I like it.
My favorite is scruffy stubble. When a man has gone two or three days without shaving. I love the way short gray hairs glisten in the sunlight. Almost like glitter, but real. Because yes, if there’s something that makes me positively swoon, it’s gray mixed into a fine stubble – think Brett Favre or George Clooney.
I revel in the feel of short, coarse hair brushing my skin, the way it rubs the insides of my thighs raw. The red patches left on my collar bone or breast after he’s been nuzzling me there. After he’s pressed his chin into my flesh for leverage, leaving a red rash over the bruise.
I love the tenderness of it too. They way it tickles my jaw when he goes for my ear with his tongue. The way it feels under my fingers, soft but crisp as I stroke his cheek, rough and stiff when he holds my hand and scratches his chin with my nails.
I love looking at it. Each hair stiff and defined, like a drawing. The way it grows out of his skin, black, like ink. Or gold or red or gray, depending on the he.
I have tested long, full ZZ Top beards (soft and playful and occasionally logistically challenging), and full but shorter dad-style beards (soft and tickling, without the hard scratching of stubble). In both cases, I love the way my scent clings to him after he’s gone down on me. I love sloppily kissing him after I’ve gone down on him and leaving streaks of his own come in his moustache. (He likes it too, of course, that was a discuss-first kind of thing).
I haven’t had a bad beard experience, I hope that will continue.
I have yet to try big bushy solo mustaches. The kind that remind me of early crushes on Magnum P.I. I can’t see how it would be bad though. (Particularly if accompanied by Tom Selleck-like dimples. Yum.)