Soft Cowboy Hands

I wash and massage his body.  He lays flat on the concrete slab in the Turkish Hammam.  The room is bare except for the shower  head and blue grotto-like light. Even when others walk in I focus on the ritual of bathing him.  I have been doing it every Sunday for two years.  We are not lovers, but I know his body.  It is strong and wide;  the muscles are thick.  In the humid heat of the room, I stand over him and dig into the walls of his legs, arms, neck and back to massage the skin with purpose.  He brings the home-made salt scrubs,  liquid soaps and branches for the platza.  Every Sunday we share our passion for the ancient rituals of shvitzing.  Sometimes, we go to the beach and smoke pot, taking drags in the sea oats. Then we sit on the sand and stare at the waves.  When we go back inside the bathhouse he bathes me.  

At first, I did not know how to touch the body of man I did not love,  but he taught me (the secret is to adapt the tension to the weight of the muscle so that you are neither too gentle or too rough on the skin) .  He says I have soft cowboy hands.  I thank him for the compliment and tell him that I've always wanted  to be androgynous. I remember a favorite quote by a French connoisseur of the 17th century:  A beautiful woman who has all the good qualities of a man is the most wonderful thing in the world.