Provocative Professions Collection(6)

By: S.E.Hall & Angela Graham



After opening the new pack of razors, I strip out of my clothing and dig under the counter for the hand mirror. Because of the ample notice I'd gotten, obviously there's no time for a professional visit, so ladyscaping is left up to me. I'm not that worried, the work should be light considering I keep a monthly appointment at our local spa, but with my love life nonexistent as such, I need to fully assess the situation.

Focused more on my lackluster dating life, I grab the few feminine products that I can apparently use in the tub. I step one foot into the shower and instantly rear back with a trembling squeal when the scalding stream hits my toes.

"Crap!" I reach in to crank the nozzle a bit, cursing my lousy apartment building for the always unpredictable water heater.

Timidly, I poke a finger into the downstream and relax for the first time all morning. Gotta take the small victories. Easing into the warm shower, I first tend to the basics, hair washing, loofah scrubbing, and armpit shaving. Next my legs, twice, with my usual silky body butter, using long, smooth strokes, willing my hands to stop shaking; the last thing I need is a ton of little nicks from my pesky nerves.

With an expert eye, not a single sneaky loner hair around my ankle or hidden behind my knee is left untouched. And then, in the most limberly-challenged way possible, I prop my right leg up with my foot on the edge of the tub, mirror gripped in one hand, razor in the other.

This is it, one stray hair left in the wrong place or a tiny nick will reveal my anxious preparation. Not the time for haste. I duck my head so water doesn't hit my eyes and give my girl a slight trim, nothing over the top. She looks pretty good actually, so the job's fairly easy, but with the obstacles and my anxiety, it takes longer than it should.

When I'm completely satisfied she's show worthy, I release a cleansing breath and turn off the spray, which was growing colder by the minute. I wrap myself in the comfort of my favorite extra-large fluffy towel, surprisingly, another birthday gift from Brady. He got tired of me complaining that the perfect towel didn't exist. Turns out I was wrong, Brady found it, and bought me a whole stack, which had me in awe, especially when I went to the store he'd purchased them in and saw the price tag.

Perfect or not, it was out of my budget.

Clean, check. Smooth, check. What next? Deodorant! I go ahead and slather it on now so it'll have time to dry, then sit on the lid of my toilet and open the first shopping bag.

Like a grab bag, I reach in blindly and pull out a deodorant, but not for my underarms. I flip it over and read the back. "Island splash. Spray anytime you need that fresh feeling."

Sounds easy enough. Ripping the package open, I give a little test squirt in the air and I'm hit with the scent of coconuts. Not too offensive, subtle and clean. Unsure of the appropriate distance to hold it, I spread my legs and spray. The coolness covers my sex, tingling the sensitive flesh. Definitely feeling fresh. Thumbs up there.

I place it on the counter and pull out the second product, wipes. Not needed, I toss them on the sink and take out the bottle of powder. "Too messy."

Next is a box of Norforms. "Hmm." Clicking my tongue, I read until my eyes catch the words "melts when inserted." Trash can! Wouldn't that be fun? Melting goo dripping out on the man!

One by one, the products get separated out between the trash and the counter. Finally, the lotion, something simple and familiar to me. With a spurt to my palm I massage it down my leg…and we hit a snag. My senses are assaulted with the pungent odor of fake jasmine flower.

Are you kidding me? Spooling toilet paper around my hands, I scrub my leg, removing as much of the offending lotion as possible, then grab my loofah and scrub harder. Bent forward, I sniff my leg, satisfied when only a trace of cheap jasmine remains. Good enough.

Hunched down, chastising my drastic behavior, I notice my toes, or more accurately, my toe polish, is a hot mess, chipped and bright blue. No, no, no! What was I thinking?

Everything possibly located in the bathroom goes flying as I manically dig for polish remover, cotton…do I have time for this? I fumble back, resting on the floor. No, nor do I have nail polish.

Breathe in and let it out. I replay the instructions for calming I learned in the one yoga class I took last year. It works… a little. Okay, he won't notice my toes, I tell myself. Why would he when he has all my other body parts revealed and at his perusal?

I stand on wobbly legs and leave the steamy room to search for a loose blouse; I'll sweat through it the second I walk in the office otherwise. Once the billowy light blouse is in hand, I scour the closet for pants with no fussy buttons as well as pretty panties and a matching bra.

You know the rule, 'never leave the house in your "that time of the month" granny panties'. The minute you do… you'll find yourself in a car wreck…or in a gyno's office.

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