2003-11-12

2003-11-12 - 11:28 a.m.

Entry not for the weak or for kidlets, y'all.

I don't remember exactly when it was, but a couple of weeks ago, Scratcher told me about one of his favorite activities. He likes to turn on the shower, extra hot, and sit on the porcelain goddess in his robe. No potty-related activities, you understand. Just a man with a cigarette in his hand, legs stretched out, breathing in the warm steam. It's the closest we poor people can come to a sauna at home.

One night, he aked me to join him. Rather than stay dry, I went into the water. I lay in the tub, spray lightly stinging my breasts and thighs, suffused with warmth. He sat on the toilet seat, feet pressed against the opposite wall, inhaling deeply. We listened to Portishead's Dummy, made more atmospheric by bathroom acoustics. Through the clear shower curtain, I could see him shift and sigh as the air grew hot. The dimpled plastic and dense steam blurred his outline, and I touched the ever-cold curtain to confirm my vision. He turned to watch me, green eyes tracing down my waist and hips to where my legs join. For a long while, during songs now distant, he simply watched me. It was the most erotic thing I've ever experienced.

And when, finally, he twitched the curtain aside and began to stroke me, the contrast between dripping skin and dripping water was almost too much. I was caught someplace between orgasm and faint; heat rising, fingers moving lightly. His hand never ventured as far as the cleft of my legs. It was enough to have the texture of his fingers against the bottom of my foot, or rising against the soft skin under my knee. My eyes were closed now, reveling in the delicate touch.

When he saw that my skin was glowing pink from the heat, he shut off the water. Towel in hand, he helped me rise, then toweled me dry, paying careful attention to the underside of my breasts, where I'm most sensitive. As the towel left each part of my body, he'd kiss it, almost in farewell, leaving new little damp marks. The entire time he whispered to me, softly, not to open my eyes. That he knew how tired I'd been.

When I was dry, he kissed my lips and led me out of the bathroom onto his futon. He pulled a clean t-shirt over my head, pushed me gently backwards, and let me roll onto the mattress. Quickly, before I could get cold, his knees spooned behind my knees, arm wrapped over my waist. Both quilts were tugged over us. Again, a kiss, this time on the back of my neck.

He said, "Go to sleep, love. We'll still be here tomorrow."

I slept that night better than I've ever slept with any man. And he was right. There was a tomorrow.

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