The Spirit of Christmas helps George discover the hidden powers of his wife’s body wash.

The Gift of Unanticipated Consequences
by Angela Rasch

I glanced around the shower, keen to find what was left of my Irish Spring soap. A full lather -- including its strong, clean, guy smell -- was one of life’s simple pleasures. I had noted, for the last week, that my sliver of soap was approaching its vanishing point.

Susie had warned me she would do her “wifely duty” and toss out “that vile relic” -- if I didn’t.

Susie was already off to work.

I frowned, thinking about the conversation Susie and I had the night before, just before she nodded off. She was at wits’ end with her boss, at the small accounting firm where she worked. He had slept with almost every female employee in the office and lately had been coming on to her.

“I’m going to invite him over for dinner, tomorrow night,” she had said. “I want you to look as brawny as possible. Put on a gun show for him. One look at you and your biceps, and he’ll think twice before trying anything.”

No woman should have to put up with someone she isn’t interested in.

My arms are as big around as his thighs. If he doesn’t shape up, I’ll squeeze him like a tube of toothpaste.

I had slept in and taken the day off because of my annual medical check-up -- scheduled for that afternoon.

It’s Christmas week and things are slow at work, anyhow. I hope Suze gets me an elliptical for my home gym. I like pumping iron, but I need to cross-train, if I’m going to be the champion bodybuilder I think I can be. I had taken second in the last competition and felt the need to be number one. I won’t be satisfied until I have muscles, on top of my muscles.

My ripped body has been enhanced by unswerving use of anabolic steroids. All I really want for Christmas is to tap into the strength of my true inner self. If that involves chemical intervention, so be it.

Like any other optimistic guy faced with disappointment at not having his soap bar, I immediately cast about for the next best thing. In the corner of the shower stall, sat a new bottle of something purple.

The Vikings wear purple and they’re my favorite NFL team.

I picked it up and read “Moisturizing Body Wash” emblazoned across the top in white letters on the otherwise clear plastic bottle. My arms, legs, and feet have been looking a little dried-out lately. A little moisturizing couldn’t hurt.

“Kale,” I read out loud from the label. “For women only.”

I’ll be the judge of that.

Feeling rebellious I poured a generous amount of the purple liquid on a loofah and rubbed it briskly over my entire body. Its remarkable scent engulfed me in a feeling of self-acceptance.

I put the cap back on the bottle and continued to read. “Avoid using this product in a manner inconsistent with its labeling. Failure to read and carefully follow label directions will result in unintended consequences.”

Boy, those corporate attorneys are really something -- talk about your all-time cover-your-butt.

The label continued. “This product has been formulated to bring out men’s inner lust. They’ll admire your natural feminine beauty and will know you as the robust woman you are. Once you’ve said “Yes” they will find you physically irresistible.”

As it should be. I giggled. I’ll have to be careful when and to whom I say ‘yes.’

I shut off the water and reached around the corner to where a fluffy, pink towel hung ready for my self-indulgent pampering. While I dried myself, I felt great satisfaction feasting my eyes on the voluptuous body I had sculpted through careful dieting and exercise.

At the end of my bed, sat a basket filled with folded laundry ready to be stowed, in our dresser’s drawers. I selected a pair of jasmine, silky, tricot panties -- and slipped them on. Hmmm, they seem a little tight. I need to be more consistent with my pilates.

I pulled on my slacks, shirts, and shoes. I need a much more feminine wardrobe. Suze loves me just the way I am. But I’m beginning to feel a little butch.

I peered in the mirror. Omigod, my hair is hideous. It’s long enough to have a much more attractive style. I have most of the day to do whatever I want. I’ll call Antoine at Susie’s salon. I’d met him several times dropping off, or picking up, my wife. He does great things with her hair. While I’m there, I’ll have the full treatment.

At first, Antoine didn’t seem to be “with it” on the phone. He kept trying to make me set an appointment, for Susie.

“No,” I said adamantly, “I want you to fix my hair in a style that’s almost like Susie’s, but not quite the same . . . so people can tell us apart.” I giggled.

He finally relented.

Less than an hour later, I walked into High Prestige Salon. The girl at the front desk looked up and smiled. “Can I help you?”

“I’m with Antoine, at 10:00.”

She bit her lip and looked down at her book. “Ohhhh. I see where he’s penciled you in. I didn’t know Antoine did haircuts.”

“I was thinking more about a perm,” I said, fluffing my hair.

The look on her face could have curdled milk.

