The razor's edge.

When you're usually up for work and rushing out the door before four o'clock in the morning, it's total decadence to enjoy shaving in the early afternoon, completely taking one's time.

My parlour is thrumming with Peter Gabriel and I'm still tasting my tea as I strip and stroll into my bathroom. The cats slink around my naked calves, mewling to their Daddy. They vanish at the sound of hot water rushing into the sink.

I set the trimmer to the shortest setting and slowly crop my beard until it's just longer than a shadow. When I shower later, I'll be caressing conditioner inside it... experience has taught me that the softer my beard is, scented just slightly with sandalwood and oak moss, the more a lover enjoys my kisses.

Or my passion for gently feasting upon her fabulously flushed, feral folds. We can't have chafed thighs, after all.

Draping a towel across the sink, I tie my hair back, tug my ponytail over my shoulder, and bite the end between my teeth. After aligning the hand-mirror so I can see the back of my head on the wall, I clik the electric razor on and start trimming. I'm making a neat line just under the rear of my ears so that, when the hair is tied up, I won't have tiny strands of hair under the pull-line. When I'm finished, I'll look like an Apache from behind and the upper neck will be smooth and kissable.

Peter is singing about how he loves to be loved. I smile in agreement as I cup handfulls of hot water and caress the back of my neck with it, my jawline, my throat. Rivulets of hot water slither down my back and chest, twitching its way across my nipples. I lather soft vanilla soap in my warm hands. I look into my long-lashed babybrowns as I spread the lather across my face in small circles. The steel blade in my hand gently carves my short fur into a pleasing shape, revealing enough of my face that I'm not hiding, framing my mouth and my cheekbones with supple, teasing brushes of beard.

I splash myself. I can feel the water making a path down my chest, across my abdomen. My cock, soft and thick against my bare scrotum, receives the tiniest rivulet of warm water down its length. I feel a drop against my frenulum. It tickles.

The water curves upward as it follows the contours of my soft skin, and slowly I feel wetness at my full testicles. It's warm and relaxing. While washing my jawline clean, I smile in the gentle pleasure of it. It's worth making the bathroom floor just a little wet.

I enjoy being a man.