TMI Thursday: In Which We Discover Why Shower Sex is Not an Option

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I'm a tall man. I'm about 6 foot 4, plus some change. Not quite six five, but more than six four. I also have size fourteen feet.

*ahem* Ladies. *tips cap*

Anyway, most women are not in the six four range. This makes that whole sex-while-standing thing kind of tough. Unless I want to cut a hole in her lower back and go to town, I'm going to have to resort to the horizontal mamba. And, really, I can safely say I have no sacroiliac-inspired fetishes.

Now, the Ex was a taller woman. She was just under 5 foot 8. She also had long legs. But, not necessarily long enough, but still, we were close.

One day, I was over at her house after another exciting shift at the bookstore. I went over to drink myself into yet another alcohol-infused state of denial that I had just wasted the previous four years getting that coveted bachelor's of science degree. Nothing says despair like working in a bookstore with a degree in chemistry after being turned down for five different jobs. *sigh*

As luck would have it, when I arrived she had just finished her daily running-five-miles-so-that-you-could-bounce-a-quarter-off-her-ass exercise routine. As she let me into the house, she told me to relax and get her a drink and we'd watch a movie and drink ourselves stupid...right after she got out of the shower.

So, she goes into her room and I hear the water running and I think "Hmmmm...I've never showered with someone before..." I pour the drinks, I get up, I go into the bedroom, and I strip down. I sneak into the bathroom where I pull the shower curtains back all Norman Bates style. Because nothing says "foreplay" like inspiring heart-stopping terror in the one you love.

Lucky for me (and her, I guess), she was in the middle of shaving her legs and her vagoo, BUT she was rinsing the blade when I did the Psycho trick, so there was no sudden jerking of the blade, no deep gashes in her flesh, no blood. That's a relief.

But, seeing her there, with her hair stacked up on top of her head, the water running down her body, glistening on her skin, her breasts full and shimmering, her long legs stretched out...it did something to me. And that something was that it caused me to be rock hard. Instantly.

"Are you coming in?" she asked. I had been standing there for a minute, gawking at her, watching as she stood naked, the water from the shower head pouring down over her body.

"Oh, yeah," I said, snapping from my reverie. I slipped into the shower, and she turned around. The water was hitting me on the shoulders, running down over my body, and she had her back (and ass) turned toward me.

"Hey, this works a little better," she said, putting more soap on to shave herself. "You're like a meat shield. I can shave up a lot better. You should come over whenever I need to shave."

Watching her was hot. My blood slowly boiled as her ass was pressed back into me, her arms moving as she shaved herself. I decided that, hell, I was in the shower, and when in Rome...so I started to soap myself up. I always forget just how damned nice a shower at the end of the day is, especially when you're trying to wash away the lingering scent of failure that pretty much permeated my existence back then.

I was pretty clean, and she was wrapping up shaving, so I decided to get a little sexy. I soaped my hands up and I reached around her, sliding my hands under her arms and up over her breasts. "Just trying to help you get clean," I offered, whispering in her ear. I worked my hands over her breasts, up under them, all around them. I felt her nipples get hard. She pushed back into me, so that I was nestled against her ass. When she moaned softly, I knew things had progressed nicely. She cocked her head to one side, I kissed her neck, nibbling down the smooth curve of her shoulder. I let one of my hands slide down her tummy until I got to her freshly shaved parts. She moaned louder as my fingers explored.

She pulled my hand away and bent over, taking me in her other hand and guiding me to her. There was a period of awkward adjustment where we tried to line our bodies up right, but it was tough, since I'm tall and she was almost tall enough, but not quite. I kept stabbing her in the ass, and she finally was like "You know, I really don't want to do that. But, I guess if we can't find another way."

Finally, though, after a few more minutes of adjustment, she had one foot up on the side of the tub and was up on the ball of her foot with the leg still on the floor of the shower. I bent my knees and finally, blissfully, I was able to slide into her. She was bent forward at a harsh, angle, too, bracing herself against the shower wall with a forearm so that she didn't smash her face into the tile. I had hold of her hips, one hand on each side of her round, wet ass, while I thrusted into her. Her other hand was massaging herself while I pounded away.

The sex, it was good.

That could have been the understatement of the decade right there.

The sex, it was incredible, see into the Creator's mind so that the design of all things is revealed, toe-curling, screaming like a Viking warrior good. The sex was sweetness on a platter with a side of stellar and a reduction made with awesome. The sex was like...okay, you get the point.

And it was getting hotter and heavier and louder. I'm grunting loud with with every thrust, she's begging for more, more, more, and I'm getting closer, closer, closer when I feel her clench around me and shudder and her breathing comes in a staccato burst of gasps and moans.

I've done it! I've taken her to the promised land! I am a Shower Sex God! This is how we will do things forever and ever again! I am Indefatigable MJenks, hear me roar.

And then her foot slipped.

And she crashed forward.

And her face smashed into the tiles.

And her nose started bleeding.

Profusely.

I mean, like, oh my God, I might need to call 911.

Of course, she had slipped off me, and my mind was torn between "rub this last little bit out" and "help her, you heartless cocksucker, she's bleeding to death".

I chose option number two. I actually picked her up, hero-style and set her down on the bathroom floor on the bathmats so she wouldn't get cold. I turn the shower off. She's bleeding profusely from the nose, and she's crying. And she's laughing.

And I run through the house, naked and wet, to the kitchen to get her some ice to put on her nose and to grab a phone and her bathrobe in case I need to call for help. I get back, and she's still bleeding, still crying, and still laughing. I get her a fresh washcloth for her nose, and then I make another washcloth and wrap the ice inside it to hold on her nose. Finally, after a few minutes and enough bloody towels and washclothes to make it look like a murder scene, the blood is stanched.

Pitifully, she looks up at me, dark circles around her beautiful green eyes. "Is it crooked?" she asked, taking the ice rag from her nose.

"No," I responded, "but it's pretty badly bruised."

There was a silence for a moment, and she looks back at me. "That was some good sex," she offered.

"It was," I agreed, trying not to think about how close I had been before tragedy struck and how I was still unfulfilled, yet flaccid.

"The ending? Not so fabulous," she said. Again, I concurred.

"I think we should strike shower sex from our repertoire," I said.

"Agreed," she said.

And that, my friends, is why I have stricken shower sex from the playbook.