Wanna go?
As
he stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, I perched on the toilet
seat to watch him shave, just as I had watched my dad shave when I was a little
girl. Once he’d rubbed off every last
droplet, he casually swathed the towel around his lean hips and prepared to
lather up his face. As he busied himself
to his task, I ate him up with my eyes.
He was slim, boyish even, in his build.
His short height, combined with the slim build, gave him a deceptively
youthful vibe, although he closing in on forty.
Being part Hispanic, he had skin that turned a golden brown after any
time in the sun. My eyes travelled from
his tanned shoulders to his back to his
flat belly. I watched his hands as he
stirred up foam with the old-fashioned soap cake and shaving brush he’d gotten
from his folks as a Christmas gift. He
enjoyed the ritual of mixing the shaving foam even more than the results of his
close shave. He needed rituals, both
innocent and sinister. They soothed
him. I imagine they brought some type of
order to the constant chaos in his head.
Leisurely, I studied each and every tattoo of the many on each of his
arms from wrist to shoulder…not for the first time, or the last. Not every tattoo was a work of art, but each
was part of him, and so revered nonetheless.
Did I love that man? God, even
his feet were beautiful.
As I inventoried him head to toe, he kept up
a steady stream of chatter. Every so
often he burst into a snatch of song or gave a deep belly laugh at something
that had tickled him. He glanced my way
to be sure I was paying attention, and carelessly threw me a smile. Over a decade later, and he still had me swooning like a school girl.
There was nothing I liked more than to make him smile, unless it was making him
laugh.
He
scrutinized his face in the mirror, commenting on the dashingly handsome young
man who gazed back him, what a catch he was, what a looker, and so forth. I smiled indulgently and concurred. My lover’s eye could find no fault in any of
his features; I could stare at his face all day. His eyes held me captive. He had beautiful, brown eyes that turned
hazel in the sunlight. He hated his
strong nose. It was too pronounced, he
said. He never showed his teeth when
smiling for a picture; he hated his smile.
One little tooth in the front twisted slightly over another. He called it his snaggle tooth. While I found it endearing, he found it
ugly. Then there was his mouth. He had the fullest, most sensual lips I’d
ever seen. I literally couldn’t watch
him talk without thinking about kissing him.
Of course, he thought they were too full and made him look goofy. If only he could see what I saw.
In
all reality, he looked much older than his years, for his life’s habits gave
him away. There were too many lines, too
many wrinkles, and something about the quality of his skin spoke of a daily
race to the bottom of a bottle. My
mind’s eye knew this to be true, but my heart was always the lens through which
I saw him. I sometimes wondered what he really saw when he studied his
reflection, for his actions didn’t sure mirror his boastful words. I knew what he was doing. By this time, neither of us were strangers to
denial.
I sat, perfectly satisfied to simply watch him
move. His moved fluidly,
gracefully. He shaved methodically,
stopping to tap, tap, tap the foam off his razor as he rinsed. I waited, like a shy and meek child, for the
smallest acknowledgement, and upon receiving it, sat up a little taller, my
face flushed with pleasure; my soul fed until the next time.
He was just as content with me, his perfect
audience. Years of past experience had taught
me to listen attentively, not interrupt with too many questions, and to laugh
heartily at his jokes. He loved to hear
himself talk, but he loved for others to love hearing him talk even more. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt his rhythm
or miss a fascinating detail that he needed to share. I was an excellent listener and besides… I
was pretty to look at while he talked.
As he relayed a funny event or how mad someone had made
him (he never “got mad”, someone always made
him mad), I pretended not to notice that he hadn’t asked about my day. Instead, I wondered if this was the beginning
of better times. Again, I wondered this. Not for the second time or the tenth. It was as constant in my mind as the honest
surprise each time things fell apart.
But right then, things were good. Magic even.
They were the very best kind of magic- the birthday table laden with
presents, the Christmas tree dwarfed by gifts, the Thanksgiving table groaning
with the weight of every possible delicacy.
All of those things and more were mine as he wiped his handsome face
with a hand towel. He pronounced the
job well done, deliberately ignoring one little daub of shaving cream beside
his earlobe, and proceeded to rub it all over my face and neck as I squealed
and giggled in protest. He rubbed his
smooth face all over mine as he pulled me in close for the kiss I’d been
waiting for all along. He knew it as
well as I did; he had all the power. He
grabbed me up in his arms, smiling widely, as I hooked my legs around his
waist. He threatened and growled as I
screamed with laughter, carrying me to his bed, where I was unceremoniously
dumped in a happy pile of blonde hair and long limbs. “Shhh” he cautioned, putting a finger to
his beautifully shaped mouth, “Not so loud, Young Davidson… whatever will the
neighbors think?” he asked, arching an eyebrow before moving in to tickle, to
kiss, to love. I was lost.
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