A shower should take two minutes, including hair, four if the hair is long. If it takes more than four, you better be a miner. Or a hotel guest. But we all know what you are: a nasty piece of skirt-chasing work who needs to be always ready to operate. Or the female equivalent like my QUEEN OF CLEAN. She knows that overwashed skin loses oils, but instead of easing up on the water, she plasters herself with expensive creams and lotions because a date can materialize unexpectedly and she has to demonstrate surgical cleanliness to signify membership in the cool nation. She wants to be immaculate when avoiding conception.
I didn’t mind. Whatever she did and however long she did it, it meant more time for me to watch her. How she filed her fingernails, put on make-up, pulled over a pullover, or just sat and breathed. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, to this day I don’t understand how I graduated.
If you scrub and foam up for a long time and later find yourself in a nude embrace with somebody, you emanate the same scent as a two-minuter. Or you would if you didn’t douse yourself in perfume.
My first (and last) perfume was a Paco Rabanne. I was gifted half a bottle by a relative and I almost never used it. Then I put on a tiny amount before a date with TOY & DESTROY. She immediately gushed how amazing it was. Weeks later, I put it on before bed to surprise her. She scolded me instead that I had broken some social rule, a fragrance etiquette. I had to go take a long shower.
Photo. She liked men who used aftershave and had a good manicure. She would say things like: “His hands spoke.”
Now I watch the ads. One perfume gives me manly elegance and another one gives me elegant manliness. So hard to choose when dumb criminals bait you with the possibility of sex. Never in the history of mankind has perfume been a dealbreaker: “I wanted him so much, do every filthy thing he would ask for, if only he had sprayed some fruity swill on his neck. But he didn’t, so I’m going home.”
I recently saw an ad: “This could be your personal fragrance. Or your first impression.” It saw the conversation right away: “Hi, I’m Jim. I clean cat litter boxes in a Romanian brothel. Oh, nice to meet you, Jim. I’m Carol. I fell into a manhole while eating Olomouc cheese today.”
Preaching short showers has nothing to do with ecology or efficiency. It’s to denounce the obsession that hot sex lurks around every corner and one has to be perpetually disinfected because it implies one is a habitual, experienced seducer. Which is bunk, sex comes naturally to every human, and the best lovers are those in love because they are unconcerned how good or bad they are. But nobody says that because there’s no money in it. There’s no money in love, only in mentioning love.
I mean, what can you really do in bed? Either he’s on top or she’s on top. The same with her back turned to him. Then all of these standing up. Then you give her an enema and start again. So sixteen things you can do.
And you can motorboat, slap the buttocks, pull the hair, and spit in the face. Right, so about twenty things you can do, but that’s it. Then you put the red snooker ball in her mouth and tell her to crawl under the coffee table.
When I find out someone is a long showerist, I don’t invite them over anymore.