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Many coital acts, when romanticized by creative types and their little “movies” are portrayed in a manner far more glamorous than they play out in real life. Take for example, the oft displayed cliche: a frantic, ridiculous fumbling out of the clothes tryst while rolling off the bed/couch/table/etc until you both fall on the floor laughing but somehow not impaled or needing to go to the hospital—and apparently still able to finish the deed and make it look like a satisfactory performance. Such nonsense is reserved for artistic, purely fictional portrayals, intended on making the viewer feel better about themself because, “hey, look! pretty people have awkward sex, too!”
Rubbish.
The display of such an event is so painfully overdone, its viewing is merely visual punctuation in an otherwise banal, recycled plot line that even the most touch-starved individual is sick of as it was, in the end, merely a way to separate the viewer from their time, money and braincells with the promise that maybe THIS time it’ll be different! Sorry, Cathy but our princess is in another castle in a galaxy far, far away reading a book on how to teach your vibrator to mow the lawn and sipping expensive tea, painfully unconcerned with the upcoming release of “How can I fuck this sure thing up in the last eight minutes so I need to beg for forgiveness in front of a crowd of, apparently wise and witty strangers, and somehow convince her to get off that flight and move in with me and my parents.”
Getting a little off track here. Ok, sorry, sexy time.
Turning our attention back to this particular, somewhat fresh, but mostly incoherent plot, we find an opportunity to introduce our primary players, a demon and an angel. The two of them very much in love, determined on finding new and exciting ways to bring each other to that ever so beautiful state of bliss achieved with a squelchy union of flesh. And as there are quite a few previously explored avenues to go down with such an ordeal, many of them with explicit instructions, our players have made their way through a few with varying levels of success. The saucy details of these encounters have been documented by others ad nauseam in various forms so we will focus today on one of the less than successful, but highly entertaining, ones.
Lucky you. Off we go!
The topic of cleanliness amongst humans is sometimes a controversial thing. There are huge industries built up around the most specific of items, made for some of the rather small, least visible, and hardly sexy areas of the body. You need only visit the deodorant aisle (yes, a whole aisle in most cases) to understand the lengths humans will go to tailor products so specific to one area that they take a literal life of their own. Powdery fresh to whiskey and woods, there’s a whole litany of things humans can choose to make their armpits smell like, except what they would smell like naturally.
Since humans cannot simply miracle away their unpleasant odors, dirt or other general filth with so much as a thought, the instruments they’ve invented to manage these conditions are naturally tailored to individual tastes, seemingly right down to the bizarre. Looking at you, Burger King perfume.
It is to these particular instruments that we turn our attention, specifically the one called a shower. From its early beginnings as one of the most majestic natural items to exist, the lovely waterfall, to the eventual prototype that resembled a device ripped from the inquisition and onto the modern marbled marvels we have today in sprawling, ostentatious splendor with rainfall shower heads and 27 jets that hit you in every crevice but somehow don’t actually get you cleaner than a simple bucket over the head and increase your water bill by 300%. We’re going to focus on the basics here though, the accessible one you probably have in your own home. Simple, understated, functional, and probably white in color. Maybe you are even lucky enough to have those little grippy fish stickers on the bottom.
Scanning the scene, we’ve got the usual suspects in play, the assorted shampoos and conditioners, the probably bacteria ridden loofah, a bar of soap with the logo worn off (but probably Dove because wings) and our two anxious actors, Crowley and Aziraphale, who are feeling … dirty.
As levers rises from low, to high, and the heat begins to climb, our actors begin to warm up for their scene. Temperatures elevate in tandem with our heroes tools of pleasure that we will soon focus our attentions on, because we’re surely not here for celestial bathing tips.
“Dear boy, it would appear you fancy me,” noted Aziraphale, staring at Crowley’s magically magnifying member, “unless you mean to just simply polish every crease on that,” noting with a smile as he rose up from bending over to neatly tuck his shower slippers off to the side and eventually meet Crowley’s gaze. “Well, yes, it would seem that way wouldn’t it. I don’t just take to the skies for any old angel,” and after a brief pause he adds “how about you slip out of that robe and join me.” Aziraphale slyly grinned to one side and said, “well, we shouldn’t let such an uprising go uncelebrated.”
Now that we’ve set up our steamy scene, let’s look around a bit as to give the stage a bit more light. This particular shower has been equipped with a pair of convenient recessed, built-in shelves, handy for keeping one’s bathing products within reach; however, Crowley is rather fond of a unique brand of shower supplies that don’t quite fit on the shelf. And as neither angels nor demons bathe with any regularity due to them being naturally zestfully clean, he buys them just to adorn the bath, as one does. The bottles themselves are quite lovely, and the packaging did win an award and in all fairness make quite the marital aid, so naturally, sinful types find them attractive. This does present a problem for our two actors, as they mean to immerse themselves in this act to the point of actually using the shampoo, even though they haven’t the first idea what to do with it.
“So, are you feeling … dirty?” asked Aziraphale, doing his best to switch on the already, noticeably aroused demon. “I suppose I do,” said Crowley, as he wrapped his arms around his angel, bringing him closer, close enough to wrap his unfurled wings around in an embrace that would cause the water to run between them, trickling down, slowly and then faster as it hits the curves of each of them like a sensual stream looking for a larger body to run into. And as the water finds its way down, twisting and turning like a hooding of asps, our demon thrusts in with a kiss to bring us fully into our opening act where our performers turn, and dance like the water falling around them.
