The crumpled towel. The sock hanging over the edge of the hamper. The toothpaste squished into a glob with no sense of neatness. The glass on the side table, still holding a few ounces of wine from last night. What a fucking slob he is. Why did I ever let him move in here with me?

Now he’s gargling out some off-key rendition of a Guns-N-Roses song and probably breaking the bar of soap in half. I don’t think I’m very good at sharing. I’m not ready to get in there, but I don’t want him in my damn shower. He can’t see that I’m doing a little brow maintenance as he bangs on the shower glass, so he swings the door open – flooding the room and my mirror with steam. He has no clue, the randy jerk.

“Why waste all this nice hot water – jump in – we’ll do our part to save the earth.” He blurts out, sprinkling my leg with droplets of clumsy come-on. “whaddya say, sexy?”

I turn and give him my best “you’ve got to be kidding” look, and he persists with his all-too-familiar eyebrow-lift move. I turn away as if he’s said nothing to me and wipe the steam off the mirror.

“Your loss.” He sing-songs, retreating back into the shower to mangle yet another 90’s classic.

Although he’s got the arrogance you’d expect from a man that looks like he does, I don’t think he noticed that I eyeballed him pretty good as he hung out of the shower. I peeked at his great arms supporting that taut torso, highlighted by a near-perfect chest. The one thigh I glanced at rippled under the water dripping across it. It didn’t escape my notice that his cock was semi-hard. OK, so he was hot – but today he’s a hot jackoff, in more ways than one. I crack me up.

The water shuts off and the towel over the top rail slips backwards into the shower. He’s stopped singing, but he’s still humming something. Would it be rude to tell him to shut the fuck up, I wonder? This time I’ve already got the hair dryer on to clear the mirror. He pauses in the entry to the shower and rubs himself some more with the towel – and the gaze I feel from his eyes is so obvious, it’s almost painful. The noise of the dryer keeps me from hearing him say something from over there.

The pinch on my ass I can feel. Damn it, I do not want to engage his lusty intent right now – I don’t like him much – and I’m even more pissed because his hand on my ass has triggered a reaction in my nipples that I can’t hide. I push his hand away and lean in towards the mirror.

“Not now, jeez.” I sputter, “I’ve got to get ready.”

He brushes by me on his way out, making sure his semi-erect cock reaches out and pushes the fabric of his towel against my flimsy robe. I sigh loudly and obviously as he leaves. Back to the mirror and I try to get the day ahead in focus. Lots of deadline action the next few days and a fussy client at the top of the list this afternoon. Was he still wet when he left the bathroom?

“Excuse me,” leaning just past my ribs he reaches to open the drawer with the combs and brushes “thank you!” He looks up at me with a sly grin, pausing his glance along the curve of my breast and the stiff nipple trying to escape out of the edge of my loosely tied garment. Another eyebrow lift from him, and another eye-rolling from me. He takes the largest hairbrush, my favorite, and exits.

The list of grievances is getting longer, the conflicting feelings getting more confusing, the hand on the clock behind me moving much too quickly.