I very much enjoy a good bath, and it's not exclusively because I take them only after passion despoils my otherwise impeccable hygiene. Lacking sweat glands and venturing out of doors exactly zero days a year, I have few opportunities to get myself in a state that begs cleansing ... other than, as I suggestively alluded, the sloppy dishevelments of carnality. Nor do I have a particular finickiness about carnality's organic patina. (Sweat and so forth, you understand.) It is when I am ensoiled that I best know how deserving I am of being cherished, for I am at my least pristine in those moments when I have most pleased the both of us.
So it's not the rarity of bathing that entices me, nor the defoulment of my lust-laden corpus.
What I like most, I think, is that I never bathe alone. He is ever there with me, cradling the soap-slick slopes of me, gliding hands across my skin like the kiss of an angel's wings. And as the water beads and runs from my supple, newly laved flesh, I feel my purest -- not from a scarcity of stains and filth, but because we are together in a glorious ritual aftermath to the greatest act of sharing I have ever known.
Also, on rare occasions, his libido kicks back in and I'm able to lure him into that delightful ablution of eros: the surging tides of tub sex.
Today, dear readers, was a good day.
