I don't like it freshly, perfectly smooth, so much. It unsettles me, somehow, a slip-soft cheek against my lips, a silken jaw.
I'd much rather some bristle, some scrape and rasp and texture. Some biteable contrast for my teeth to try and catch, the velcro click, the matchstick strike and flare, the promise of soreness against my thighs. Leave the softness for my lips to find when they reach your mouth, an oasis, a respite.
The blood in my wrists itches, to be scratched slowly along the sandpaper of your face til they reach your wet mouth, and you bless them, kiss the burn beneath my thin skin better. Scratch and soothe and set alight.