It’s Not Tuesday, But It May Be TMI Anyway

Gracie and I were working on a list of questions to send in for TMI Tuesday, and one of the questions we discussed, but opted not to use, was this one: Looking back, what’s the one thing you’ve done which was supposed to be erotic, but didn’t quite work out?

We decided not to submit it because we figured that perhaps not many folks have been as strange as we’ve been. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that many of the participants are too young to have had as many idiots and experiences as we have yet… Anyway, our discussion naturally included our own stories. Now that it’s on my mind, I figured I should share it. *wink*

At 19 I dated this guy, a body builder named Tony, and I figured I’d impress him by cooking for him. I asked him his favorite meal, and spent the entire day preparing it.

Chicken Cacciatore, made from scratch, involves several nasty things, including de-boning a chicken and anchovies. (Anchovies, by the way, my cat wouldn’t eat — which apparently was the foreshadowing in this little story.)

I spent all day preparing the meal, cleaning the apartment, setting a pretty table, and making sure I looked fresh and fancy myself. (Not dressy, but something that made me look wonderful — and belied the fact that all of this wasn’t easy.)

Anyway, Tony arrives, and sits down to eat. He ate with gusto, which should have been enough, but typically neurotic, I sat nibbling at my meal waiting for some compliment. As he moved on to seconds and thirds, my anticipation continued to build and I was ready to explode.

Finally, as I cleared the table I could stand it no longer and I blurted out, “Well? Did you like it?”

“I ate it, didn’t I?” was his (insensitive) response.

“I spent all day cooking it — I de-boned a chicken and the only reason my fingers don’t smell like stinky anchovies is because I bleached the kitchen counters, and then took a perfumed shower to boot! And all you can say is ‘you ate it’?!”

Tony sat dumbfounded — not just because he was a stupid 21 year old guy, but because it had never occurred to him that this meal, any meal, could be so much trouble.

“I just expected you to pour some spaghetti sauce over some chicken and microwave it…” he said. “That’s what my mom does,” he tacked on pathetically as some sort of explanation.

Shocked, I went into the kitchen — shooing off his assistance because I needed a little time to sort that all out and cool off enough not to ruin the evening. Kitchen and mind in better order, I joined him in the living room.

“I’m sorry,” he said grabbing my hand. And like the young idiot I was, I forgave him entirely.

“I have other plans, if you’re interested…”

“Please don’t tell me you made dessert — I can’t eat a thing right now,” he moaned (equal parts apology, begging, and fear that I’d be hurt again).

“No,” I said, grabbing his hand and tugging him off the couch.

He came willingly, trailing me like a puppy, as I led him to the bathroom. I stripped out of my jeans and removed my bra (in that mysterious way) yet kept my beaded t-shirt (yeah, it was the 80’s) and panties on — and then stuck my hand past the shower curtain and turned the water on.

Tony’s eyes grew large, but he wasn’t quite sure what was going on here.

Me, I knew. I figured that I couldn’t, shouldn’t, count on my cooking skills alone — a way to a man’s heart was through his cock, not his stomach — so I had planned something better than a dessert to top off the evening.

Using my hand to test the water and making sure the shower curtain was inside the tub I then turned to Tony. He had started to remove his shoes, anticipating joining me in the shower, but I told him, “No, just wait.”

Poor thing was even more confused and I giggled both at his discomfort and with my own anticipation. “Just watch,” I said as I stepped into the tub in my tee shirt and panties.

The look on his face was priceless — but not the one I had expected. I continued with my plan anyway.

I stepped into the shower’s spray and arched my back to get my chest wet, then I grabbed my hair and held it above my head — knowing it showed off my breasts nicely.

At first I thought his stupor was due to all the blood only traveling to the other head… Then he spoke. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” I asked, quickly moving from amused to miffed.

“Why are you showering with your clothes on?”

“I’m giving you your own wet t-shirt contest, and you’re complaining?”

“I – I don’t get it…”

“It’s simple,” I said, “You stand and watch me, watch the wet material cling to me — and if you shut up, I’ll dance a bit and tease you–“

“Tease me? Why not just let me in, or go to the bed…”

Now I was stupefied. I dropped my arms and let my hair fall.

What man couldn’t appreciate a little teasing? Oh, wait… He’s not a man, he’s a male, a guy; it’s all about the lay, not the tease. Like Chicken Cacciatore made from canned spaghetti sauce, it’s all about instant gratification.

The cool water, temperature set to be as comfortable as possible and still give me those erect nipples, continued to spray on me — but it did not, I repeat, not cool me off. I was not just disappointed, but pissed.

“Get out,” I said.


“Get out, Tony, and don’t ever call me,” I commanded.

“I don’t understand… Are you on something?”

Me? On drugs? Oh shit, that was it; I began to laugh. A manic laugh which I suppose only supported his accusation, but I didn’t care.

“Listen, this isn’t going to work. I want a man. A man who will appreciate my efforts. My efforts making a fine dinner and a fun way to turn him on. I don’t want a boy. So, boy, go find yourself a girl who will be impressed with tweak-tweak hump-hump, because baby, you’ve been dumped.” (Yeah, sometimes I rhyme when I’m really pissed — it’s part of my superior wit which I like to use when I know I am so justified in my righteous anger that I am amused by it all.)

Well, Tony left alright. And I had the fun of stripping from my wet clothes alone before the cat and I curled up in bed with a good book.

For a number of years, I only dated men 20 years older than I. Took me number of them to realize that age doesn’t necessarily make a guy a man either. And now I’m married to a man — a real man — a decade younger than myself.

Come to think of it, I’ve never done the wet t-shirt shower dance for him… I’ll have to go look for my old beaded tee.

Wet shower pics via

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