Bath as ritual makes so much sense to me. I used to hate baths. I felt like I had to relax in them, so I couldn’t.
But when I moved to Seattle, and my former husband and I had decided to decouple romantically, I started needing time to myself.
Baths were how I would get that time. The children would go to bed, and I would go into the bath and I would write long messages to people I was dating. I dabbled in writing erotic fiction for people, and I used to call the bath EH, erotic headquarters.
My mid 30s were a wild time that I very rarely talk about. But those baths were integral to me acknowledging my own autonomy and my own sexuality. In those baths I got to be me, not mother, or wife or upstanding citizen.
In those baths I connected with a part of me that was strong, and I indulged my passion for writing. It’s funny. My erotic writing was never about the sex as much as it was about writing so well that someone wanted to read my words. That was the exciting part. Being able to captivate someone with text alone.
I’ve enjoyed taking baths since, some sea salt and some music. But those baths in my mid-30s, they were epic.
After several tumultuous relocations, I now find myself in a beautiful yet small space without a bathtub. There is a very serviceable shower, but I am a bathtub guy. In my old home—a 300-year-old New England piece of history—I had a bathtub, and I loved that enclosed, warm, and steamy little space. My ritual was Epsom salts or Ancient Minerals magnesium. I would become so relaxed that I would linger on the verge of sleep for an hour or so. I miss that feeling deeply.
Bath as ritual makes so much sense to me. I used to hate baths. I felt like I had to relax in them, so I couldn’t.
But when I moved to Seattle, and my former husband and I had decided to decouple romantically, I started needing time to myself.
Baths were how I would get that time. The children would go to bed, and I would go into the bath and I would write long messages to people I was dating. I dabbled in writing erotic fiction for people, and I used to call the bath EH, erotic headquarters.
My mid 30s were a wild time that I very rarely talk about. But those baths were integral to me acknowledging my own autonomy and my own sexuality. In those baths I got to be me, not mother, or wife or upstanding citizen.
In those baths I connected with a part of me that was strong, and I indulged my passion for writing. It’s funny. My erotic writing was never about the sex as much as it was about writing so well that someone wanted to read my words. That was the exciting part. Being able to captivate someone with text alone.
I’ve enjoyed taking baths since, some sea salt and some music. But those baths in my mid-30s, they were epic.
Such a lovely way to interact with bathing. I feel the same about my erotica. What excited me was reaching readers.
After several tumultuous relocations, I now find myself in a beautiful yet small space without a bathtub. There is a very serviceable shower, but I am a bathtub guy. In my old home—a 300-year-old New England piece of history—I had a bathtub, and I loved that enclosed, warm, and steamy little space. My ritual was Epsom salts or Ancient Minerals magnesium. I would become so relaxed that I would linger on the verge of sleep for an hour or so. I miss that feeling deeply.