"The truth is rarely pure and never simple." - Sex Stories

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple." I turn the handle and the jets of hot water stop immediately. I slide open the glass door, step, soaking wet and naked, into the warm, steam filled bathroom and reach for the plush towel of Sea Island cotton on the heated rail. I dry my face, but neglect the rest of body, simply drag the terry cloth lazily down my chest and wrap it loosely around my waist. I stand in front of the fogged up mirror and clear the condensation away with the edge of my palm, revealing the familiar sight of my own reflection. I inspect my features carefully. My advanced years are definitely visible, but I've held up well. Distinguished, not old and haggard. I always think I look best straight after a shower. Each almond shaped eye is centred by a coffee brown iris around a black pupil. The surrounding whites are still bright and clear. My nose is prominent, but not obnoxiously large. Fleshy lips, bottom heavy, but with good vertical symmetry. A thick, slightly salt and pepper, beard frames my face nicely. Lifting my chin and turning my face from side to side, I run my fingertips across the coarse stubble on my cheeks and neck. I load the badger hair brush with Taylor of Old Bond street shaving cream and whip up a lather, which I apply in quick, tight circles. A fresh blade in the heavy double edge razor. With measured strokes I slice through the excess growth, leaving behind smooth skin, contrasted by short, dark, wiry hairs along my jawline and around ...

... my mouth. The rich, oriental perfume of sandalwood hangs in the air. Lather again for my head and by expertly gliding the sharp steel over my scalp, I reduce the brushy, suede texture to a shiny, polished finish. A splash of water to remove the leftover foam and my grooming is complete. I examine my handiwork. No nicks, cuts or grazes, just clean shaven skin, along side neatly shaped facial hair. I can't resist a sly smirk of approval. I may not be a devilishly handsome eighteen-year-old anymore, but I'm several levels above merely presentable. I dry myself off, deodorant under each arm and a splash of cologne. A masculine, woody scent, infused with spice, bay, bergamot and a slight, fresh citrus note. I cast off the towel and walk into the bedroom. Standing, still naked, in front of my open wardrobe, it's time to pick my outfit for the evening. I reject my usual combination of chinos, Oxford shirt and blazer. Tonight is a special occasion and calls for something sharper. I have a few nice suits, but which one to choose? Not the pinstripe, of course. Maybe the black Prada? No, tonight is not the night for Italian. The Christian Dior, in glen plaid, I bought in Paris last year? Closer, but still not right. Then my hand lands on the black nylon cover hanging at the end of the rail. I think I had already made the decision long before opening the cupboard door. Toying with the other options was just killing time. This was the clear choice from the very beginning. I remove it and ...