Undeterred I pushed on. “After I’m done with Antoine, I’d like to have the full treatment. Face, body wax, nails. . .. Whatever you can get done in under two hours. So, I’ll look cute on Christmas Eve.”

“Two hours?” She questioned weakly. “‘Cute’ might take more like two decades.”

Bitch! Before I could respond, I spotted Antoine out of the corner of my eye and waved the fingers on my right hand at him. He immediately came to the front of the salon.

He stood close to me and spoke in a whisper. “George, what’s this all. . .?” The aggravated look on his face melted. His eyes took on a glow that might well be termed animalistic. “Are you sure you want me to touch your hair, Sweetie. You already look good enough to eat. You smell divine. Is that a new scent?”

I blushed.

“Antoine,” the girl at the front desk whined. “He’s demanding that we put him through the full beauty treatment.”

“Of course,” Antoine chirped with a grin, “someone so lovely needs to treat her body like a temple.” While he spoke his hand surreptitiously caressed my buttocks.

Not knowing the traditions of the salon, I remained silent and pressed my curves into him as deeply as I could, without appearing overly eager.

He turned so that his face was inches from mine and continued to knead my behind. “Would you like some tea? Some say it’s a spicy-sweet aphrodisiac.”

I thought as best as my jumbled little brain would allow, given the warm feelings gushing through my body. “No,” I said, speaking for the first time since he had come within hearing distance.

A look of utter disappointment crossed his face. His hand fell away from me. “I’ll just have to be content with making sure you leave here the goddess we both know you are.”

I laughed and peered over his shoulder at the glowering girl who manned the front desk. “What’s your problem?” I mouthed.

Antoine chatted gaily while he tended to me. His mode was sorely contrasted by almost everyone else, in the salon. It was obvious that I had fallen into some sort of beauty shop falling-out. All the women seemed to be upset with Antoine and were bent, on taking it out, on me.

To their credit, they did their professional best to make me as beautiful as possible, giving me a facial, full-body wax, complete body rub, piercing my ears, extending and coloring my nails, and doing a makeover.

At one point, Antoine came into the room to make sure everything was happening that I wanted. “Georgia, honey. You never told me what that delightful scent is you’re wearing.”

“It’s called ‘Kale,’” one of the cosmeticians informed him. “George can buy more at Ulta. He’s asked that we give him a complete list of what we’re using on his face -- so he can purchase it there to use on his own.” She sneered.

“Why wouldn’t Georgia want to look this good -- all the time,” Antoine asked, obviously shocked by the disrespectful ‘tude the women were pouring on me, along with all their miscast pronouns.

I walked from the salon to Ulta feeling perky. The breeze teased the curls Antoine had sprinkled throughout my new hairdo.

The young man who greeted me at the front of Ulta appeared to be “light in his loafers.” He smiled so broadly I thought his face was going to break. But when I got close to him, he seemed a lot less friendly. However, compared to his indifference, the scowls on the women in the store left me to wonder if Antoine’s work had gone awry.

Once I paid for my cosmetics and a one-ounce spray of Kale, I misted the air around me and freshened my scent. I left with two bags of goodies and then drove the several blocks to Macy’s, in Ridgedale, feeling confident and relaxed.

I decided to do something about the dreadful state of my intimates’ drawer and stopped, in their lingerie department. “I need to be measured for a bra,” I said to the saleswoman. It’s been so long since I’ve purchased anything lovely that I’m not sure about my sizes.

“Okay,” she said as if she really hadn’t heard me right. “Is this going to be a gift, for your wife?” Her face took on a pink glow.

“No,” I shook my head. “I need to purchase several undergarments. I have a bit of an idea what to buy. But I’m open to your suggestions.”

For some reason, she let out a small gasp. “The customer is always right,” she said quietly and without any apparent reason that I saw.

For the next hour, she helped me spend nearly three hundred dollars on some of the most charming underwear imaginable. She knew a lot and seemed to be one of those nervous types who cover their malady by chattering.

Although I never disrobed or tried on anything, she worked magic with a tape, assuring me she would personally pay for anything that didn’t fit.

She even sold me some items that she called “cheaters” that she said would provide for me what God had forgotten.

Although I couldn’t follow her logic, I trusted her and heeded her advice.

I took the packages from the lingerie department out to my car, selected what I needed for further shopping and carried them into the store, in a small bag. I then went to the women’s apparel department. Once again, I ran across a young lady who had little interest in waiting on me.

I suppose she’s worn out, from the Christmas rush.

