LITMIR.BIZ

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my sense of touch, this is no good. Where did these pimples come from? Allergies? Am I allergic to butt operations? I look at the photos again. Ah, now I know. It’s razor burn. They shave you before an operation. Obviously not too daintily. Chop-chop, run the blade across. The only thing that matters is to get the hair off as quickly as possible. Probably without water or shaving cream. Just run the blade over, dry, to rip the hair out.

      They’re even more unceremonious about shaving than I am on my own. I used to not shave at all. I thought there were better ways to fritter away the time in the bathroom. And I found better ways. Until I met Kanell. He’s from Africa. Ethiopia to be precise. One Saturday he stopped at the fruit-and-vegetable stand where I work to earn a little spending money. I set the stand up at four in the morning and sell produce until afternoon. My boss, the farmer who owns the stand, is a racist. Which is hilarious. Because he thinks he needs to stock exotic fruits and vegetables. A gap in the market. But who besides people from Africa, India, South America, or China knows how to prepare dishes with pomelos, sunchokes, and taro root?

      So my boss rants all day long about foreigners, about what an insult it is that they want to shop at his stand, and about their accents. This despite the fact that he’s attracting them because of what he’s selling. Kanell didn’t understand the farmer’s question: “That it?”

      He had to ask the farmer what he meant. The farmer was so patronizing in his explanation that I slipped away from the stand afterward to apologize.

      I ran along the rows of stalls looking for him. Finally, I was standing behind him. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. All out of breath, I said: “Hi. I’m sorry. I just wanted to say I was ashamed of the way my boss acted.”

      “I could tell.”

      “Good.”

      We laughed together.

      Then I got nervous and couldn’t think of anything better to say than: “I’m going back to the stand.”

      “Are you shaved?”

      “What?”

      “I asked whether you were shaved.”

      “No, why do you ask?”

      “Because I’d love to shave you sometime. At my place.”

      “When?”

      “Right after work. Whenever the market closes.”

      He writes his address down for me, folds the piece of paper up small, and pushes it into my dirty palm like a little present. This definitely qualifies as one of my most impulsive dates ever. I shove the note into the chest pocket of my green apron and walk proudly back to the racist’s stand.

      I don’t want to think too much over the next few hours about what to expect at his apartment. Otherwise I’ll get too anxious and might not even go. That would be a shame.

      When I’m done for the day I shove my under-the-table wages in my pocket and head for the jotted-down address. I ring the bell labeled Kanell. Apparently it’s his last name. Or perhaps he’s got such a complicated name that, like some soccer players, he’s just picked out a pseudonym that stupid Europeans can pronounce. He buzzes the door open and calls down the staircase: “Second floor.”

      I step inside the entryway and the door closes hard behind me. It practically hits me and a cold breeze rustles my hair. The mechanical arm that closes the door is set too tight. There’s a screw someplace in it that you can loosen so the door closes more elegantly. My father taught me that. If I start coming here often, I’ll bring a screwdriver sometime and fix it.

      I hike up my skirt and wriggle my hand into my underwear. I stick my middle finger deep into my pussy and leave it in the warmth for a moment before taking it back out. I open my mouth and stick my finger all the way in. I close my lips around my finger and pull it out slowly. I lick and suck as hard as I can in order to get as much of the taste of the slime on my tongue as possible.

      There’s no way I can spread my legs for some guy—to get thoroughly eaten out, for instance—without knowing myself how everything looks, smells, and tastes down there.

      In our bathroom are all kinds of useful mirrors that help me look at my own pussy from below. A woman looking down over her stomach at her pussy from above sees it from a completely different perspective than a man with his head hung between her legs in bed.

      A woman sees just a tuft of hair sticking up and two bumps hinting at the outer labia.

      A man sees a gaping, hungry mouth with knots of flesh all over it. I want to see everything on me the same way a man sees it; they see more of a woman than she does herself because everything down there is oddly hidden, just out of view. In the same way I want to be the first to know how my slime looks, smells, and tastes. And not just lie there and hope everything comes out alright.

      Whenever I go to the bathroom I dip my finger into my pussy before I piss and do the same test. I dig around, scoop out as much slime as possible, and sniff it. For the most part it smells good—as long as I haven’t eaten a lot of garlic or Indian food.

      The consistency varies a lot. Sometimes it’s like cottage cheese, other times like olive oil, depending on how long it’s been since I washed. And that depends on who I want to have sex with. Lots of guys prefer cottage cheese. You wouldn’t think so. But it’s true. I always ask in advance.

      Then I suck it all off my finger and slurp it around in my mouth like a gourmand. Most of the time it tastes good. Except once in a while when the slime has a sour aftertaste. I haven’t figured out what causes that yet, but I will.

      The test has to be conducted every time I go to the bathroom because I often run into the dilemma—or unexpected pleasure—of spontaneous sex. Even in those situations I want to be up-to-date on my pussy’s slime production. Helen leaves nothing to chance. Only when I know exactly what’s going on with my beloved, precious slime can a man slurp it up with his tongue.

      I’ve done the taste test and am happy. I’m ready to be looked at and tasted. The smegma has a bit of age to it, a truffle flavor, and that makes guys hot. Usually.

      I climb the stairs. Not slowly, as if I do this all the time. No games. By walking up quickly, I show him how excited and curious I am. At the door he takes my hands in his and kisses me on the forehead. He leads me into the living room. It’s very warm. The radiator is boiling away. Someone could comfortably hang out naked here for a good, long time. It’s dark. The blinds are down. There’s just a little table lamp with a twenty-five-watt bulb. It illuminates a bowl of steaming water on the floor. Next to that is a folded washcloth and an old-fashioned men’s razor and a can of shaving cream. The entire couch is covered with big towels.

      He quickly undresses me. The skirt is the only thing that gives him trouble—complicated clasp. Lifting it up isn’t good enough for him. It’s all got to go, the clothing. I help him. Then he lays me down at an angle on the couch. My head in the back corner, my butt on the front edge. I put a foot up on the arm to brace myself, so I’m lying there as if I’m at the gynecologist—Dr. Broekert position.

      He undresses completely in front of me. I hadn’t expected that. I thought I’d get undressed and he’d stay clothed. All the better. His nipples are hard and he has a partial erection. He has a very thin cock with an acorn-like tip, and it dangles to the left. That is, to my left.

      He has a loaf of bread tattooed on his chest. The shape is more like a round sourdough than a loaf of rye or multi-grain bread. Gradually my breathing calms down. I get used to unusual situations quickly. I fold my arms behind my head and watch him. He’s readying everything and seems pleased. Looks like there’s nothing for me to do except lie back. We’ll see.

      He leaves the room and returns with a miner’s lamp on his head. I have to laugh and tell him he looks like a Cyclops. We’ve just been reading about them in school. He laughs, too.

      He puts a pillow on the floor and kneels on it, saying he doesn’t want to get calluses on his knees. Then he dunks both hands into the hot water and rubs it onto my legs. Aha.

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