hooked

A simple fetish, a physical symbol of masculine traits, the grease and sweat of latent sex. The worn pouch that cradled the cool weight of your masculinity. The certainty that you wore this, you worked in it, you lived your ordinary, everyday life.
Its funny how I've never met you, yet your smell fills me with warm nostalgia.
Last night I rolled over in my sleep and caught your fragrance. To my semi-conscious mind you were there, your thoughts and fears and raw sexuality, your imprint on Robbie's psyche: the few things I know of you are the most important, it seems.
I woke in a funny mood, more connected to the world than ever, acutely aware that I had been given an insight I wasnt ready for yet. My subconscious, too close to the surface as I half-woke, accidentally revealed connections that arent finished yet, a work in progress, though I chose not to explore this thread lest I damage it. Instead I ponder this: what sort of man shares intimacy so willingly? Lays his darkest thoughts bare so trustingly? Finds pleasure in knowing his soulmate is happy, no matter where he is?

I think this is a man I need to meet.