It wasn’t until her boss, a young man in his late twenties, appeared next to my arm, that things started to hop. In a word, he “fawned” all over me.

I was speechless and hadn’t yet said a word to him, before he asked if I liked a dress he was holding up to me.

It’s simply divine, and it would flatter my figure, but I’m not wild about fuchsia.

“No,” I answered shyly.

His face fell. But then he shrugged and helped me acquire several wondrous outfits and six pairs of to-die-for shoes.

We agreed one of the outfits would be perfect, for New Year’s Eve.

He asked if I already had a date and I informed him I was taken. Unlike the lingerie department, I tried on everything, using several undergarments I’d purchased and the cheaters. The girl in the lingerie department had been right. Every garment fit just beautifully.

I was paying for my purchases when I realized I had left myself barely enough time, to get to the clinic, for my check-up. I decided to wear one of my new outfits out of the store.

Looking around -- I felt pride, in the number of open-mouth stares, I attracted from other women. Such admiration isn’t easy to come by.

The nurses ushered me out of the waiting room and into the inner offices without the customary fifteen to twenty-minute wait. Even though the door to the small examination room was closed, I could still hear a large amount of excited chatter in the hall.

The pocket door slid open. “I hear you think today’s Halloween, instead of two days before Christmas,” Dr. Welch said, while he walked into the small room. He parted his lips -- standing within a foot of where I sat waiting for him. “Geor. . .gia. You look to be the poster child, for what we call ‘health.’ What is it I can possibly do for someone as exquisite as you?”

My mind spun. I opened my mouth to speak. But I couldn’t remember why I was there.

Dr. Welch smiled like a rich uncle. “Susie said last week, when she was in, that you needed a prostate exam.” He said it in a way that sounded more like a question. He then stared at me with a look that vowed he’d walk through a brick wall, for me, if that was what I wanted. “Okay, let’s go with that. You know, Georgia, only .001% of women die from prostate cancer, but you can never be too sure. Stand up.”

I stood.

“I’m going to insert my finger in your rectum. Turn and face the examination couch. Spread your feet. Now bend over so that your elbows are on the couch.” He pushed my dress up and pulled my panties down around my knees. He then put on a surgical glove and covered his finger with a lubricant. “You’re going to feel a little pressure, but you shouldn’t experience any discomfort.”

I remained silent. Although I like Dr. Welch, I respect the professional distance between us.

He inserted his finger on a downward path that seemed to be directed toward my belly button. “I’m going to wait a few seconds for your sphincter muscle to relax.” A moment or so later, his finger started to move and found. . ..

“YESSSSS!” I said much louder than I had wanted.

He rewarded me by moving his finger in a way that caused sparks to jump behind my eyes. His free hand massaged my cheaters while he pumped me into ecstasy.

I wasn’t at all surprised or taken aback when I heard his pants being undone and his zipper pulled down. He quickly removed his finger and then filled me with something much larger.

“I don’t think there’s any problem down there,” he said between deep breaths. “But I think we should probe a bit, to make sure.”

After several minutes of intense “probing” a spurt of warm, soothing cream found a home, in my body. I hadn’t come in the way I had been accustomed to, but still felt entirely fulfilled.

“Here are some tissues,” he offered, “to wipe the lubricant from your anus and buttocks.”

I thanked him and cleaned myself, before rearranging my clothing.

The trip down the hall took on the trappings of a gauntlet, with nurses standing in groups of twos and threes whispering, in buzzing tones. I tried a smile or two, but they would have none of it.

It’s best for Dr. Welch, to handle things.

The lights on the tree in the waiting room seemed much brighter than they had before, on the way in.

When I got home, I took a long, soaking bath in Kale Bath Salts before getting ready for dinner, in the bright-red, satin, halter cocktail dress I had selected, to wear, to meet Susie’s boss.

I took one last look in the mirror. As far as I could tell my make-up was perfectly applied. I hadn’t really had time to make dinner, so Susie and her boss would just have to accept my plans to go out. I had made reservations at Manny’s Steak House, for the three of us.

When the front door opened, I had already arranged myself as alluringly as possible on the couch. I’d thought about posing under the mistletoe -- but decided against it. The hem of my dress almost made it to the middle of my thigh, which seemed daring enough.

“George, what the hell. . .?” Suze demanded.

Her boss was nearly on top of me, before the annoyed look on his face turned into . . .lust.

“Susie tells me you two have been married for eight years,” he said, while taking the hand I had extended toward him.

“YEESSSS,” I breathed. “But I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

The End

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Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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All Those Things You Always Pined For
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The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
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