i don't really think of myself as a prude person, nor am i a germophobe. that said, when it comes to stepping out the shower and drying my body, i stop at the crack at the bottom of my back and reach for toilet paper. this tp is for a quick, final dab at the delicate, inside pucker. this action makes my lyds laugh, as she says, "you know it's fresh-clean from the shower you just took, right?"
such things do not matter to me, as maybe it's a psychological quirk, but i still don't appreciate the idea of sticking a toweled finger up in there, then using that same cottony-spot to dry my face the next day.
on the subject of towels, i wonder if lyds and i should take two of them to bed for one of our little liaisons. it would make more sense to use a towel apiece afterwards than to continue our process of duck-waddling to the bathroom attached by a single piece of cloth, delicately trying to avoid spilling sputnik on our carpet.
i do wonder what our kitties think when they see us enact this ritual. not the sex part, which they seem to watch with a casual disinterest, thinking "can i get fed soon?", but the towel-attached shuffle into the bathroom afterwards. we're aware we look quite silly, yet continue the act after each and every, well, act. and the kitties tilt their heads to the side and wonder what we're doing every time.
on the subject of kitties, while they don't always watch lyds and i intertwine, they do have rituals for each of us that i don't entirely understand. every morning, lyds showers before work, and, and especially so in winter, every morning the kitties join her in the bathroom. they jump up onto the counter, enjoying a little steam-sauna to start the day, and upon completion of her cleaning, lyds opens the curtain to see them resting contentedly.
meanwhile, neither joins me when i shower. they could get the same little burst of moisture they seem to enjoy in the morning, but they opt not to. simon, however, always, always, always seems to come running when it's time for me to enjoy a relaxing constitutional. as i rest on the throne, i find a gray kitty rushing in to sit at my feet, stare up at me, and meow until i pet him. and when i stand and flush, he always props his front two paws up on the toilet to peer down at the swirling water, his kitty curiosity asking, "hey, what's goin' on in here?"
simon's other fetish is a closed door. at the condo, he would sit at the front door and howl until allowed into the hallway, where he would simply lay down, suddenly satisfied. at our house, the door to the garage is his nemesis. he will sit at it and cry as if in pain, and has even taken to gnawing at the rubber stopping at the base in attempt to get through it. yet whenever allowed into the garage, all he does is sit down. he does investigate, as kitty paws across my windshield have shown, but generally all he does is relax and little else. as it's grown colder and the door to the house is closed behind him, simon's visits to the garage have grown shorter and shorter in length.
on the subject of not having any sort of segue for the next segment, i was paid a compliment last week at the chicago improv. walking up the hallway after the show, my head down, texting and eye-contacted with my phone, i glanced up to see two young women heading towards me.
"oh my god," the first whispered excitedly, "that's him!"
"no!" the second countered, grabbing the first girl's arm and pulling her, "you have a boyfriend."
"awwww," the first finished, defeated.
i smiled as they faded into the distance and told lyds, swaggering that male swagger so laughable to women; "i've still got it!" yeah, because that woman only get to see the "fun" nathan of the stage, she didn't peer behind the wizard's curtain to deal with me the other 23 hours of the day. as lyds will tell anyone, those hours are eye-rolling tests of patience.
but it did enter lyds and i into a discussion of men and women and their protective behaviors. women may be vapid creatures of dissection, tearing down their counterparts at every turn, but when the chips are down, they'll step up for one another. they won't let a friend go home with someone beneath them if they're too drunk to make a judgment call. and if a friend gets sick while drinking, she'll be taken home, have her hair held for the puking ritual, and then put to bed.
compare that to men, where not only will a man not care if his buddy cheats, he'll actually encourage it. especially if the guy has a hot girlfriend, because then the friend on the side will look to be the jilted girlfriend's revenge or rebound fuck.
and for men, looks don't matter at all with drunken sex. as said, if a woman is trying to hook up with a loser, her friends will intervene. if a man is attempting to pick up a woman that looks exactly like brian urlacher, his friends will wave him goodnight with a "have fun with your centerfold, hef!" and then give him shit about it for the rest of his life. i personally text my friend dan goff of tucson, arizona, once a month a mocking reminder of the "girl" i helped send him home with over five years ago.
when it comes to drinking and care, that's a fun one, too. unlike women, men will not take care of a drunken buddy. maybe we'll have his back in a fight, but only if we feel like fighting, not because of honor. other than that, all bets are off. not only will we not hold hair, i personally once spent two hours listening to my roommate and good friend rob baxter drunkenly vomit all over himself in bed. all i remember was thinking, "oh for fuck's sake, will you just choke on that shit so i can get some sleep?"
his comforter and futon the next morning were things of beauty. i think i laughed for weeks off the sight of him waking up in and surrounded by crusted, smelly bile.
in chicago, i stayed at my friend and fellow comedian joe hamilton's apartment. joe is actually jim flannigan, but the first time we met i absolutely could not remember that, and took to calling him joe hamilton. i now encourage everyone, everywhere, to call him joe hamilton. many do.
that aside, after the sunday show i drove home to iowa and crawled into bed somewhere around two in the morning. lyds immediately nuzzled up to me, but this time she paused, then pushed back a little.
"you don't smell like you," she said unhappily.
i hadn't thought about it, but there is a certain security in the scent of your lover, a familiarity that you react to unconsciously, and positively. when we moved into the new house, it smelled like a new house. now i smell lyds when i come home from a long weekend, the same lyds i smelled in her condo and found so comforting when i moved in.
that night, i smelled like joe hamilton's apartment and guest bedding. it being dark and lyds being half asleep, she was relying on senses other than sight to relate to me, and the fact i "wasn't me" set off a confusion in her.
thankfully, the situation was rectified the next morning after a shower in which i washed the stench of other off me, and after which i tore off several sheets of toilet paper for my final starfish of drying.
lyds laughed at me for it and reminded me she herself dries 100% of her body with her towel.
and she wonders why i do the laundry so often.
.
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