Meryl Natchez

After the party when you’ve collapsed on the couch, leaving the mess for the morning and he gets up as if it were the most natural thing and fills one sink with soapy water and starts moving the sponge along each plate and cup until the dishwasher is full, nothing sexier than his hands dripping soap suds, his love handles peeping out from his shirt as he moves his fingers up and down, around and over, nudging the crud from the tines of the forks, emptying the sink, nothing hotter than the tendons of his arms as he swabs the counter and when he’s done your fatigue has disappeared and you can’t get to him fast enough and even the longest schlong in Cincinnati can’t compete with that.