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“I…I just need a second. I should really brush my teeth. Or use some mouthwash at the very least.” I pull away a fraction and stare at the ensuite bathroom door.
“It’s okay. You’re…really. You don’t taste like pickles.”
“I just…I need some cold water, then. Just a second. I’ll be right back.”
I take off toward the bathroom at panicked, lightning speed. I might be a total spaz, and maybe this isn’t sexy, but neither is pickle-breath swass, weird body odor, or chest hair. Ball hair? Is that actually passable?
I stumble in, flick the light on, and shut the door behind me. It doesn’t lock, but I’m sure Azalea isn’t going to come bursting through it. If she’s out there on my bed when I get back, then it will be a miracle. If she’s not, then well, I know I shouldn’t be making this more complicated than it already is. And what happens when she realizes that the attraction sparking between us isn’t strong enough to mitigate the unsexy aspect of having a dude who is more inexperienced than she is? I mean, she does know how to kiss. She’s twenty-eight. Even if she’s had a few boyfriends, that’s literally more experience than I’ve had.
I lean back against the door, my heart hammering and my head roaring. I feel slightly sick, my belly churning. I have to gasp out and drag in a few pulls of air before I can even get to the sink to brush my teeth. After, I ram my toothbrush back into the holder and basically rip off my shirt, beast style.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. The whole getting it on with my fake fiancée/forced fiancée/kidnapped fiancée part, not the part where I rip my shirt almost clean off.
I seriously don’t understand how it’s happening, but I think it still is.
I’m a big guy. A big guy with a massive, broad chest and rippling muscle everywhere. I’m good with that. What I’m not good with is the forest of chest hair growing on top so thickly that you can’t even see said chest muscles or even my abs. I think I used to have nipples somewhere?
Christ.
I propel myself to the sink again and grab the razor I use to shave my face with every day. I start in on the black bush on my body, rinsing the razor over and over, wishing the damn thing was electric. It takes me somewhere around seven hundred years to get all that hair off. I nearly shave off a nipple—oh, that’s where they are—and I nick myself several times. When I’m done, I glance in the mirror. My skin is clean and squeaky and neat. Thank god I don’t have to do my back. The sink is clogged, the water refusing to go down past the forest of hair clogging it. Said forest of hair only grows on the front, apparently, thank the hair gods. I undo my pants and step out of them, lifting up my boxes to take a dubious look down there.
Helloooooo man fur. What exactly counts as manscaping? How much is too much? Is fully natural seen as gross or manly nowadays? My chest seriously hurts. It feels like the wrath of a thousand suns burning there, and my balls had seen enough fire and brimstone, compliments of Azalea’s knee yesterday. I think I’ll leave them alone.
When I snap my boxers back into place and look in the mirror again, I’m shocked to see that my chest is now a bright red. Apparently, my skin didn’t like parting with its winter coat. That would also account for the hella crazy burning going on there. I reach for my bottle of aftershave, thinking it will soothe the angry burning sensation, but as soon as I slap it on, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.
To my credit, I don’t scream. All I do is grunt a long, drawn-out grunt as I dash to the shower to wash off everything I just slapped on myself. I hurtle in and dive under a cold spray, which makes my muscles ache and my balls shrivel up, and I elicit a tiny little squeak of horror before I can get the hot water on. My chest burns long after the water hits. I realize I’m standing in the shower in my boxers and socks, so I peel off the sopping wet fabric, leaving it behind.
I reach for the bar of soap on instinct and shove it into my pits. I soap up my ass crack, too, just to be sure. Bad body odor isn’t sexy. I realize this isn’t normal, but what about me is normal? I haven’t done this in years, and I want it to be right. As right as someone like me can be.
The soap, unfortunately, starts sliding down my side, which gets into the razor burn, causing it to start stinging like an angry banshee living in my skin. I curse, angle myself under the spray, and quickly wash that shit off. Thank god I didn’t manscape. What if my balls felt this way?
