11th Sun: Chapter 10: Shower

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God, I need a shower.

More precisely I need a public shower. I know what the showers are like in a brothel, and I don’t feel like the sense of community would be helpful right now. I’m sure there are staff showers, and I’m also sure I don’t want to experience them.

I go across the promenade, to the sign that says simply, “Showers.” I smell water vapor and steam, and feel my sandals squeak over tile. There’s a teenager behind the counter who takes my money and hands me a towel. I head instinctively for the left when she clears her throat. I start, then go to the right, where the womans side is.

There are no stalls in here, again, I’m sure this was a fantasy. Right now all I want is some hot water though. It’s been a long day, and I need some time to process. I sit on a bench in front of the lockers, but one with a dollar coin, and strip. The locker has a laundry partition, which is good because these panties are just about ruined.

I pull off the boots, and put my sore feet on the tile. The cold feels good on them. I need to get some inserts. I’ve seen adds for that foam, that can take 200 pounds without compressing more than a millimeter. It’s got all kinds of uses, but the only one they advertise is for high heels.

I still have to stand on one leg to get the pants off, then hang the jacket and throw everything into the wash.

It’s hard not to look around at anyone, and harder still because there’s a lot of talk going on. In the men’s everyone is focused on themselves, in case speaking aloud causes a homosexual orgy to manifest.

Here there’s chatter. A woman sits down next to me, and asks how I am, while she takes off her camo bra. I give her the best non-committal shrug I can, because explaining how I am would take an hour and a half.

So she tells me that she’s here to get away from her husband and the kids, and I wonder what kind of person takes their kids to a dark station. As I stand, she sees I have no soap, asks if I need some, and adds “darling?”

“No, I don’t use it.”

“Skin too used to microbes?”

“Yeah, it’s new and I don’t want to ruin it.

Damn this feels good. The last shower I took was also the first shower I took. The rest of the time it’s just been microbe spray downs. I stank under the water and bend over to get my hair wet. Instead I almost drown, as my hair carries the water all over my face.

I sling it back, and someone gives a little “I’ve just been splashed” shriek. Look around you. How do women do this?

Apparently then step into the water face first and let it run down their hair. I try it. It seems more effective than the male method. I feel the water run down my hair like this, over the crack of my ass and think for awhile, while the steam builds up around me.

Well apparently blowjobs are nearly as satisfying from this end as they are from the other. It’s been an hour and I’m still feeling afterglow. I’m feeling something that might almost be guilt. It’s not the 17th century, there’s nothing wrong with being gay. It’s just not something I thought I was.

But I took a dick in my mouth, and loved it. I can suck cock like a champ. I got a man off in seconds, slurped up his cum, and experience the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had from it.

Have I betrayed myself?

I don’t think I have. I haven’t lost anything here, in fact I think I’ve gained something wonderful.

I shut the water off, find my towel, and try to work out the best method of drying it off.

Another woman sees me, “You can use my dryer when I’m done with it.”

Sure, if I can figure out how to use it.

I watch her run a large bulky comb through her hair, and see that it’s pulling out the water into big splashes as it hits the floor. In a minute her hair is shiny, smooth, and dry, and she hands it to me.

I start the comb my hair the way I always have, and she laughs at me as I immediately snarl it up, an inch from the top of my head.

“You must have been raised by your daddy. Sit down.”

She comes up behind me, naked as can be, pulls my hair down my back, and starts running the brush through it, starting near the tips. She gives a couple of strokes, moves up and gives a couple more. She tugs a little, but doesn’t snarl up this way. I find that I like the tugs a lot as I feel them in my scalp. It doesn’t feel so sexual now, just enjoyable, but I want to try it in bed. With someone this time.

When she gets to the top of my head I can’t feel my wet hair on my back anymore, and she gives it a last brush, and fluffs it all around. “There ya go, honey.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” and she starts to dress.

My clothes are done, I have them on. My boots hurt less as I pull them on and zip them, but in seconds they’re hurting more. I need insoles or I’ll never get through tomorrow.

Crap, I have to pee. Crap, I don’t want to pee in D’Neesha’s.

I sit in a stall, and wonder what the little bin on the side of the wall is for.

Oh for fucks sake. I go to press the bidet button and can’t find it. There’s a roll of paper instead. “What is this, the dark ages?” I ask myself, as I wad up a piece of thin paper and wipe like a cave woman.

Now I need to wash the hell out of my hands because, ick. Then it’s back to my bedroom at the whorehouse.

Purse on a peg. Jacket hung up on the post on the door, next to a mink coat. Boots on floor. Pants on floor. Shirt on floor. Panties on floor.

The bed has made itself, and the sheets are crisp. I climb under, naked, and I’m asleep in seconds.

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