar and syntax and style, he can read things like Shakespeare without having to think too hard about it, and if he doesn't catch something I say/write, it's generally because I've said/written it badly. Which rarely happens, just so we're clear--but it's wonderful to have someone about, whose opinion I can trust. It's such a relief, a surprise, an unexpected pleasure, to know that there's someone around who is actually capable of correcting my grammar/word usage, and of comprehending any obscure words or archaic language I decide to use.

Oh thank GOD he can read.

Finally--and this may seem like a small thing, but I assure you, it is not--he kisses me all the time. He kisses me for no reason, for good reasons, for obvious reasons, for vague and unimaginable ones. He kisses me in private, and he kisses me in public. He kisses me no matter where we are, or who we're with. He kisses me sweetly, urgently, casually, passionately, affectionately, hungrily. He kisses me like he's drinking my breath, and he kisses me like he's breathing life into me. He kisses my hand, he kisses my neck, he kisses my cheek, he kisses my forehead. He kisses my breasts, he kisses my thighs, he kisses my sex and he kisses my feet. He kisses me in places *everyone* has kissed, and he kisses me in places *no one* has kissed. He kisses me like he can't help himself. He kisses me like he is just helping himself. He kisses me badly, beautifully, messily, skillfully. He kisses me until my lips are raw, and then he kisses me until they're soothed.

He kisses me all the time. Sometimes he just looks at me, and he's across the room before I realise what's coming, and then his lips are on mine and I forget what comes next anyway; and then he reminds me. He kisses me until I forget his name. He kisses me until I forget *my* name. He kisses me like we're the first people ever to kiss, in the history of everything, and he kisses me like he'll still be kissing me after everything ends. He kisses me like he can't get enough of me, like he'll never get enough of me, like there's no such thing *as* enough of me. He kisses me like it's the right thing to do, and the best thing to do, and the most fun thing to do, all at once. He kisses me, and he kisses me, and he kisses me, and then he kisses me.

He kisses me as if he knows, the nicest thing in the world, is being kissed like that. He kisses me as if he knows, when he kisses my skin, I feel it on my soul. He kisses me as if he can tell, somehow, that every touch of his lips on mine heals one more tiny fracture in the centre of my heart. He kisses me, as if he means to heal me, from the outside in.

Not that I need healing. I'm alright. I'm fine, as always; I am peachy-keen, jellybean.

But *if* I were in need of healing, soothing, fixing, renewing, kissing me like you can't live without me would probably be the way to go... And he seems to know that. Or he just does it, by instinct. Intuition. His own desperate need for touch, for love, for... me?

He's yummy. He is just so yummy. And he doesn't even realise it, most of the time... But I promise. I promise. I *promise*. He tastes so good, I'll never eat anything else, if he'll agree to stay on the menu.