Baths, a Watery Communion

I have a little fetish that most people who know me would find surprising.

I like to take baths.

Long, luxurious, hot baths, where I read a book and relax, refilling the tub several times to keep the temperature perfect, slowly cooking myself until I am all wrinkly. I become a human hot water bottle -- my core body temperature rises and I can keep the bed warm for several hours.

Whereas scheduling and availability of decent bathtubs made the expression of my fetish somewhat sporadic, recently Jenny and I formalized this into a weekly (or the closest schedulable day) ritual, a fleshy communion with the British Thermal Unit along with our tithe to the heating company. Alas, the first several iterations of this new ritual were not at all relaxing and more resembled a turbid 1970's hot tub porno scene rather than a Calgon-take-me-away moment. But eventually we no longer could generate novel combinations of body fluids and bath add-ins with which to test our miscibility theories, and thereafter the ritual became more peacefully contemplative.

And the dessert is the “good night massage.” Not a therapeutic massage — Jenny and I took lessons that we use on other occasions but not this one — this is just time to touch and caress each other — usually using long, sweeping strokes. Each of us takes turns massaging on separate evenings — Jenny receives one week, and I receive the next week. This way you can relax and just receive. So far it puts the recipient to sleep 100% of the time. It’s almost as good as a vacation: having a hot bath and then having your body stroked by warm oil by the hands of your lover, putting you to sleep. Yes, the sheets are a bit messy, but it’s a marvelous sensual experience.

I recommend it.