Scene: Twenty-something boy engaged in a deep kiss with a twenty-something girl. He has her pressed up against the wall as he strips her shirt off. She unbuttons his pants; he tosses her shirt across the room: the final piece of the trail leading from her bedroom to the shower. The steam from the water fogs the glass shower doors. The boy runs his fingers through the girl’s wet hair, down her silky smooth chest, and well, you know the rest. Unfortunately, my first and only shower experience was nothing like this.
In a college town, it’s inevitable that you’ll start superficial friendships with people simply from having similar bar schedules. I had just such a relationship with a really attractive and conveniently Jewish frat boy. I loved seeing him out, mostly because when he acknowledged me, I felt like it didn’t matter I was in the sorority informally known as Dogs, Pigs, and Elephants. I made him my mission and to this day, I do not know, and think it wise not to question, how I pulled it off.
The night I conquered him, back at my house (after picking up a friend of his on the street for my roommate), it began. Making out on my bed, he attempted to remove my pants though I repeatedly asked him not to. He succeeded and was then shocked when I did not seem to enjoy whatever it was he thought he was doing so well. Naturally, he then suggested we take a shower; a clear backup plan because if I don’t want my pants off in the privacy of my room, obviously I will be totally willing to skip on over totally naked to the bathroom that I share with three other girls and try again there. Call me old fashioned, but standing naked in harsh bathroom lights soaking wet (with water) is not really a one-night stand kind of endeavor. Wanting to get him out of my room, I weakly agreed. I didn’t really think that one through.
I hate being naked when I’m alone; I won’t even look at myself in the mirror before a shower, so the sudden and ominous enterprise of nakedness with another person was less than appealing. I threw a towel on and only agreed to get in the shower once the lights had been turned off. With the door closed and lights off, the bathroom was pitch black. Perfect.
After feeling my way into the shower, he insinuated that I “give him a hand.” Uncomfortable and slippery, I flipped my wrist back and forth, unable to get a grip that was useful to him but would not result in carpal tunnel syndrome for me. Still playing the seduction game, hoping to get something out of this, he stepped under the showerhead. Leaning his head back under the running water, he ran his fingers through his hair. Holding back laughter, not turned on, and slightly confused as to what my next step should be, I could think of only one logical question: “Do you want soap?”
He didn’t ask for my number.