The High Cost Of Chivalry

I love to have my hair played with. I go to a hair salon partly because I know someone is going to be gently rubbing my scalp and brushing my hair. It’s just sooo soothing. Last night during a Boston Bruins first intermission, I asked Marty to brush my hair. He smiled and jovially proclaimed to be an expert hair brusher. I quickly, excitedly, went for my brush.

As soon as I sat on the floor in front of Marty and he began tenderly brushing my hair, I knew that it could lead to something even more sensual, more amorous. And then when he began softly running the fingers of his other hand through my hair, I thought sure that it was going to evolve into something erotic. But it didn’t. After eight or ten minutes of an absolutely heavenly hair brushing, Marty handed me my hairbrush, I climbed back up onto the sofa, and gave him a thank you kiss. We then went back to watching the Bruins on TV.

I think a month ago the same circumstances would have quickly fostered more sensual activity, assuming that a month ago I would have been forward enough to ask Marty for a hair brushing. But yesterday that did not happen… well, not at first. It wasn't the hair brushing that did it. It was more the fact that Marty was so wonderfully obliging when I asked him. I sat there through the 2^nd period of the hockey game curled up alongside Marty, with the hairbrush on my lap. Now and then I would glance down to it, and every time I did I would think of how I had asked Marty to brush my hair and how he had cheerfully obliged me and used that hairbrush to give me a few minutes of bliss.  

In a strange sort of way it was not the hair brushing that turned me on, in a kind of delaying action it was Marty happily indulging me that turned me on. The poor guy was asked to indulge me one more time later last night. I won’t tell you what that entailed; I’ll just say that we did not see the 3^rd period of the hockey game.