It started as a tiny little thing. We would meet in the mornings, in front of the mirror as I still had my bathrobe on. It was just once a day, a little peck on the chin. Then it happened more frequently. I waited with anticipation while watching the two lips near. They skipped down, coolness against my warm skin, caressing at certain spots. Then the lips pressed together and lifted, as I experienced the brief moment of loss, of separation, like the tiniest pinpricks of pain.
Yet, despite the pain, I came back for more.
It took time away from my daily schedule. I would brush fingers across my chin in remembrance. Then my will power would weaken. I dashed into the bedroom for our meeting. Always there for me, always eager to please, never turning me down for what I desire.
The cool lips. The pressure. The joy.
What more could I have ever asked for? This affair doesn’t require much from me. I don’t have to put on any airs. I don’t have to impress anyone. It doesn’t matter if I’m wearing baggy sweat clothes, a tight dress, or nothing at all.
All the other one wants from me are a mirror and a waiting chin.
I have become obsessed with a secret affair. I have become obsessed with my secret lover and must tell the world how I feel. I must show the world who my lover is and how they fulfil me.
It’s a woman’s greatest dread (unless you’re part of a carny freak show) to look into a mirror and see a straggly goatee forming on your chin. The urge to pluck . . . pluck . . . pluck . . . those hairs is irresistible. And my tweezers always meet me with kissing lips.
My secret lover.