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We Were Fucking.


Posted in: Romantic Relations Tags: , , ,

 

 

A clean bathroom exemplifies the whole entire core of one’s material existence.

From the design and structure of the room – its mirrors and tiles – inside of which one defecates to the rugs upon which you stand after rinsing the world’s muck and mire from your skin; from the towels with which you wipe your hands after using Parisian, organic, plant-based soaps after using 2-ply, quilted tissues, to the build of the furniture which houses your non-silicone based cosmetic hair and skin products – every single part of your bathroom silently booms a sonic details of your monetary and physical success.

Your bathtub curtains, the sink’s faucet, even the scent of your soft soap demonstrate how far you – as an individual of modern society – have come along, and adapted to civilization’s many reincarnations, and how far yet you may progress during this interval. (To say nothing of the hair in either drains, or the rings around your bowls and basins.)

These are aesthetic details you often give little consideration to until you step foot and bottom inside a bathroom kept by a hired hand, versus one maintained out of the concern and obligation of the matron of the manor – aka your own mother, older sister, and eventually you.

Growing up my mother and sister cleaned the house. I eagerly volunteered myself for household duties – girl chores like mopping, dishes, and laundry.  I was happy to lend my assistance to either task but was rarely called upon. As an adult I’ve analyzed and attributed this tendency to the joy I derive in feeling I’m part of some dynamic enterprise. I enjoy being in a community, and executing some definitive task which serves the greater whole.

Growing up it was not this way.

But besides that…

A clean bathroom is a very beautiful thing.

John was my first real relationship. He lived, was raised, and is now married in New England. For one winter – while we visited his cousin in New Hampshire – I was a Patriots fan. For one weekend only, before I knew football for real, how it was played, and that the Giants were better.

Anyway, the bathroom in John’s parents’ house on the first floor was spacious and bright and clean. I want to say there was a tub but I can’t be positive – it’s been many years. But I’m sure his parents still have that house.

We made love in their den, beside the living room one weekend. Technically, completely objectively, we were not making love. We were fucking. But I was so in love with him for so long before that point that at that point – the beginning of the hardest part of our relationship, and ultimately the road to the end – whatever happened between us physically (for me) was always making love.

He had me bent over in their den. I’ve always – my whole life – been able to touch my palms to the floor. This afternoon the skill proved handy indeed. Literally.

We’d never done it standing up with this much liberty. Truthfully we’d only done it inside either of our dorm rooms our bedrooms in our parents’ houses and even on my mother’s living room floor at close to 3am I wasn’t completely bent over, palms wrapped around ankles.

It felt great and I loved him. And I loved that house. Because, like him, I knew its interior was bigger than its outward presentation. He knew my interior better than I ever knew his, and maybe, perhaps this is why we failed to endure. But I loved him and his parents’ house and all the houses in his New England neighborhood, and the straight lines of their design.

 

Post Originally Published: August 25th, 2015

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