Thin Leash, Deep Craving

Just another suburban Saturday

This account is from Saturday, but the picture was taken on Sunday. What a liar.

I intended to post “Delayed Communion” today, but two pubs moved it into the “In Progress” category. If you know anything about literary journal submissions and Submittable, you know this means approximately nothing, but I want to wait a bit.

This weekend, I felt the urge to type away as I pondered on the little ways I want to let loose in my suburban confines. I’m thankful for trips to Portland and Seattle, but in the meantime, here are some slice-of-life vignettes.

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I’m drawn to ASMR reels of scalp massages. There’s one account I want to follow (but don’t) where a “therapist” gives sensual shoulder massages to other women and purposely grazes their breasts.

Breasts that are sausaged into too tiny cropped tees.

I go back to the scalp massages for a bit before I put my phone down and snuggle into the couch cushions.

With college football commentating filling the living room, I tuck into my core, lift my left arm above my head, fold it down, and delicately pull on my locks, slowly weaving fingers in and out.

I let my nails traverse my scalp on slow, smooth journeys wondering if I can produce the same amount of exhilarating chemicals from my brain as someone else performing the act on my body.

I have a deep need to quantify my own self-satisfaction.

***

After washing, I always hang my panties and bras, whether fancy lingerie or cotton bikini briefs.

I check stretch and seam, flattening and sorting, when a navy blue, white polka-dot thong pulls my attention. It’s clean, fresh from the washer, but there is a stain of faded white, like when you scribbled your hand off with that white crayon in grade school. The opaqueness sufficing.

I consider washing the thong again but then hang it up, delighting in the fact that my brain produces storylines that elicit such resistant cum production, no match for the modern technological coupling of a brand new, one-month-old washing machine and high-efficiency detergent.

I want to mess more. I need proof. Especially at 41, closer to 42. This has to be the norm, not a fluke. My body still well-oiled, not sputtering to a last place finish.

I examine it again, rub my thumb on the stain, and fight the desire to put the cool, damp thong on.

And touch myself.

I shake the thought, knowing it would probably lead to a yeast infection or UTI.

One of my kids is calling for me. Maybe all three.

(No one is calling for me.)

I hurry out of the room.

***

I worry every third day that my hair is falling out or thinning. My husband thinks it’s in my head. I take great care of my often-complimented long dark hair, but I gather the growing loose strands on the shower wall after conditioning. The greater the masterpiece, the more worrisome I get.

I notice that my recent tangle resembles the side profile of a woman with perky, small breasts, a slightly protruding rib cage, and concave core. (One of my doctors who cut one of my babies out during one of my three c-sections said, “Wow, you have amazing abs.” So basically, it’s medical fact. We’re all constructing an odd collage of wins.)

I smile at this mess of hair because it’s me.

I’m about to holler for my husband to get my phone. I want to take a picture of it, but that suddenly feels dumb and I’m not currently talking to him for whatever reason.

Instead, I lather myself up, following the curves, the similarities of my shower artwork, from wall to my body. I stare at the image as I cup my breasts, tickle and pull out my shy left nipple, press into my pectus excavatum dip, examine the small hole that once held a belly button ring, exfoliate my ass, down my legs, and attempt to touch my toes.

The hairy catcher is full. The drain is clogged. Water is about to reach my ankles.

My shower is over. I collect all the hair. The woman on the wall is wiped away.