Their wings, now dripping, entwined amongst their limbs, guiding the water down past their shoulders, to their chests and then further down, down, to where our gazes now focus, quite hungrily, on our performer’s instruments. With a glorious sheen and a steady quiver resembling a horse at the starting gate, the anticipation mounts as the pair continue their dance, oscillating slowly around the stage in a slinky, sopping, sex ballet.
Still continuing the embrace on his demon, Aziraphale picks up one of the tantalizing shampoo bottles. They both break for a minute, staring it. As neither uses this particular product and there’s more of a phallic-shaped head at the top rather than a cap, they assess the situation and Crowley decides the best approach is to squeeze the bottle until something happens, since that’s what usually happens when he squeezes something that looks like what’s in his hand.
Not unlike the typical outcome of a strongly gripped and gently stroked angelic wand, the bottle explodes in a fury of sticky, white goo. And like a guided missile, lands squarely in Aziraphale’s eye. Unsure of what the next few seconds had in store for him, Azi plainly remarks, “I’m not quite sure it’s meant to … AAAAHHHHHIIIE!” as the pain familiar to some of us who progressed past the “no more tears” kind of shampoo are familiar with firmly took hold and our poor angel was stricken with panic as his eyes flamed up from the caustic effects of penis bottle shampoo.
“What do I do?!?” he yelled at Crowley, not quite understanding the demon had about as much sense on how to handle the situation as himself and would likely just make things worse by trying to help. Crowley stood there for a second or two, weighing his options and the best he could come up with after that time was to take the bottle that was still in his hand and try to whack the substance out of Azirphale’s eyes as it appeared to be clinging on like an Alien face hugger that had not completely taken hold of its host.
As the bottle connected with some of the shampoo but most of Aziraphale’s nose, Crowley assessed his plan with an objectivity close to that of a cinder block with severe dementia and did what most do when they see their lovers in pain, panic like a baker wearing dollar store oven mitts. Crowley figured that repeated swipes at the gelatinous invader might do the trick and again swatted at Azi’s face, forgetting that he was still wearing his sunglasses which severely impaired his depth perception. So much so that his blows not only didn’t land anywhere near the shampoo but missed Aziraphale entirely and struck the shower curtain rod with enough force to bring it crashing down to the floor, exposing the our two players to the now extreme temperature difference of a shower and a well ventilated bathroom.
“Crowley! Help Me!” pleaded Aziraphale who still had a generous helping of shampoo covering his right eye. With his first plan shot to pieces, Crowley tried once again to aid his lover in this most difficult and unfamiliar situation. He grabbed Aziraphale and forced him under the running water in an attempt to rinse off the goop from his face. And while this remedy proved a success, it did create another problem in that the shampoo formerly on Aziraphale’s face was now covering the shower floor in a precariously ice rink like way that can only lead to another mishap in our unfolding smut folly. Let’s hope there’s actual sex sometime soon.
With a hurried determination akin to a cup stacking championship, our heroes return the shower curtain to its rightful place and settle back into our recently anarchic play because there’s sex to be had. Eventually, maybe somewhere, if not here.
Now that the actors have taken the stage once again for what we suppose would be the second act, we rescan the scene for signs of life amongst the billowing steam. Moving inward, we remember the slippery floor that our hurried actors have apparently forgotten. Steam might not do much to enhance the viscosity of a floor covered with shampoo but it does indeed obscure the vision of those within close proximity to said floor. And while our passioned lovers are singly focused on completing the final act of this insane smut circus, that slippery surface goes completely unnoticed. Until…
Our players continue the dance, entwined like daisies in the wind, petals flowing with a gentle caress as they sway, electricity begins … wait, stop this is a shower, no electricity …
An energy devoid of shocking capability runs through the two as they begin their mating ritual, each taking the other in his hand as they turn … stroke … more and more while the FLUMP!
BLAM!
OW!
BLOODY HELLLL!
“Auuuuugh…” our actors groan in unison as the recently forgotten shampoo that hadn’t fully run down the drain did what it does best when on a somewhat slippery surface, makes it more slippery. As they sat for a brief moment contemplating their next move, the six bottles of fancy hair products that did actually fit on the shelf that were just shaken close enough to the edge come sailing down towards our disenchanted lovers like bombs falling in a raid, taking aim on the remaining delicate parts that haven’t been assaulted just yet, and one by one hit their target with deft accuracy.
BLAP! THUNK! DUNK! As the bottles fell one by one, all but wiping away any romance from our sexy play, with the last one falling on what Crowley would come to understand is his patellar tendon, discovering the well-known knee-jerk reflex, and causing his leg to jut out and once again bring down the shower curtain on top of the two bruised and soaked lovers in a sort of death shroud, as it would appear any chance of sexy time during this ordeal was surely deceased.
Deciding finally that this whole ordeal isn’t worth the pain, our actors lock eyes with intense, furious precision and move in tandem to ignite with a kiss. A beautiful, warm kiss that only two lovers who have been through a mighty sex battle could bring to life. And as the rain continued to fall on our enshrined actors, with the sultry conflict’s artillery strewn around them and the haze beginning to thin, we zoom closer to focus on these two who have all but forgotten everything else except each other and why they decided to even shower in the first place. The fact that they are painfully, hopelessly and ridiculously in love.