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I step inside, draw the curtain closed with that staccato sound of ring after ring sliding across that metal bar; turn the little knob that sets it all loose, turn it all the way until that fount spews scalding liquid at my vulnerable body: it spurts once, then comes quickly, a personal rain of summer heat encapsulated in beautiful clear liquid form, falling quickly and hitting, scalding—almost painful, but not quite there; just at that point of perfectly juxtaposed pain and pleasure—against my flesh, vast rivers cutting away at the soil and earth that are stress and tension, heat spreading (as liquid does) into every crevasse, every little pore of my body until everything relaxes, inside and out, and then, then, in that perfect moment, I step back slightly and it pummels my scalp, massaging with its powerful warmth all the headaches and worries the day has placed there, and I lean forward just slightly so that cascade of pleasure hits that place at the base of my skull where everything explodes into a tremendous external orgasm of heat and liquid and looseness, I am embraced by the arms of that waterfall, rolling helplessly in its balmy appendages so that I want to fall to my knees but I don’t, and I feel those trickles—some quick and some quite slow—as they move down from my scalp to my neck (there’s one: a single drop, just drifting on a single hair, moving down that stem clinging desperately until, compelled by its own weight it releases all the gentle pull it exerted on that follicle and falls, falls, falls) past my shoulders, over the curve of my buttocks and spiraling around my thigh and calf, and I rise, slightly, to stand just barely on the balls of my feet until that heat runs to fill that new space, searing my soles and bursting among my toes in that intensely pleasing geyser of steam and water, and I just stand awhile until finally I know it has been long enough, and, reluctantly, the knob returns to its former state, the deluge ends, and the snap-snap-snap rings again, clearly this time, through the foggy atmosphere; now I feel the whips of the outer chill, taken from my tropical womb, but these are just as pleasurable, as my muscles remain loose and hairs prick and the gentle towel moves dry across my dripping flesh.




(I love a good hot shower)

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Copyright ©2001 Adam Rutledge