She made me take a bath because she didn't want to taste my vagina. I am sure of this. She wanted to seduce me and there was a time when I would have wanted that above all things. But time had passed now. I was less innocent in matters of sexuality. I felt quite tired from all the poking and prodding and the emotional stretchmarks had begun to show.
I had loved her, but now all I could think was that she had made the bath too hot, and she wanted a bath so that she would not taste my vagina.
She filled the bath with suds that would hide my breasts and the shape of my thighs and when I had disappeared under the cloyingly sweet foam she reached under the surface of the water and touched me, safely out of sight, out of mind.
Years before I had brought her to her first orgasm. The vibrator I bought her was to rectify a lifetime of self denial. I taught her how to use it and I wanted her to use it on me, but she didn't.
That night she did, and I let her and I enjoyed it with a sad detachment, like taking a favourite toy out of the cupboard, holding it to your nose, to smell the last traces of your long-gone love then folding it back into it's box before abandoning it to dust and dark and memory.
So I made love to the girl and she made love to me and when it was over, she was damp eyed and I kissed her, tasting nothing but spring apple bath-foam and the minty flavour of her toothpaste.
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