The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

Kathy says that’s what you wanted; you went in there for that; I wanted you to go in there and do that; make the connection.

I took a washcloth in my hand. First, I washed her back. Then her front. Cleansed her breasts. Her breasts were in my hands; nipples were pink took one nipple between my fingers – ever so gently – and caressed it; I wanted to make love to that single nipple.

And what did she say?

She didn’t say a word.

Sometimes she can be the quiet type.

I washed her stomach; she stood up then, turned around and I washed her ass.

Kathy says you like a nice ass.

She had a nice ass, yes; she turned again and I washed her shaved pussy; her cunny; her box. Washed her thighs amp;legs. Even washed her feet, although I was unworthy.

And her hair?

Yes; I put shampoo in her hair, my fingers did their walking on her scalp, all that blonde hair. Then she sat back in the bubbles. She said too bad I don’t have a rubber duck. We both laughed.

Kathy starts to softly sing rubber ducky, you’re the one, you… you make bathtime – la la la la lahh la lots of fun… rubber ducky la la la la…

I say I just stood there, looking at her. Then I knelt again. She stared at the wall. We did not talk.

Not at all?

But then we did talk; a little bit of talk.

What did you talk about?

I say nothing much; I don’t recall; I remember every other detail except what we talked of. I’m not sure how long this lasted. She stood up again and she had all these bubbles on her body. She stepped from the tub. I took a towel and dried her. Dried her from top to bottom, covering the same ground I did as I cleaned her. I helped her dress. First, the pink panties; it was nice to slip them on her, snug them around that ass. She had some PJs there that she was going to wear to bed. I put those on her. I took her in my arms, picked her up like a small wife or child. Like a child. Like an infant in my arms, I carried her to her room. I saw that you were asleep on this couch. I carried her to her bed. Drew the covers up to her neck. She looked like a turtle. I kissed her on the forehead. I came out here and found you still asleep. I sat down, putting your legs on my lap. You woke up and told me of a partial dream about war bound angels. Then I told you this story.

Kathy says maybe I should have gone into the bathroom with you.

Maybe.

Then I wouldn’t have slept or dreamt.

Tell me about your dream.

I forget the details; I’ve forgotten the dream.

I ask were you watching TV?

I was sleeping.

Oh. Yes… Did you dream?

I think so. I dunno.

Cynthia comes out of her room, rubbing her eyes.

She says I couldn’t sleep.

I say you seemed so peaceful in your bed.

Cynthia says I was lying there and I closed my eyes but I knew I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want to have any dreams. I never have nice dreams so the ones I do have I’m afraid of. Why is this? I deserve something nice now amp;then.

I tell her to sit down, to sit next to Kathy.

Cynthia sits.

I say you two look right together sitting there like that.

Cynthia says we’ve been friends for a long time.

Kathy says yes, a long time.

Cynthia says to her I took a bath, Kathy.

Kathy says I know.

He helped.

He told me.

He’s helpful amp;kind.

He can be.

Cynthia asks what’s on the TV?

Kathy says I dunno; I was sleeping; I had this very strange dream.

I stand, look at them, and sit on the other couch and look more; I say she had a dream about angels.

Cynthia says really?

Kathy says I don’t recollect all the details.

Cynthia says maybe if you went back to sleep you’d dream about it again.

Kathy says maybe I could go back.

Cynthia says I hate sleeping; too easy an excuse to hide and I hate excuses.

Kathy says I guess I could return to that time, I guess I could. I dunno if I’m sleepy or not. I dunno.

Kathy yawns.

Cynthia says I was in my room, in bed, in my rented room but a bed that belongs to me; I closed my eyes; I thought I don’t really want to be here. I wanted to be somewhere else.

Kathy lies down, her legs stretched across Cynthia’s legs.

Kathy asks am I asleep yet?

I say it’s hard to say.

Cynthia caresses one of Kathy’s legs.

Kathy asks am I dreaming again? now? tell me.

Cynthia says it’s hard to put your finger on it.

Kathy goes ummmn; she says can someone tell me a story? then maybe I’ll sleep.

Cynthia says I don’t know any stories.

Kathy yawns again and says I dunno… I’m just not ready to die yet.

I have a story. I tell her, I tell both of them, this:

One Christmas, I went hungry. I lived alone, as I do now, and there was no one in my life, unlike there is now. Usually, I went home every Christmas for a family dinner. I really looked forward to those family meals because they were the rare times I ever ate well. Ever since I was on my own – since I was twenty – let’s say I left home, well not like that, I mean to say that my parents kicked me out of the house when I was twenty, they said it was time for me to grow up and go outside into the real world, and so I lived day to day when it came to food; each day I went out to get lunch I lived on pizza, taco shop specials, submarine sandwiches for a buck-fifty, that sort of thing: this was the extent of my nutrition. None of the girls I knew (I say this with a laugh, waiting to see if Kathy might contradict me) knew how to cook. (I laugh again:) I used to say I’d marry the first girl I met who could cook; who could keep me well-balanced with all the USDA approved daily requirements, the four basics and whatnot. No, I did not eat well, except when I went home – went home on Thanksgiving amp;Christmases amp;sometimes my birthdays. Turkey amp;ham amp;mashed potatoes amp;vegetables amp;candy yams amp;biscuits that were warm to touch amp;taste, melting butter on top. Just thinking about it now, thinking about it makes me want to go home amp;feast, to just go home where it’s safe. Safe, yes, and warm. Sometimes, at home, you just don’t have to think about things. Anyway, one Christmas I didn’t go home for dinner. The ritual had always been: my mother would call the day before and ask what time I’d be coming over tomorrow and I’d say well, what time do you want me over? and she’d say whatever time would be fine. Sometimes I’d go early, sometimes late, depending how I felt; but I could taste that dinner in my mouth, I could feel it in my stomach, I could perceive the wine that went along with it, and I’d know that, that night, I’d go to bed feeling okay with the night, because I’d had, yes, that rare healthy meal. But this one Christmas in question – and it wasn’t long ago – she didn’t call; my mother, I mean to say, did not call. I kept waiting amp;waiting but the phone did not ring. I had gone out to a party that Christmas