One of the rituals of man

Watching men shave is sexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxy. I love it. It's one of those erotic things that no one thinks of as erotic, at least no one I know. But sometimes it just does it for me. It doesn't matter which guy I watch, I like it.... though I have some good memories of specific men...

I would watch one Sam shave and he always put a touch of shaving cream on the tip of my nose, and when I made faces at him he would laugh and wipe it off and kiss me. Then I always smelled like him all day, a touch of clean and menthol.

But I think I really got turned on to watching a man shave when I would watch a specific Sam, many years ago. His face was all slopes and planes and angles with his high cheek bones, pointed chin and Romanesque nose. His face was an interesting one. And he didn't grow a mustache or a goatee; he was a smoothy face. And with this Sam shaving was... an event, I guess. Or a routine. He always turned on the shower first and let the water run the entire time, filling the room with steam while he shaved. He always stood at the sink wearing nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his narrow hips. He always filled the sink with warm water.

The bathroom vanity at his house had a long, low counter running next to the sink. It was something out of a movie scene when I would watch him shave there. I would usually have on a long silk burgundy robe and a pair of kitten heeled mules, with little black maribu on the top, with my painted toes peeking out the ends; completely impractical as 'slippers' go but... These items lived in Sam's closet for the duration of our relationship, waiting for my overnight visits. So there I would sort of lounge, on the vanity, next to the sink, with one bare leg drawn up so I could wrap my clasped hands around my bent knee, the other leg swinging back and forth, slipper dangling off my toe, my hair sort of unruly spilling all over my shoulders, tied back with the robe's belt. I usually smoked a cigarette when I sat there watching him. Oh yeah, talk about setting a scene.

Sam shaved the old fashioned way, to a degree. He still used a Bic razor, something with a triple blade, but he loved to use cream shaving foam in a cup and use an old barber's brush to slather it one. I always liked watching him create the foam, like watching meringue appear in his hands, in the cup, like magic. I like the way the brush danced over his face as he covered the lower half in the cream. After coating his face, I like how he always would like the tip of the brush glide up my leg, from my ankle tattoo to below my knee. He wouldn't look at me as he ran that brush over my skin, but would instead check his reflection in mirror, turning his head this way and that, making sure he had it all there before he applied the razor to his face, even though he had a little smile play at the corners of his lips. So there I would sit with a white stripe up my leg, not saying a word, just watching him, waiting, taking slow, long drags on my unfiltered Camel.

Then he would shave, just like any other man. It wasn't even necessarily that Sam was so sexy, but he was, but all men going through this ritual can be sexy. With Sam, it was nothing fancy, really. Not really complicated. He would just let that razor glide over his skin, gently and slowly, deliberately. He kept his eyes on his own face in the mirror, but he knew I was watching. He was careful as he ran the razor over the dimple in his chin, the divot under his nose, over his Adam's apple, over the smooth plains of his face... He would let the razor caress his skin, erase the foam and then he would dip it in the sink and give the razor a bit of a shake and then resume again. The water made a little splash when the razor went in. Something about the repeated motions, slow and deliberate, careful, smooth, easy, gliding, the fluid motion of the routine of the shave is mesmerizing. The vanishing of the foam and the flick of his wrist was like watching the intricate insides of a clock and all the pieces moving together, yet it was simply his hand, wrist, face, water, razor all becoming one. And the water that dripped from the razor would run in rivulets down his bare chest, like rain droplets. When his face was clear, he would again tip his head this way and that, checking to make sure he didn't miss a spot. He would take the towel from his hips and dab his face, toweling off the dots and dabs of left over foam. Then he would turn to me and lean forward and take a long drag from the cigarette I offered, letting me still hold it between my fingers while he inhaled, resting his fingertips on my wrist, at my pulse, to steady my hand, while he took a lung full of smoke.

He wasn't done yet. Sam would then run his fingers in the foam he left on my leg- locking his eyes on mine, not blinking nor wavering, and exhaling the smoke through his nose slowly, and he then would turn back to the mirror. He would run his flat palm over his steamy reflection, clearing a place to complete his finishing touches; he needed to even up his sideburns. He dabbed the cream he took from my leg onto his sideburns and leaned in close to the mirror. He would apply the razor to each side of his face until they were just right, just perfectly even.

The bathroom by now was hot and steamy, like a sauna and he was getting ready to step into the shower. At this point, he would rinse the razor out and let the water drain from the sink. He would rinse the sink and set the cup and brush on the glass shelf next to the razor. He took the stub of my left over ciggybutt and ran it under the water and tossed it in the trash can. Then he took a towel and ran it over my leg, removing the left over foam he put there, usually bending down and letting his smooth cheek follow in the wake of the towel so I could feel just how smooth, just how close, of a shave he managed.

I do declare, I just love watching a man shave in the morning. Simply love it...

Maggie