The shower is to you what a couch with the exact shape of his ass indented into it is to a middle-aged man.
Here, you are pure. You've committed no crimes, never hurt a friend when you step into the spray. The water douses your skin, completely washing you free of all sense of being.
Here, you are nothing. Here, you are just space wasted. Here, you are endless.
You call it your ablution chamber for a reason.
Your calloused feet press against the cool tile as you step into the tub and turn the handle to change the water's temperature past the point of scalding.
When you shower in outrageously hot temperatures, the constant sting and burn that almost paralyzes you under its spray gives the sense of atonement for your being. Though you are free of burden in this place, your self-loathing is a tattoo, a thing you don't always pay attention to but are aware of its presence, a constant reminder of your self-hatred, though you try not to dwell on yourself.
The water that drenches you for hours at a time makes you feel absolutely euphoric because in that time, you have no obligations, no friends, no corporeal body. You feel nothing, and you're addicted to the nothingness as if it were a drug. You love it more than anything, and accept its embrace like a lover's greeting.
But your mind can sometimes be a total asshole and refuse to let your shower be your lover of the evening, and instead supplies you with plenty of images of a man holding you in a lover's embrace.
For the most part, you feel like the hot spray dissolves your stressors, erases your mind, and shatters your being until you are merely a speck, existing with no true purpose than to stand in your shower and be.
But sometimes you will stand under the spray and toy with anything that comes to mind, like a random formula or a reminder to upgrade your robot's main circuitry. You are content with lazily scrubbing your scalp with shampoo and conditioner or gingerly rubbing an orange loofah across your reddened skin with care, taking your time. As you wash yourself, you notice your body in detail; the slight muscular tone your body has acquired from ceaselessly working, typing, and swordfighting, the pale hairs that make up your pubes, a thing you attempt to keep shaven at all times, and the slight spatter of freckles that spatter across your arms, chest, and shoulders.
Sometimes, you replay a witty conversation you held with Jane, or consider a deep talk you had with Lalonde.
More often than not you think about Jake. And more often than you think about him, you fantasize.
Your conditioner sits for approximately fifteen minutes in order to get the full effects of it, so you ensure those fifteen minutes are spent wisely.
The shower is by far your favorite venue when it comes to sexual fantasies concerning your best friend, although you much prefer when you don't think at all during your bathtime.
You let your back rest against the cool wall and daydream about the way his body would feel pressing you into the shower wall, hands on your hips, lips on your pulse, and hard cock slick against yours under the spray.
You let out a soft groan as you grip your hardening cock and imagine it's his nervous palm rather than your own. You like to think Jake is just as talkative during sex as he is during a phone call or text conversation, so your imagination never ceases to supply you with phrases he could utter in the heat of the moment.
"Great googly moogly, Dirk, is that a shampoo bottle between your legs or are you just happy to see me?" Jake would ask as he'd bite a smile. Your face breaks into a grin and you moan a little louder, jerking your hand a little faster.
"Is this okay?" he would ask you, a little more hesitant, a little more timid. You think of kissing him languidly, savoring the feel of his overbite and chapped lips. You nod to no one and reach your unoccupied hand towards your ass, hesitating before slowly sinking half of your index finger in. A few seconds pass and you're thrusting it inside, eager to get off. It burns a little, but you've learned to ignore it and focus on the pleasure. You want Jake to do this to you, smelling like your body wash and fucking you in your shower.
You're not going to last much longer, and you're relieved this wasn't a very long masturbation session. Your conditioner will be done setting in two minutes, forty-five seconds.
"Jake, please, fuck me," you beg, desperate to finish on the thought of him. In your head, you skip to the image of him inside of you, fucking you at a steady pace and kissing you senseless.
"Come for me, love," he would groan into your kiss.
You tug your dick twice more before your orgasm leaves you panting and hot against the cold surface of your shower. You come to your senses and turn the faucet to the left, chilling the water to a mild temperature. You rinse out the conditioner with a sour expression and try not to think about anything.
You fail and step out of the shower moments later, hoping that tomorrow night will be different, so you don't have to remind yourself of the man that doesn't love you.