Bath Time

A man once said to me "I don't get the whole bath thing."

I understand that much of what we women do is a mystery to you fellows, so I'm going to betray the sisterhood and let you in on what goes on when we take a bath.

We arrive in the bath chamber already very pretty and smelling of rainbows and sunshine. In truth, we are never dirty. Well, never very dirty. We look very cute and, of course, we are just totally hawt. We probably will take a moment to stand and pose demurely atop the tanned hide of some unfortunate former beast, probably a bear or a leopard you killed for us- you sweet, sweet man! Taking a moment to pose and consider our own hotness is an important part of the process. We need time to think. Plus we like the idea that if you could see us (and you can't), it would drive you bug-nuts. Tra-La!

We are attended by one or two other women of lower social station than ourselves, always dressed as harem maids. They are cute, but not as cute as we are. They draw a bath of the desired temperature and resplendent with oodles of bubbles and more wonderful-smelling essences of flowers, herbs and various processed bits of dead critter. Hmmmm. Nothing says bathtime like herb-infused musky flowers. ROWR!

We pose again at the edge of our bathing pool, deciding which comely shoulder to slip from the dressing gown first, playing peek-a-boo while the maids feign enthusiasm as they wait to take our fine garments away. [When we bathe, our servants probably play with our wardrobe and other fineries. We must think of appropriate punishments for such presumptuousness. Bitches.] Were you fortunate enough to get a gander into our private little bath chamber, you still would miss the creamy flash of our beautiful naked body as we slip into the water behind diaphanous layers of gossamer silks. Silly stag. Think of it as a reverse performance of Venus rising from the foam. We're just like that. Every time.

We recline into the warm, caressing waters only to suddenly feel very lively, rather frisky, even. Yes, we sit and play with bubbles for hours, giggling at their wondrous symmetry and fragility. Plus, they tickle, and if we could really think it through, we'd realize what's in the bubbles so delights and appeals to us because it's so very like that great raft of pretty nothing knocking about between our ears, but why worry about such things?

In the end, all that really matters is how glorious the bath feels and smells and Damn! We're cute! Did I mention how cute we are?

We are Bettie Page.

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Friday morning, I opened my door to find a box of goodies from Lush on my garden gnome doormat, a luscious little barge of bath bombs. THRILLS! Friday evening found me luxuriating in jasmine-and-mimosa infused waters courtesy of a Sakura bath bomb. Deftly hoisting my novel above the fragrant churning waters, Harry Dresden is, it would appear, in another pickle and made for fast reading as I took lazy draughts of my champagne. After an hour or so, I had to add fresh hot water and gave in to my not-so-inner libertine by cracking into the Bon Bomb, which swathed my glorious naked body in luscious shea butter and more floral essences. Decadent in the most tasteful sort of way. Finally: the proper bath I've been craving.

I smell all nice and flowery. ...and damn! I'm cute. Srsly. I smell like a garden of earthly delights.



And am, in fact, a garden of earthly delights.