White Towel in the Shower

That’s Dominic, Dom for short

with his hairy bum, that smile and a sausage like a well developed Bratwurst.

But mostly we remember him for his kind and gentle ways

and his good heart.

“He’s lovely,” people would often say when describing Dom.

Quite possibly for different reasons depending who you asked.

I remember Dom from our days of clubbing together, and those little shorts that he used to always wear. Tiny little shorts that used to look like they were painted on him. And how those shorts fitted him, accentuating all his curves. When I say curves, well, I’m sure you know what I mean.

Those shorts and those curves were very much admired. Dom was never short of a date.

We used to have fun, Dom and I. We’d powder our noses, if you know what I mean, and we would dance the night away, until we were covered in so much sweat, we would literally drip. 

Neither of us wore more than shorts, so we’d glisten. I remember Dom’s hairy chest being covered in sweat crystals. I remember Dom running his finger tips over my smooth chest saying, “You are all slippery.”

Then we’d dance some more.

We were always there for the last song. 

We’d always be exhausted as we walked out, more often than not holding each other up, not really because either of us needed to be held up, more so because we liked the way it felt, in each other’s arms at the end of the night.

We’d head home and have showers with big fluffy white towels. I always had fluffy white towels. Then we’d sit in track pants and t-shirts and we’d drink tea, vibrating as the sun came up.

Sometimes we’d powder our noses, once again and go to recoveries. Sometimes. But mostly we’d play music and smoke pot and laugh until we were too tired to laugh any more.

Dom was a great mate.