Thinking About A Shave

Farmboyz seems to put a lot of thought into his shaving:

I left the bedroom without answering him. I began to collect what I would need, and that included my thoughts about doing this. Within seconds of his request, I had decided that shaving Jamie would not be much of a turn-on for me, but that I did love seeing the way passion wracked his slender body, making his back arch like the flare of a sunspot, and causing the shaking muscles of his legs to knot. With this in mind, I was curious to see what heightened reactions this ritual might produce. He was calling me from the bed.

“Just a minute. I’m getting some stuff together for this.”

I opened the linen closet and collected my favorite faded soft blue towel in the folds of which you may hear the ocean. In the bathroom, a fresh double-edged Good News razor and a can of mentholated Gillette Foamy. I would need a bowl of water, and once I had selected that bowl and filled it, there would be nothing left to delay my return to the bedroom. I stood in the pantry, fussing over this decision.

I thought about the young man in my bed who was calling my name. I felt as if I were about to be admitted into the last room of him, and that once I had inspected its contents, I’d be slipping out the back door, with no farewells, and with no intention of returning. Jamie might remain with me for days or weeks longer, but there would be distance between us that he would not notice.

I stretched to reach a high shelf, pulling down an old stoneware bowl, the bottom of which was incised with “Ruckel’s Pottery, 1870, White Hall, Ill.” It was glazed with the same cornflower blue of the towel. Men with eyes of this color can own me if they wish. Jamie’s eyes were this color.

I wondered what the previous owners of this bowl would feel about its imminent employment. Sensible women of the heartland. Daughters of the pioneers, preparing simple food grown on their plains, gently hand washing this bowl for decades, keeping it bright and flawless. I saw them with their hands folded in their laps, seated on small chairs in a circle around the bed, around Jamie, who is smiling up at me as I return to the bedroom, his knees drawn up to his chin and his dick drooping like a sprig of lilac onto the dark sheets.

But don’t he write purty?