The Boy's Room
The time between the afternoon cartoons and dinner was a long time. There was nothing to do. It was dark, or near dark outside, and I wasn't allowed outside when it was dark. My brother was all of a year old and not much fun to play with. My mom was busy doing 'mom things:' fussing over dinner, doing her jigsaw puzzles, sipping her vodka martinis and smoking her L&M cigarettes, or just watching the news. Who wanted to watch the news anyway? I would usually go back to my bedroom (which I now had to share with my baby brother), and color in my coloring books. On my way back to my bedroom was usually when I'd see him.
There he would be, standing barefoot in the bathroom, wearing only a small towel wrapped round his waist. His alabaster feet looked tiny and delicate underneath his great, hairy legs. Although he was not tall by any means, those feet did not seem big enough to support his frame. He had a big hairy belly, a hairy barrel chest, hairy arms, even a slightly hairy back. He was big and hairy, almost monster-like, except for those feet: small, soft, and delicate. He had the bathroom door wide open, an invitation for me to walk in and kill some time.
"What're you doing, Daddy?"
I loved spending time with him when he was "gettingreadyforwork," for his rituals were fascinating to me. First, he would fill the sink with steamy hot water. Next, he would submerge a washcloth into the steamy hot water, wring it out, then cover his beard with it.
"Why do you put the hot towel on your face, Daddy? Doesn't it hurt?"
There was a pause as he removed the washcloth from his face and said, while smiling, "No, it doesn't hurt. I have to make my face soft so I can shave it. Want to feel how rough it is?"
With that, he'd bend over and take my tiny hand in his hairy paw and rub it over his stubbly cheek.
"Ouch!" I'd say because it felt so rough.
Next in the "gettingreadyforwork" ritual came the actual shaving. He would shake his shaving cream can, press the fascinating dispenser top, and with a "whoosh!" out would come creamy mounds of soft, white shaving foam into the cupped palm of his hairy hand. He would then smear it all over his beard, except for one dollop which he would dab on the tip of my nose. That would always make me giggle, wrinkle my nose, rub the cream off with the back of my hand and say,
"You look like Santa Claus, Daddy."
Then, he would take his razor, and quickly shave his face. At that point, he would again take my tiny hand in his hairy paw, and put it to his cheek.
"Ooooh! Soft!" I would exclaim.
Finally, there came my favorite part of the "gettingreadyforwork" ritual, the aftershave. On some nights, it was the shiny white bottle with the ship on it.
"Old Spice," he said.
On other nights, it was the square bottle with the wooden top.
"English Leather," he'd say.
"Is that 'cuz you're from England?"
He would laugh and say, "Of course!"
Off would come the cap of the bottle, and with a "glug-glug-glug," out would pour the aftershave into the palm of his hairy hand. He would rub those hands together and slap his no-longer hairy cheeks with them. He would then turn to me and gently slap my cheeks with his scented paws. Again my nose would wrinkle, and again I'd giggle. He would laugh, too. I always eagerly looked forward to spending this time with my father; sometimes, or at least on one occasion in particular, I was a bit too eager.
That night while on the way to my room, his bathroom door was closed. Upon closer examination, I discovered it was also locked. I was undaunted; I wanted to be with my daddy. There was a second bathroom door, one that was connected to my parents' bedroom, so I opened their bedroom door and walked over to the second bathroom door. Much to my delight, it was wide open. I proceeded to walk into the bathroom.
Something was wrong! He wasn't standing in front of the mirror shaving; he was still in the shower!
I panicked. I didn't know what to do, so I hid just outside the second bathroom door in my parents' room. I couldn't move, for I was frozen in fear. I could feel my pulse and rapid breathing. I wanted to bolt, but for some reason my legs wouldn't move. All I could do was stand there, perfectly still, and wait.
I heard my dad turn off the shower, and heard the echoing sounds of his wet feet on the wet shower tile. I heard him take a towel and dry himself off. The shower door opened with an audible "click," and I heard him step out of the shower, his feet making muffled "thumps" on the bathroom floor with every step he took. The "thumps" became louder and louder as he approached my hiding place. He turned the corner into his bedroom.
"Who's there?" he inquired.
At the moment he ceased being my daddy, and he wasn't even that big hairy monster. As I stood there frozen in fear, I didn't see his alabaster feet, or his hairy legs, or his big hairy belly or his hairy barrel chest. Where were his hairy arms? Where was his slightly hairy back? All of these things were gone because he had not yet put on his towel. All I could see was his huge, white limp penis. I had never seen one like this before, only my baby brother's, which was tiny and benign. My dad's was huge, and it was scary.
My dad must have seen me gaping at it and he became embarrassed. As was typical of my father, his embarrassment turned to anger. His face got red and shiny; the ground seemed to shake with his anger.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!" he thundered.
With that, my frozen fear thawed. I fled for the safety of my bedroom and my own bed. I curled up into a tight fetal position and waited. Then I waited some more. What was I waiting for? A spanking, I guess.
Eventually, my mother came in, smoking her ever present L&M cigarette. She sat next to me on my bed, but she said nothing. She didn't even turn me over her knee for the dreaded spanking.
"I got Daddy mad," I muttered. It was the best I could do with my tumultuous feelings.
"He just lost his temper. He'll get over it." she said matter-of-factly.
"But he's not gonna love me anymore."
"Oh don't be silly. He still loves you."
Then she and her cigarette got up and left. I don't know where they went, but after a short while, I got up too because dinner was ready, and that's when I saw him again. He was all dressed-up, ready for work. I was afraid he might yell at me again. I couldn't look up into his face.
"Hungry?" he said in his normal tone of voice as if nothing had happened.
"Yeah." I mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes.
"Let's go eat!" he said cheerfully.
I then managed to look up and saw his smile. The anger was gone, and there weren't going to be any spankings, just the same smile I had seen a million times before and would see countless times again. Although I felt some relief and even managed to return his smile, somewhere inside I knew that something had changed forever. I wouldn't be spending my after-cartoon, before-dinner time sharing my dad's getting ready for work ritual. Eventually, it was my brother who spent that time in the bathroom with him. It didn't matter if my brother saw my naked father.
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