Thursday, October 28, 2004

Shampoo 5: Depths of Depravity

I've put off writing this because I haven't been sure how to write the things I need to get across without sounding like I'm bragging. Which I'm definitely NOT doing.

So, like all of my story endings, I'm just going to do it and get it over with. Probably one more post after this one, incidentally.

Her house was a small brick home somewhere in Norman. It was tidy, and filled with the sort of things you could imagine a single professional mom in Oklahoma filling her house with--and none of the sort of stuff you find in my house. There were pictures of children on the walls, instead of framed Skinny Puppy posters, and all the CD's were neatly stored in things that looked like they were made for storing CD's. Anathema. I was beginning to see what she liked about me...

But I didn't get much chance to absorb all this before she was pouring me shitty German wine and showing me the "erotica" she wrote. I managed to avoid reading it at all, somehow, because if there's one thing I can't stand it's bad writing, and I had the feeling that she wasn't much of a writer. Which was OK, she wasn't wanting me to critique it anyway.

The bedroom was pretty much what I expected--lots of pillows and lace and Ann Rice books, and a big ol' locked wooden box of mama's "toys." I won't go into what was in that box, much less what came OUT of fact, I've blotted a lot of that night out completely. That night's not important, except that I had the ominous feeling I was fulfilling some final part of a horrible prophecy that only she knew.

The next morning I awoke and immediately reached for the half full beer on her bedside table. I hadn't seen this woman in the mornings yet, but I knew I didn't want to see it on an empty stomach.

Gail, for her part, was chirpy and contented, bustling around the house and singing to herself, picking up bottlecaps and in general making the place look like it did before I got there. I put my pants on and laid back down with _Queen of the Damned_ to keep my head from splitting in two. After an hour or so, she came back in and slid into bed beside me (urk!).

"What's your fantasy," she murmured?

Now, there MAY be one or two readers out there who know just how bland and uninteresting my fantasies are, but I doubt it. The reason for that is I keep my trap shut about my fantasies until I'm relatively certain this person isn't going to be some sort of freak, which is exactly what Gail was turning out to be...

So she decided to tell me about HER favorite thing. She whispered in my cringing ear, and it wasn't that weird, so I acquiesced.

Shower sex, in and of itself, isn't that odd. I confess I like wet naked (cute) girls in my shower. I do. Wet naked Gail, however, put me off my feed for quite some time...

See, she didn't want me to actually fuck her in the shower. What she wanted...well, it's hard for me to say, but I will: she wanted to soap up my cock and have me rub it between her legs from behind.

There. I said it. Give me a sec to catch my breath. Jesus. I can see it in my mind's eye to this day: the greenish bathroom tile, the frosted shower door, the pink loofa...the bath oils and fifteen shampoos, the bottle of Bass Ale I'd insisted on bringing into the shower stall, like a security blanket...

And then it was over. I found my happy place, I guess, away from her grindings and gobbling noises and wet creases and the feeling of being trapped and WAY too sober for this to be fun...but the next thing I know, I'm cracking another bottle of Bass and trying to locate my clothes again. It was Sunday, and her kids would be back in a few hours, so she drove me up to the city. I was ready to go in and take ANOTHER shower, but she came inside with me. She'd been kind of quiet on the way home, which gave me some time to nurse a hangover and wounded psyche, but she followed me into my bedroom, sat down on the bed, and said the words you just plain don't want to hear: "Jeff, I think I've fallen in love with you."

This was, on its face, such a ridiculous statement that I got a little ticked off. We've gone into my feelings on this sort of treachery over on Seeing in the Dark, so I won't repeat it here (plus, it's getting late and I'm tired). Suffice to say that she and I more or less mutually agreed that this was a violation of the "just sex" covenant, and that at the very least we would never sleep together again. She left, verging on tears, and I cracked another beer and sat on the back stoop til it got dark.

Midmorning on Monday, she called me at work. In a cold, professional voice, she began to berate me for not having her landscape work done. We argued. She threatened to cancel the job. I told her bluffing is one thing that doesn't work with me. She hung up. Called back an hour later, with the same spiel. Spin. Repeat. Life was hell. I got home that night, sat on the back porch, and drank 3 or 4 quarts of beer, then fell asleep with my shoes and pants on.

Tuesday, she made it til nearly noon before calling me. Since I was alone this time, I was able to ask her what I'd been thinking, which I'd be curious to see if you guys think it was appropriate or not: I asked her if she was being a bitch to me because she truly felt the job was behind schedule, or because I had dumped her (even though, again, she had said at the time she knew it wasn 't going to "work out between us"). This provoked an even colder, hissing rage that made me glad I wasn't her exhusband.

Tuesday afternoon, I noticed I was...adjusting my package...more often than usual. By Tuesday evening, I realized I had a full on rash down there. And by the time I hit the shower, Big Wally was very obviously in bad shape.

I'd never seen anything like it, especially not with MY penis: the ol' boy was red and irritated, and most importantly, seemed to be developing some cracks and some serious eczema.

"Holy shit," I thought, "the bitch had VD!" I began to think of what I knew about venereal diseases in general, and realized that I was definitely not an expert in that area. I briefly considered calling Wayne and/or Keith, since they were in the Navy and had seen films on this sort of thing, but ultimately did what I always do when part of my body starts acting up: ignore it, and hope it goes away. There's no way in HELL I would have lived long enough to quit hearing about this whole thing, so I daubed some sort of hand lotion or antibiotic cream on my johnson and slept on my back. Sort of slept, I mean. I spent most of the night thinking about whether or not I should call her, be vindictive, take the high road, or what...

Thankfully, she didn't call the next day. I guess she was embarrassed about the fit she threw the day before, or maybe she was down at the clinic, but I didn't have to deal with her. Which was good-I had my hands full (so to speak) with a dick that looked like it belonged on a leper.

That night, as I was daubing it with Eucerin or whatever, I began to think back on exactly when I could have gotten this. I'm pretty anal retentive about condom use, especially in situations like that, so it was pretty easy to narrow things down.

It had to have been that time in the shower.

But I hadn't actually had SEX with her...and while it's concievable that some sort of critter had slid out of there and hitched a ride on the johnson, it didn't seem right that it could affect my penis so, there had been all that....


Shampoo that I probably didn't wash off very well, since I was in such a hurry to get out of that stall with my warm, half-watered down Bass and the shreds of my self-respect (and the basis of this story). Shampoo that I'd been distracted from washing off later by her ill starred confession of love, and my subsequent retreat into brown bottle therapy.

Yep, folks, it wasn't VD. It was Prell.


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