I go back to the closet and dig out face wash and styling product. There’s a blow dryer—my make and model—and a round ceramic brush. “You gonna watch this part, too?” He’s resting his forearms on his thighs, and he gazes up at me from under sooty eyelashes, a sheen on his olive skin from the steam. His undershirt is damp and clinging to his sculpted pecs. He’s hard. There’s a tent in his pants that he’s making no effort to hide.
