I don't really want him to shower. The appeal of a fireman is the soot, don't you think? I want his muscles slick with sweat, streaked with dirt and the shadows of smoke. I want the outlines of his jaw highlighted by a ragged smudge of black powdered damage.
He will be a good lover, but a near silent one. He lives to help and to please other people...he sacrifices himself for their lives, for their health. But a chance for intimacy after being away for so long will make him slow and luxuriant. He will stroke my hair and kiss deeply and inhale the smell of our bed. He wants life and safety after working in danger. I picture him with tired eyes, heavily lidded. He will have strong arms, thick with biceps built from work, not working out, that will hold me tightly while fucking, and then give me a place to rest when we're done.
He will sleep like a rock, the side of his cleanly shaven, angular face reflecting blue moonlight, my head on his chest that rises and falls with deep, refueling breaths.
In the morning he will shower, washing away the smell of fire and sweat and sex, and I will watch his body through the mottled glass door, the silhouette, the tight abs and chest covered with a touch of hair, the dark treasure trail that leads to his groin, long legs, strong feet. He will emerge and wrap a white towel around his narrow waist, pushing the damp hair from his eyes and examining a bruise from last night's run to a heroic, newsworthy fire that is nothing to a man of his experience. There's a touch of gray hair at his temples, and a scruff that he won't shave because he's now "off" for forty eight hours.
He'll slip on his navy blue t-shirt and well worn pair of jeans
and smile at me...but he's clean now, and some of the appeal will be lost.