I sit on the toilet in his t-shirt, slipped on hastily, no bra. Sometimes my own shirt and skirt, no tights. On a toilet with a roll of toilet paper that sits on the ground.
Or that sits on the sink, or infuriatingly enough on the top of the empty roll. Or there is none at all, and I have to kegel-it-out on the porcelain throne. I wash my hands. Sometimes I do not wash my hands. I use the soap if I think the soap smells good. I flush and check for roommates, again. I take only moments. I am like a ninja before and after the fact.
I kiss on the cheek, move covers aside, jump off the bed. I am back, to rest on his chest and talk about something like dinner, maybe smelling something like peaches or anything but apple.
It is after sexual intercourse, and while I am prepared to eventually be all post-coital curl and goddess glow, I have things to do. The post-sex command from the woman who bore me. My mother is not one to give me sex tips. When I was 13 and in the shower, she told me what sexual intercourse entailed. Just the in-and-out facts, and she had to bite her hand because she was laughing so hard. I believe these mothers exist, and I know this because one of the coolest mothers in my 2nd grade class always gave kiddie thongs to us girls as birthday presents.
I was told be safe, of course. In college, I accompanied her to pick up eggrolls at some Grand Sizchuan or another, and I told her I was no longer a virgin. I can even make a well-placed and appropriate birth control joke. I get my sex tips through ignoring Cosmopolitan, sometimes learning from Cosmopolitan, my buddies, and good old-fashioned experience.
And I got one very prominent, constantly used sex tip from my mother. I know that I was eating dinner and a bomb dropped from her lips. I was chewing chicken and did not choke. If I stay very still, will more stuff happen? She changed the subject to something along the lines of Sandra Bullock, and that was the last time my mother told me about something you should do during or after sexual intercourse. And let me tell you, that stu-uh-uckkk with me. If she says a shirt will shrink in the wash and I protest and slam down my money in weak, flannel-trend-of-the-moment protestation, it will come out from the wash a size 2.
And 2 beats my size 4. Do not drag your heels because you will wear out your boots. For gosh sake, pee after you have sex! And yes, I know. Everybody knows to urinate after sex. We all know peeing after intercourse flushes us out. We all know that taking our birth control at exactly the right time on every day will keep us safe from getting pregnant. And I know that some things slip the radar or the mind, purposefully or not. These are the things we tell ourselves, the things people have stopped telling us because they believe we are old enough to know them.
Not where to put my legs or anything, just be okay. And sometimes I forget to be safe, be okay -- this I say to myself on way too many occasions as a year-old who just barely knows how to stock her fridge, pay her bills. All I do know is that if you are a gentleman having sex with a lady, that lady is a sister and a friend and a daughter. And sometimes that daughter learns she should urinate after sex.