Louis's Self-Love 1
Louis Dellid is a 30-something-year-old single millenial, looking to take care of himself in the privacy of his own home. When a package he orders arrives, he takes the initiative to treat himself like he's never been treated before.
I wrote this piece to celebrate self-love day. It's partially biographical. Learn to love yourself, even sexually sometimes, my darlings.
"Your package has been delivered."
Louis stares at his phone, his lips quivering. He quickly looks over his shoulder and swipes to his email. There, nestled on his front porch, is a box not unlike any other package he had ordered in the past.
A buzz heralded the coming of a text.
Mom: I'm going to be at work late.
That means no one will be home.
That means he'll be alone.
The rest of the time at work was a blur of worry and delight for the 30-year-old virgin, stuck in a life of social solitude and living the life of a reserved and cautious young man. He was his mother's perfect little gentleman, but if only she knew the truth.
The clock was not quite 5:00 PM when he got up from his desk, power walking down the halls of his job and to his car. He must have driven home this way nearly a thousand times, but this was one of those days where he went over the speed limit, within reason, of course.
The trip home was agonizingly slow and a blur, quickly forgotten as he lumbered up to the door, carrying all too many things at once to avoid a repeat trip to the car. But, he manages to get all his bags inside: lunch box, gym bag, and backpack, all things he would need to work the next day.
He could do his regular routine—get his lunch ready for tomorrow, organize his gym clothes for tomorrow morning's run on the treadmill, and maybe even start a load of laundry. But that could wait. He had few precious moments to himself and would use those moments the best he could.
Quickly and with little looking, he rips the packages open, dumping their contents into a gym bag, and rushes down to the bathroom across the hall. Along the way, his precious cat mewled, expecting a pet or acknowledgment. Unfortunately, he is focused, determined, and unable to concentrate on anything else—anything else other than the tingling sensation in his pants.
He locks the door behind him, his ears totally and entirely on alert. His mother may be back home. Perhaps his sister was secretly home, despite her car not being here?
He shudders, glancing upward at the mirror. His glasses are askew, his hair is messy, and his chin exhibits five o’clock shadow.
Scoffing, he turns away. He doesn't want to look. No, this isn't about look—this is about feel.
Taking a deep breath, he lifts his shirt over his head, then runs his hand over his slightly pudgy body. The year at the gym had done him some good, but the hair everywhere was so… ech."
Louis glances back over to the mirror, stepping up to the sink. He runs a hand down his chest, letting the hair run through his fingers.
Sighing, he shakes his head and returns to the bag. "You're not so bad looking… you're just not how you want to be," he says to himself, pulling out the first of the many contents of his package. It's a shaving kit.
Turning the new razor on, he presses the thing to his chest and slowly drags it down over his chest. It's a long and arduous process, but he can't stop once he's started. He strokes the electric razor down, taking out clump after clump of thick black hair over his body—curse his genes. Mom says he gets it from his father.
He wouldn't really know about that.
Eventually, his hair is much more manageable, and he steps back, watching those short, straight lines that dot his body as opposed to the wild black carpet he once had. He runs his fingers over the newly groomed body and nods, a composed frown on his face.
"Not… bad," he says, reaching for the manual razer. It's nice, a single blade, replaceable, real old-school. He only knows as much about this as he had listened to online, peering over his shoulder with the volume turned down.
He rubs shaving cream all over his chest. It's so much, so he'll have to buy more sooner rather than later. He presses the blade to his chest and slides upward once, twice, and three times. He gulps when he pulls the blade away and sees that smooth, pale skin patch underneath.
It's possible. It's really possible.
He speeds up the process, going all over his body, watching as every hair is removed, biting his lip, squirming in place as he pulls the blade all over his chest and stomach. After what feels like forever, he's ready to repeat this process, lifting one arm over his head, buzzing off his armpit hair, first on one side and then the other.
A quick work on his face, and he's soon standing there as bare as he would have ever wanted.
"Can I pull it off?" he says, pressing a finger to his chest. He winces slightly—it's rough there, sensitive. Very, very sensitive.
The next thing to go is his pants, and he rests his foot on the toilet. He'll have to worry about the pedicure stuff in a moment. Those nails are long. He'll have to trim them and make them look nice, but he takes the blade and runs it along his leg for now.
He's smiling when he's done with it, slapping his thigh, giggling and giddy.
He stands in front of the mirror now, biting his lip, looking at himself with a smile, a soft smirk, saying, "Who's sexy… you are."
And with that, he hooks his thumbs under the bands of his boxer briefs. "Just one more place to go," he says.
He pulls down his last garment and out pops his cock, hidden under a thick bush… but not for long!