R.V. Roush
She slides the shoulder strap of a tee shirt off the bathroom�s inner door knob, rolls down the bikinis and sits, giving the tee shirt a sniff as she tinkles. She tosses the tee shirt onto the growing pile of dirty clothes in the hamper. Leaving the panties on the floor in front of the toilet, she turns on the shower. I see her five minutes later, water coming in rivulets off her body. She dries, stands barefoot, and wraps a towel around her body and another one into a turban around her head. She lowers the toilet lid and folds a Mickey Mouse towel over the lid. The black handle of the razor rattles as she takes it from the toothbrush holder on the sink. She notices something on the handle, maybe a dried crust of shaving cream or hair. She drops the disposable razor into the waste can, opens a drawer in the sink vanity cabinet, and brings out a new razor.
I lay quietly watching the private moment. I�ve always found private moments sexier than purposeful attempts to give men boners�putting on lipstick, buttoning butterfly jeans, sliding on sheer hose, though women getting dressed should be the furthest thing from sexy. I�m also turned on when I see a woman on all fours, crawling, her back arched, or when I see a woman with a round ass in tight, short jeans, or a woman sitting in a deep sofa with one knee bent to her chin, or a woman dancing a grind with her eyes closed, or a woman eating anything, especially a banana or Popsicle. A pregnant woman; a woman on the back seat of a motorcycle; a braless woman; a woman with wet, straggly hair. Women doing just about anything when it comes right down to it.
I�m not half as turned on watching a woman�s ass while I jog behind her as I am watching her pony tail as it bounces from side to side, signaling a kind of wild feminine invitation to grab her and twist her face to mine. I hold the pony tail and control her with it as she grabs a handful of penis and begins to munch.
Jo looks up and catches me watching, not minding. Even that�s sexy.
�Do you mind?� I ask, and I know she doesn�t. Some women long for the symbolic intimacy conveyed when their lovers are voyeuristic during their hygiene preparations or when they�re peeing.
She patiently shaves and dries her legs, rinsing the razor blade and putting it into the toothbrush holder. Then she enters the bedroom, which has brightened considerably as the sun has risen further. She�s still wrapped in one towel and another in a turban on her head. She hits the power button on the Technics receiver and Third Eye Blind blasts from the speakers.
�Music means a lot to me,� she says. �The right music means bounce. People are nothing if they can�t bounce.�
As I reach for her pillow to put over my head, the waves in the waterbed�s plastic membrane tug at me. She turns the volume down and I roll onto my back and rub the grit from my eyes. With a flourish, I throw the sheet off and kick the tangle of it away from my feet, committed to the task of getting out of bed.
I remember it�s Saturday morning, and neither of us has to go into work. The possibilities are endless. My feet free, I swing them to the edge of the waterbed and sit up. No dizziness. No drowsiness. No cotton mouth. I slide open a window beside the bed to invite the California morning in. The spring smell of young sycamores is in the air, air that had once been sweet with plum flowers at this time of year, before the computer industry leveled the orchards in Santa Clara county to put up expansive computer chip manufacturing warehouses, the businesses that keep me in rent money. At least the apartment designers had re-planted trees in valuable postage-stamp sized squares of real estate on the property.
In the bathroom mirror, I notice the purple crescent bruises of sleeplessness under my eyes. It seems like just yesterday that I was showing Jo the plant, and now she�s keeping me up all night, though I haven�t done much in the way of romantic gestures to break her resistance. She just couldn�t hold herself back any longer.
�I�m shaving here,� I act violated.
�You�re naked.�
�I just got out of the shower. I like to let everything air dry. Prevents mildew in the penile region.�
�The only thing I want in your penile region is me.�
She traces her hand into my drying curlies and brings me to life. Did I mention that it�s not safe to shave during sex? I put the razor down, place my hands on the edge of the vanity sink, and enjoy the strength of Jo�s lips. I let her go at it. She�s been practicing her deep throat moves on somebody, but I don�t think too much about her past lovers. I think of them as practice so she won�t gag on me, which can be a real turn off. She doesn�t stop until she gets me off, and my shuddering attempts to regain balance as my knees buckle rattles bottles of cuticle cleaner and stubby jars of moisturizer on the countertop.
�Next time I�ll have to get a taste,� she rises. �Wipe that stuff off your face,� she pulls off her turban towel and uses it to smear the shaving cream from my cheeks. Then she kisses me full on the lips, her mouth juicy with saliva and unexpectedly pleasing so soon after waking. She pulls me along after her, dropping the second towel beside the bed.
� 2004 R.V. Roush