A good friend of mine tells me not to worry about my over-active sexual imagination.
“You’re a fine young man with a healthy libido," he tells me.
I find solace in his words when I can’t stop thinking about the girl in the train seat next to me naked. What does her skin feel like bare against mine? Or her breast on my back as she wraps her arms around me like wandering ivy?
People sometimes say my apartment is cold.
"Touch the walls. Do you feel that?” I ask.
“That’s plaster.” I tell them
No one really gets the joke.
After I shower and before I shave, I don’t prepare my razor because it’s been done while the showerhead ran steam to prepare my skin for the city-tap’s wake. The blade is heavy. My father picked it up for me on my twentieth birthday.
I sat naked in front of the cheap Target mirror that leaned up against the bedrooms east wall. Behind, a woman took control as she nursed an erection damn close to expulsion. Naked and watching, I never thought myself to be much of a voyeur. But considering the circumstance (a weeks worth of pent up morning woods), I permittied myself to gaze upon her pirouetting body as she wrapped two serpentine legs around my waist.
I shave with two blades that sing Gregorian verse as I drag them across my face. Seven sleek strokes. Save the throat’s apple for when it’s less slick. It’s rather slippery when wet and succumbs to cuts upon cuts due to hasty mistakes. I move up then to my right cheek, drawing it downward, but not too far without first rinsing in the sink.
Along the grain, two to three inches, water to rinse, shake off, repeat.
Before we undressed, I asked her if she’d lay on my back. She did and I got to getting her off. Before we came, she reminded me not to tell anyone.
“Our secret is safe.”
Thusly, my roommate was disappointed to hear that we didn’t go all the way. After all, semen only leaves stains on a stomach unlike what a bruise does to the pale white of a leg.
The upper lip is one of my favorite places to shave. The stubble is strong, allowing me indulge in the gap below my nostrils. Usually, I move clockwise across the face. Right to left, leaving the chin for last. I always cut myself right before the weekend. Apprehensive on Thursdays, waiting for a day’s worth of class to be done. I scraped my chin this Thursday. The cut wasn’t deep enough to bother, but the blood tasted great as I washed the white lather from my face.
She bit me on the arm and like a vulture, I circled imaginary lines onto the inside of her legs. She touched the tips of my fingers to every strand of her hair as I engrossed my nose in the comfort of her smooth sultry feminine scent.
Sometimes I forget her taste and then sometimes I wake up from a dream, satisfied with the thought of her long muscled embrace.
Warm water washes the blood away from my face as the taste of a foundry begins to displace a slight suggestion of crimson. Of Iron and tin melted down into one dark liquid.
"I taste outstanding," I think.
Naked and lovely, I think of all the things I can do with her breasts. So I touch and rub them, and long for a time when I can look back at this moment, telling myself that everything was okay. And with eyes closed, she moans. Trying not to think about the man who holds her genuine feelings.
I taste like a machine
For her, “What the fuck is wrong with me?” becomes the evening’s reoccurring phrase.
So we switch positions. She sits up and I'm upside down. While I'm looking at the scratched wooden floor, she stumbles, falling shoulder first into the nearby bedside wall.
“Oh god! that’s cold.”
Only this time, I don’t have to explain the joke.