Gonna Wash That Man


The room is warm, the water in the bath laps against the sides, leaking around the side of his hips. I want to draw a big, sloppy heart in the condensation on the mirror, but this isn’t the time for frivolity.

“You’re sure about this?” His voice is low and a little too rough.

The lid of the plastic bottle is fiddly to open with gloved hands, and I have to lean my hip against the bathroom sink to keep my balance. “Of course I am.”

His back is to me, and he shifts awkwardly in the bath. He doesn’t have much space: he’s a large fella. That’s just one of the things that first drew me to him. He makes that huffing noise he uses to express everything from general unease, to the reaction to his football team’s results on a Saturday, to the magic moment in bed during a dark, dark night, just before he comes inside me. “Not sure.”

I’ve already dribbled a couple of spoonfuls out. “Sorry?”

“Not sure,” he repeats. The back of his neck is flushed.

“Now don’t be a scaredy cat about it. It’ll look good.”

That huffing again. “I’m not scared.”

“No, of course you aren’t.”

He shifts in the bath again and water slops over the edge.

“Let’s get this done,” I say in my best, assertive voice.” And before he can complain again, I spread my hands on his head and start massaging.

The huffing noise gives way to a very familiar, and satisfying groan.

“You sure it won’t turn me green?”

I’d laugh at that, if I didn’t know it’s a familiar worry with my professional clients. “No, honey. You’ll barely notice any difference. But it’ll cover the grey.”

He’s enjoying the massage too much to concentrate on being anxious. I must admit, I’m putting a little more passion into it than I do at the salon. My cock stirs under my towel.

“You’ll like it, right?”

“Me?” He’s startled me. “Of course I will. Not that I mind you going grey.”

There’s a comfortable silence. He sinks down a little in the bath, pressing his head back into my hands. Moans softly. I slide my hands to his shoulders.

“But I do mind.” It’s just a whisper.

“I know, honey,” I say fondly. “No problem. I’m happy to help.”

There’s more massaging. The room gets steamier. Suds over his hips are stirring gently: I know he’s getting aroused.

“Your hands are… so good.” He hangs his muscular arm over the side of the bath. His fingers brush my thigh, and dislodge my towel.


He grips my knee and his cock nudges up through the surface of the bathwater. I can’t help looking, and my mouth is wet.

“Hey,” I say softly. “The colour needs twenty minutes to settle.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s never taken me more than ten.”

“What has—? Oh!”

The bath’s barely big enough for two.



Flash Fiction/ Clare London