Was it nervous laughter from the toilet while I was in the bathtub getting off?
Maybe jealous chuckle disbelief that my best friend was pooping while
her intense faucet sprayed my clit with hot water pounding
loud like only shooting water does on porcelain?
She went after me only twice of the easy fifty times I came
under her bedroom bathtub faucet; rainbow sunlight streaming from the
orange wedge bubbled glass over my tanned legs against the pink tub rim,
so much air, so open, like a bedroom sized bathroom tiled with white ceramic
and gauzy drapes to block the neighbor’s telescoping eyes.
I can’t point to one incident that stalled my shared
washroom masterbation; but between freshman college and graduation
I took my pleasure private.