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Don’t let Chandra get into your head.
Foster proceeds to strip off his pants, leaving on only a pair of form-fitting underwear that I requested he wear for this moment.
“Do I need to take these off, too?” he asks, pointing to the gray cotton covering very little of his body.
“No,” I barely squeak. “You can leave those on. I only plan to plaster to your hip bones. We can roll them down a little if needed.”
“K. Where do you want me?”
Pointing toward the center of the room, in the middle of the plastic sheeting on the floor, I tell him, “Right here.”
Foster takes his place, standing where directed. Crouching down, I sift through my stack of supplies, pilfering a small jar of petroleum jelly.
Holding the lubricant in his direction, I ask, “Did you want to put it on or have me do it?”
“You should.” He pauses, humor dancing along the edge of his features. “Lube is more your specialty.”
“Right,” I state plainly, surprising even myself. This is banter 101, and I’m failing miserably.
Popping off the lid, I submerge my forefinger and middle finger into the gelatinous substance and extract a heaping glob.
“This might be a little cold.” I show him the thick pile of goop. “Sorry in advance.”
He nods.
Foster flinches slightly when I dab the cool jelly onto the warm area of his body just above his pectoral, but he soon relaxes to my touch as I draw tiny circles over a two-inch diameter. When he appears to be used to the temperature, I gently begin to spread the protective barrier over the rest of his recently shaven skin.
I had advised him to remove the hair from every place the plaster would touch, and I’m glad he took my suggestion. Otherwise, the disengaging process could be painful.
It doesn’t take much time for me to cover his shoulders, arms, chest, ribs, and abs in the jelly substance until I reach just below his hip bones. I make sure not to neglect a single cell of skin.
He says nothing during the process.
Neither do I.
“There,” I utter just above the quiet as I cover the last few inches below his navel. “All set.” Reattaching the cap to the small tub of lubricant, I ask, “Do you want to take a minute to move around before we start? I’ll need you to be still for about half an hour.”
Foster shakes his arms, shifts the weight between his feet, and then cocks his head from side to side a few times. “I think I’m good.”
“Right.”
One-word sentences? What is wrong with me?
I move the tray of water along with the prepared strips of plaster cloth to the center of the room. I circle my fingers around his hand and place it directly over his heart, and then I arrange his other arm at his side, but I leave some space between it and his torso.
“I’ll only be doing your shoulder on this one,” I comment, referring to his vertically resting arm. “Are you comfortable?”
“I’ll be fine,” he reassures me.
“Okay, I’ll be as fast as possible.”
“Like a quickie?”
I faintly titter. “Not quite. I doubt you’ll enjoy this as much as you would a quickie.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
I soak the first cloth in the tub of water, lightly squeeze off the excess liquid, and then gently apply the tiny sheet across the length of his shoulder, smoothing out all the wrinkles so that it takes on the shape of his body.
