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“Thank you for trusting me to tell me where you live,” I said.
She kissed me, gently bit my lower lip, unbuttoned my shirt and ran her hands over my chest. “I do trust you,” she said. “But I want you very relaxed.”
She dropped to her knees in one fluid move and undid my jeans. They fell in a heap at my feet. The floor was small tiles of black-and-white ceramic.
“Boxer man,” she whispered, burying her face in my shorts, running a finger around the band, up inside the legs. She nibbled and licked around my belly as she eased the boxers off, too.
She took me in her mouth. She had the moves. Not every woman does, in fact few do, but Gretchen did. I stroked and clenched that silky reddish-brown hair and she expertly worked me over. In a few minutes I would have done anything for her.
She kissed me and our tongues exchanged the taste of me. She pulled back slowly and let her robe fall on the floor. She leaned into the medicine cabinet and pulled out some shaving cream, put it into a stainless steel cup with water and started mixing it with one of those blond brushes you see in old-men’s barber shops. She reached back in the cabinet and pulled out something that looked antique and covered with tortoise shell.
It had a blade.
“Ever use one of these?” she smiled, her lips still glistening.
I must have visibly stepped back. She gently took my hand and pulled me closer. “Take it in your hand.”
I grasped the straight razor. The handle was smooth from years of handling, but the blade was so tacitly charged it felt sharp even inches away from my fingers.
Gretchen wrapped herself against my back, nibbling on my ears, and said, “I want you to shave my legs.”
***
“See, it’s easy,” she said. She was in the tub now, and I sat on the edge, holding a soapy leg in one hand and the straight razor in the other. Her legs were appealingly long, with slim ankles, shapely calves and lovely thighs comprised of just the right proportions—not chunky but not anorexic, either. I made easy, straight strokes, then shook the blade in the water to get the soap off. It was a move like driving over one of those barriers that says “Do not back up, severe tire damage!”
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “You’re doing great. I have very stubborn leg hair. Once, on a dig in Peru, I lost my Lady Bics and there was only this crusty old professor with a straight razor. So I tried it.”
It took a gentle, sure touch. No hesitation. But I could see the sensual appeal: danger and pleasure in one basic human tool in your hand. Something to do with the nearness of the unencumbered blade, with the discipline of strokes to cut close—but not too close.
“You have a natural talent for it,” she said as I moved along the muscles of her right calf. “What happened to your friend Lindsey?”
I shook the blade in the water and cut against the stubble. “She left. Before you and I got together.”
“I’m sorry,” Gretchen said, “if you’re sorry.”
“She was going through a lot. Her mother killed herself. But she didn’t want anybody close, didn’t want me close at least.” I felt like I was betraying Lindsey. I shifted my grip on the heavy, smooth handle.
“Do you worry about a woman with the suicide bug?”
I hadn’t even thought of it. The thought of it—the thought of relief from Lindsey’s leaving—made me feel small.
“I don’t think we’re a prisoner of our genes,” I said finally.
“I do,” Gretchen said firmly. “Lindsey is a deputy?”
“Yes. She mostly does computer work.”
“Did you worry about her getting hurt?”
“Yes.”
“The thighs are very tender,” Gretchen said. “That’s where the real loving care takes place.” I moved above the knee. “Did you love her?”
Her words rattled around in my head, and the answer wouldn’t have mattered. I shaved for a few minutes. “I’m very glad I met you.”
She reached a finger out of the water and touched my nose. “Me, too,” she said.
“What about you? Ever been married?”
