Yes, the husband and I occasionally shower together. Yes, it is nothing like what I write in my books.
If you’ve read a single book I’ve written, you know I have a thing for bathroom sex. I’m pretty sure it’s present—or at the very least, alluded to—in every novel I’ve published. And, if I do say so myself, it’s usually H-O-T, like really hot. As hot as I write it, I occasionally forget about reality and convince myself I should try it again. And it sometimes goes like this…
Me: “Holy shit, that water is hot. I think my skin just melted.”
Him: “I was cold. It feels good.”
Me: “Are you ill? You’re never cold. We moved to Michigan from Louisiana because you literally could not take the heat.”
Him: “No, I’m not ill. And seriously, I was cold. I got caught in the rain, and it’s only like 50 degrees outside.”
Me: “I think you’ve become a senior citizen. And I’m menopausal.”
Him: “Pass the anti-dandruff shampoo.”
The age-old argument over water temperature aside, let’s talk logistics. In a typical home, that space ain’t very big. Even if you purchase one of those cool rounded shower curtain rods like they have in hotel rooms, that’s just an illusion. The space, the diameter, the square footage; it’s all still the same, even if your butt isn’t plastered to a mildew-coated piece of plastic hanging from cute seashell shaped shower rings. When you try any sort of hanky-panky, somebody’s going to be uncomfortable, awkward, possibly end up with a dislocated shoulder.
And if you are successful, what then? What do you do? You can’t cuddle, because all the hot water’s gone, and by that point, even my old-lady hormones are cold. So you turn off the water, grab your towels and dry off, all the time avoiding looking into the mirror, because usually when you’re in this room alone, you’re critiquing yourself in that looking glass, and that’s the last thing you want to do after having just had semi-successful sex in the shower.
And that’s when the casual conversation starts. You start talking about your day. Your asshole boss or the latest antics of the office slut or the shitty commute or the kid’s grades or the fact that you have just noticed the bathroom floor hasn’t been mopped since the last time you had company, which thanks to your busy schedules was a couple seasons of Game of Thrones ago.
And then the moment’s over. It’s business as usual. Back to your normal weekday routine. Stressing about bills, mentally preparing for the next day, wondering if the weekend will ever get here, possibly even speculating about when you’ll have sex again.
Except next time, you’d rather do it in bed. Or on the couch. No – let’s try the dining room table next. Surely that will be as sexy as it is in romance novels.
Tami Lund writes paranormal romance. She also wins awards and drinks a lot of wine. If you’re curious about what kind, check her out on Twitter.