Nick the Flesh

Sunday morning, when I woke up, I looked at my hands.

The were nicked in places. A nick on the right pinkie, a few pin pricks on the left palm.

The previous evening, we broke apart a dozen (just cooked and cooled) lobsters. Me. Handling food.

I rarely prepare food, much less cook. I can run to any number of places on my city block, The Garden of Eden, the twenty-four hour deli, Ho-Ho Chinese for a big bowl of soup noodles, the City Food Bar, and fetch any number of first-rate prepared foods.

I can work my microwave. My fridge contains condiments, coffee, skim milk, and cocktail mixers.

I make a mean cup of coffee. And I have taken lessons from the Lieutenant Commander for a fantastic cocktail or well, one. The signature blood orange martini, ingredients and mix proportions that remain somewhat secret.

Anyhow, Hot Momma came out to The Savior's for the weekend. With her little dog. And Monsieur too.

We were taking apart the red clawed-critters, at the behest and direction of Monsieur, where once again, he commandeered the kitchen. And I have the nicked hands to prove it.

Last week, I got a blister from sweeping off the pool deck and murdering thousands of inchworms. The Hamptons can be hazardous. This could take a toll.

Protege turned up and told stories. The first about crashing one of Calvin Klein's early galas. "The eagle has landed," he said, once he was ushered through security. He phoned a friend to say, "I have penetrated the building." It's all about penetration, isn't it?

After dinner, The Savior, Protege, and Monsieur took off into the evening. Hot Momma and I declined to join.

Before they left, Protege hit us with a second story, one which included borderline-necessary show-and-tell. What is this, already? He deigned to tell us that he not only shaves everywhere, he gets extensive wax jobs. Navel-to-anus. Including as he said it, his "asshole."

It's nice after the third time," he grinned. Hot Momma and I looked at each other. I am aware of such practices, and I am not a fan.

Then, Protege dropped his trousers to show his thong. Egad. Too much information. The Savior covered his eyes. Monsieur had left the house.

Protege explained that he likes the way the thong "hugs his package," the way his "butt cheeks feel smooth, no visible panty line."

He shook his ass as he sashayed out the door.

Oh good lord. My eyes, my eyes.

True, Hot Momma and I laughed. And then we settled in to watch Star Wars III: The Revenge of the Sith. Given the general lugubriousness of that film, maybe we should have joined Protege.

Eh, no.

Hot Momma took her baby-girl puppy, that tiny, pedigreed, Manchester Terrier into the bedroom across the hall from that into which I was eager to crash, hours of blissful sleep beckoning. I brushed my teeth and moisturized my face, and when I stopped in her doorway.

"Hey..." I started. "You know? I got to thinking. A man who shaves his pubes and wears a thong. Or...a man who keeps himself natural - in boxer briefs. Who would you prefer?"

We laughed. The latter. Hands and everything else down.

The next day, Monsieur, Hot Momma, and I took a cleansing break on the beach. Overcast skies, and that funny little dog.

        

Comments

[white diamonds]

Mowed - maybe - taken care of yes! yes! yes!
No, no to a porn star wannabe or look alike!
However if that is your character then that's a whole other story!

Keep it viril, masculine and somewhat macho!
This might be the only occasion I'd say - show me "some" hair!

[Kim]

Possibly the only time the world will ever see the words "Star Wars" and "navel-to-anus" in the same piece of writing!

And I'm right with you regarding the natural guy. Unless you're Laurent Jalabert or you have a back that could be braided, leave the wax ALONE, boys.

Sounds like a wonderful weekend.

[La Latina]

Oh do I miss that weekend of Phantom of the Opera and Alexander!!! That was an amazing lazy weekend!!!!