Lover Come Home Ch. 09byRoseMontana©
Monday. Subdued, after the storm.
Tonight I choose to remember contentment, not longing. And anticipate the future that will contain again what happened in the past.
Feeling unclean, I await another bath, like those you often give me. You do everything, run the water, adjust the temperature, see to the soap, and finally take my clothes off. And since you are large, and I am small, it is an easy matter for you to lift me up in your arms and gently place me in the tub. My arms are around your neck, your hands slide down my back, and then my ass, and finally my legs, so that I am sitting just so in the water. I reward you with a small kiss, before I let go of you, for being so careful.
But this is serious business. Cleanliness is next to godliness.
First a general soaping, starting with toes. You attend to each one, and the spaces between. There are brushes and clothes and scrapers for this sort of things, but you never use them. Your hands know my body, so the slightest brush of dirt is instantly felt. My legs are easy, long expanses, muscular from sports.
You wisely skip my genitals. There will be time for those latter. Though you always do a meditative small scrub of my pubic hair. I like your workman-like attitude. You take your job seriously.
My torso is next, and it has several problem areas. Under the breasts for instance, which are heavy and have a darkened space underneath them. And around my nipples, which are large and slightly bumpy. Dirt could be lurking in these places, but you dedicate yourself to the task, an intense look of concentration on your face. Then, of course, there is my belly button. Since I haven't worn underwear in years it often contains bits of lint from my clothes. Your fingers are long, but only the little one is small enough to fit in the tiny hole. A visual inspection is necessary, before you make the small circular motion to clean inside it.
Then you hold my arms up, one at a time, and wash each armpit with the bar of soap. This is usually done very vigorously. I don't know why. Then the arms, again long and muscular from my athletic life, and finally each finger. You rub my thumbs longer than my other fingers. Again, I don't know why.
Neck and face are exercises in care. I have knotted my hair up out of the way. Everything is exposed, as it should be. Your hands fit around me neck easily. Your fingers can do my ears while your thumb massages that point just in back of them. Your hands are soapy and wet, so it is easy to run a finger carefully around the inside course of my ear. A tug on my earlobe springs me from the sleepy little corner my mind has crept into. I always smile at this, it is part of the ritual.
You don't wash my mouth out with soap, though you might because you are thorough and I do occasionally talk dirty. But my nose is lathered. How do you always manage to keep the foam out of my nostrils? You trace the line of my lips with your finger, but this is purely for the sake of form. How could my lips have the slightest wisp of dirt? I get kissed so often. Eyes are done the most carefully of all. I know to close them lightly, not to scrunch them up.
What you call rinsing, I call splashing. I splash too. Why should I be the only wet one around? Then it is back to the serious stuff, now with my razor. Once again my legs are lathered, one at time. You hold them with one hand while you run the razor expertly up and down. You do it every day to yourself, why shouldn't you be an expert? It doesn't take long. My armpits are more troublesome. You insist on holding each arm high, straight up over my head. The angle is right, you say, and it tightens my skin the most. It is the look of concentration on your face that I adore.
Now the serious rinse. Somewhere in this time you have pulled the plug so the water is almost gone. I never catch you doing this, it must be when my eyes are closed. You've set the movable shower attachment perfectly, so it can now rinse away all the loose body hair and leftover foam. Sometime in this operation you manage to accidentally on purpose get me square in the face, close up, with the shower water. I sputter but I like it. I'm already wet. Somehow I also manage to get you wetter. Usually it involves kissing, but it can be splashing or a combination of both.
Finally my long hair. You gently undo the ribbon that holds it and catch it as it falls. The movable shower gets it wet, though my face is saved this time. Then the shampoo and lots of foam. Now is the time the true artist in you emerges. Long pliable hair filled with soap is agreeable to almost any imaginable shape. You have the ideal material to work with. My coiffures rival Marie Antoinette's. Or the most ribald punk maidens. You barely pay any attention to me, as you labor away creating sculptures of hair and soap. You mumble-laugh to yourself. I have become the best toy in the whole world. What more would I want to be? I sit quietly in my tub while the act of creation overtakes you. When you have found the most perfect of forms, perfect in silliness that is, it is time to wash it away. Nothing lasts, even art. Your sculpture flows down the drain with the soap bubbles.
You get the small towel and expertly wrap it around my hair, making a Carmen Miranda turban. Then the big towel around me, while swoosh at the same time I get picked up out of the tub, just as I was once placed in it. In your arms I get carried to our bedroom for my final drying off. You do that, like most things involving me, very expertly.
Please come home soon, I am unclean, soiled, grimy and in need of you.