You held the razor with confidence. Confidence borne from muscle memory; the constant grooming ritual you have engaged in since you stood on the doorstep of manhood.
I watched from my seat on the toilet lid, my hair wet from the shower and still wrapped in a towel because my attention was fixed on watching you shave.
My eyes followed the razor’s path across your cheek, from your neckline over the curve of your jaw – a curve my fingers and lips have traced a hundred times. Your jawbone peeked out from behind the foamy white shaving cream and my fingers longed to touch.
You turned to look at me and I felt the heat of embarrassment engulf me. A red shame from the fact I got momentarily lost in a memory and you caught me.
I was remembering my father going through the same motions. Feeling a familiar warmth inside me – only this time absent girlish innocence. Where in the past I felt the warm safety of my father’s presence, now my skin tingled with liquid honey; the sensual heat that signaled yearning for my lover.
It was both really. Staring at the lines of your naked body, hearing the scratching of the razor over your neck, I was both sensual woman and little girl. Lover and baby. My independent nature disapproving of the way my heart craved the sexually charged security of a daddy figure. My secret desire peeking out from behind ribbons and bows.
You smiled at me, maybe even asked me what I was staring at. I don’t remember now. I just remember looking away, hiding my eyes and all the emotions they contained. I busied my hands, pulling my hair out of the towel and drying my hair while sneaking furtive glances at you.
I could not hide for long. My fascination with watching you rake the razor over your face took control of me. The sheer intimacy of being there with you, of watching you stand naked in front of the mirror and shave your face consumed me.
You did not see the moisture shining in my eyes. You were focused on your chore, something you likely viewed as a mundane task of manhood. But to me it was a moment as intimate as any we have shared between the sheets. It was tender, cozy, arousing and poignant. It was indelible. Burned into my memory forever – cleaning up after one of our messy outdoor adventures and stealing a cherished moment with the man I love.
I often wonder how many of those moments we have left. As the days tick away and the choices, events and opportunities pass us by, I wonder if they will continue.
I hope yet I doubt. I feel protected in one moment and utterly exposed in another. I am a proud woman – yet sometimes I feel as though I must beg. I ask myself why I keep fighting. What is the reason I stay when you lie – when I feel insignificant and overlooked? Am I just another wet pussy in your bed or is there something about ME that fills you with longing too?
Why do I keep playing the hand when all the cards on the table seem to say I should fold?
And then I think about cherished moments like these. I think about the times when I could feel your words even when you would not say them. I try to tell myself it is not all a figment of my imagination. That somewhere inside of you is an echoing refrain of the feelings inside of me. I try to hold fast to my faith but it can be a slippery fish sometimes, especially in the cold absence of reassurance. But that is the true test of faith, isn’t it?
So I hold on to what I can. I hold on tight to the cherished moments. I seek big faith in small moments. Like watching you shave.