My husband was on his back when I joined him in bed last night. We talked like lovers do about our day, what we loved about dinner, and the sex we had the night before.
“Your face was buried in my pussy, sweetheart. It was terrific! I wrote all about it on my blog,” I said rubbing his chest up and down taking into account the length of the generally long hairs that cover his body. They are shorter now. He must have done a quick shave, I thought.
My hand reached all of the way down to his crotch discovering a light, soft pile of manly squishiness and brittle hair. To my surprise, no erection.
I felt proud knowing I’ve taken such good care of my husband’s sexual needs, that he’s satisfied beyond belief even as I touch his dick with my goddess hands. He smiled at me through his evening exhaustion and reached up to kiss my face. “I love you so much, Stella. You are the most amazing woman in the world.”
Generally he gives me his chest so his dick conveniently has access to any potential action, but last night he turned over to give me his back. I rubbed it like I did his chest noticing the hairs were shorter than on the front side of his body. There was also an abrupt line razored on his lower back signaling the beginning of his butt hair which wasn’t clipped at all.
My husband is a fury dude. When he gets out of the shower, he has to not only dry the hair on his head but his body fur too which really gets more of his attention. He does this by turning the fan above the bed to full speed and spreading towels over the comforter while he rolls around on them under the rushing air. It’s a ritual I understood more when we moved in together years ago and I got to witness his entire self-cleaning process from start to finish.
My husband has a shower ritual that includes the intricate dance of lavish shampooing, white-faced shaving, and intense body scrubbing complete with the deep scolding water rinse off and two rounds of body drying, the first happens before he even thinks about exiting the tub.
When the first damp towel hits the floor, he grabs the second towel to begin the advanced drying of his hairy legs, back, neck and head while shuffling on the first towel around the room to simaltaneously dry his feet and mop the ivory tile.
He shakes his gorgeous mane a few times sending beads of water across the room to tag a picture or yesterday’s jewelry that was left out on the countertop. A quick shuffle to the closet reveals two Q-tips which he will then stick in each ear looking like an old school robot.
That’s act one. Act two begins shortly afterwards with the fan, bed, and towel rolling scene followed by the last hair fling and dick wipe.
All of the towels along with his ringed out and squeezed up dirty wash cloths eventually find their way to the floor to nestle next to his dirty clothing from the day. All of these accoutrements are cool to the touch and shivering in the noisy air from a grand total of four relentless fans which he leaves on for hours. I have to turn them off.
Like the aftermath of a storm, the evidence of my husband’s daily bath stretches across my goddess palace and ending with a faint trickle of water from his still damp hair onto the back of his button down shirt as he ties his shoes and moves on to the next thing on his agenda.
Like him, I too have my own very distinct grooming rituals, but it’s not to clean my body all at once. I rarely bathe, in fact, I avoid it like a cat. I only get fully wet a few times a week, quickly cleansing my entire body in the tub with warm water and gentle soap to lessen the chance of accidentally scrubbing off my spray tan. My pussy gets her own semi-rinse every day after sex. I perform that session on the bidet.
I especially despise washing my hair. I’ll go a full week between shampoos even waiting for a salon appointment so they can mess with my think long strands instead of me. Dry shampoo is a daily necessity.
The getting-ready-for-bed dance is the daily habit of mine that is written in stone, and I’m sure my husband knows its every move the same way I know his bathing one by heart.
First I spread coconut oil on my face, then I use a wash cloth to take off any access oil before using my special creams to seal in moisture and prevent acne and wrinkles. Next I floss my teeth swiping every single nook and cranny of my mouth with the thin white string. Sometimes the string ends up in the trash can, other times it drops to the ground besides it. I’m sure he notices that, but doesn’t say a word.
I always pee at that point in the process since the toilet is next to the trash but I never do it with the door open. He can probably hear every part of that too. I’m sure he also knows about how long I brush my teeth and the exact number of times I swish water around my mouth before spitting it into the sink that seems to always have at least one hair in it. I fish the hair out and let it fall precariously to the floor instead.
My contacts come out next, followed by the adorning of my sexy tiger print eyeglasses and a spritz of perfume. Sometimes I brush my hair, 5-10 strokes before I bore of that. The last thing I do is spread coconut oil on my pussy. She likes it for some reason, don’t ask me.
Lights out and then the strut starts from the dark entrance of the bathroom across the wood floor, over the shaggy silver rug to my side of the bed making sure my husband is watching the entire time. It’s my version of clean and ready for anything.
“I saw a commercial yesterday that made me think of this,” my husband said bringing me back to his back and the rubbing that I was doing.
“Oh yeah?”
“They said, ‘If you change your oil more than you get a massage, then you are maintaining the wrong machine.’ Made me think about your back rubs and how much I appreciate them.”
“What was it a commercial for?” I asked really curious.
“Well, obviously a massage spa!” He grinned at me for a moment before switching his face to rest on the other side away from me.
I laughed, “We’ve tried so many times to get you massages but you never stop moving long enough to actually show up to your appointments. These silly back rubs might be the best you get for awhile!”
The conversation dropped for a moment. I scratched his back with my long nails painting temporary red lines in his skin.
“I think I’m going to go to my uncle house next weekend and work on the building up there since I can’t do anything else at the RV Resort until the permits are ready,” he finally said.
“That’s cool. I think you should try to go fishing this month,” I responded surprising him with my words. “You’ve been working hard and you need that for your sanity.” I meant it too which surprised me.
“I agree. Thank you, babe. I adore you,” He said before slowly drifting off to sleep.
Feeling complete my thoughts drifted back to the books I’d read over the weekend. I devoured not one but three books about being an artist by a renown writer Steve Pressfield. One was about resistance, the energy that stands between you and your art, the thing that makes you procrastinate and do a variety of other unproductive habits instead of your work. The next book was about turning from an amateur artist to a professional. The third book was about the artist’s journey and how it differs from the hero’s journey.
One of my take aways has to do with my marriage and the improvements we’ve made since our New Years Eve fight. We were stuck in a horribly new pattern of disconnection and anger and we couldn’t figure out the solution. Since then we’ve had sex almost every day, but I don’t think it’s just about sex.
Since we committed to fucking daily, I also committed to writing daily. I show up every single day and let my muse speak through me. It’s the first time in my artist life that I’ve stood up to resistance on a daily basis and won. I walk away from the computer screen each morning feeling accomplished even if what I wrote is crappy. I’ve turned pro and am well on my way into my own deep, committed artist’s journey.
My discontent with my husband last fall stemmed from my dissatisfaction with myself. I’d let a few failures push me off track with my art and into the arms of monstrous distraction. My loneliness led to contempt which wasn’t solvable considering I was both the one who was unhappy and the one who’d changed.
I didn’t marry my husband so we could be two boring people joined at the hip of mediocrity. Now that I’m back to being the fabulous artist I am, setting goals, sticking to routines, and committed to self exploration and expression, I support his freedom so much more.
We’re back to fab. And the added sex is great too although we had none last night. He fell asleep with a great back rub. Five days out of 48 still isn’t bad.