I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought. I must be nuts. What if they come home and find me naked in their tub?
Hi, folks. I’m Goldilocks.
With a trembling laugh, she slipped down into the deep, hot water.
The Norris experience had been the start of something big. A life-changing event. The beginning of a series of adventures that led to a weird kind of addiction. It set in motion within her a yearning desire to discover the innermost secrets of other people’s homes. In doing this, Gillian found an immense sense of fulfillment. A needy gratification that was almost sexual.
The highlight of it all, though—the cherry on top of the proverbial cake—had been bathing in the Norris’s tub. After that, the ritual bath had been the highlight of every one of her intrusions.
Later. Two years and forty or so intrusions later, she’d tried to reason out, why baths? Why this fetish with other people’s bathing arrangements? That first glimpse of the bathroom itself, the tub and the accessories that went with it: oils, shampoos, talc, deodorants, perfumed soaps. They all played an important part, leading up to the real climax. The shivers of excitement, the thrill of invading the inner sanctum of some unknown person.
Then. Easing into those hot bubbles.
As good as an orgasm.
The sensual release of some kind of mental climax. Lying naked and up to the neck in some guy’s hot, foaming bubbles, she’d come, no problem.
Other girls had sex with strangers. Just for the thrill of it. Wham bam, thank’ya ma’am. And goodbye forever. No hassle. No hangups. No long-winded affairs to cool off, or drift into indifference. Two ships that passed in the night.
For Gillian, it was like: who needs a man when you can have it all in a stranger’s tub?
You get it off in a hot tub? In somebody else’s bathroom? D’you get all of your kicks this way? Like as in some kind of titillation? The whole experience is a come-on?
No shrink had heard of this one.
Climaxing under water.
Sure we’re not talking masturbation here?
We’re not? Er, well, Miss O’Neill. Must admit your problem is er ... rather unusual, to say the least. But hey. People get their kicks lotsa ways these days.
Maybe we should edit all of this down to one root cause. In your childhood, you were deprived of nice hot baths and have felt guilty about enjoying them ever since? A classic example of the “naughty but nice” syndrome!
It’s not uncommon for people to become addicted to things they like, things with forbidden connotations. Things which are often socially unacceptable. Such as alcohol, drugs, certain foods. Shopping.
But hot baths... ?
Mmmm-huh. I think we’ve found the answer to your problem, Miss O’Neill. Deprived childhood and no mistake. Good day to you. Oh, and please leave your check for $3000 with the clerk on your way out ...
Of course, she hadn’t seen a shrink. First off, her little jaunts had not only “forbidden” connotations. They were illegal. Her intrusions were a criminal act. But she’d been addicted to them for too long to stop now. She knew that. This thing will be with me forever, she told herself. Like some kind of disability
She’d tried to put a stop to it. Seriously. For weeks at a time she’d abstained. Then, like a reformed junkie offered a free trip, she’d feel the old familiar sequence moving neatly into action. Just like a clockwork train.
It was all there. Again. The adrenaline rush as she eased open the front door. The sweats, the soaring, nerve-wracking excitement, wondering if the house owner really was home. Upstairs taking a nap? On their way to the Speed-D-Mart for Aspirin? Or Pizza Hut for a takeaway?
Or would she be met in the hallway by the occupant? Fearful, trembling, finger poised. About to dial 911.
But she knew that, cool as ever, she’d pass off her intrusion by saying she’d mistaken the house number. She’d express frustration at her own stupidity. I’m sorry ... Whatever must you think of me?
Yes, she was plausible, she knew that. She had her performance down to a fine art. After all this time she could play to packed houses. Fill theaters up and down the country. Her sudden warmth, charm, ingenuousness, would have people eating out of her hand in no time at all.
But it hadn’t ever come to that.
So far, so good.
But only because she did her groundwork like a true pro.
Yeah, sure. She was good. Just as well, since her intrusions were food and drink to her now. A major part of the thrill was paying minute attention to detail—at every stage of the game. The reconnaissance, the illegal entry.
Then, the prize.
Eating and drinking their food. Watching their TV. Sleeping in their bed. And the kick of it all—entering their private domain. Their inner sanctuary.
Unknown to them.
She used their bathroom; their tub; their toilet. And they knew fuck all about it. She invaded their most private places without their knowledge.
That was the kick.
Gillian smiled softly. She didn’t need the help of an expensive shrink to work that one out.
She got off on it is all.
Hey. Tubs she had known ...
About sixty-six in total?
She could write a book.
Or a screenplay.
Miss 0’Neill, talented winner of the Golden Goblet Screehwriter of the Year Award, please tell our viewers—your fans—which, in your experience, has been the most fascinating tub of all?
Her camera and notebook were ready. But instead of taking shots of Fredrick Holden’s artifacts, as planned, she returned to the concrete sundeck and flopped back onto the lounge chair.
So, which was the most fascinating tub? Gillian thought hard about that one. But, damn it, she decided, she didn’t need to give herself such a hard time. Because, like a flame among dying embers, one occasion stood out from all the rest.
Yeah. That one on Silverston. West of Studio City.
No shit, that’s been the most fantastic tub so far.
She’d done her routine check. No one around. No snoopers. No dog-walkers. No mailmen ...
The absence of human life, or of any other type of life on that street, come to that, was in itself unusual.
The house fascinated her from the start. The neighborhood was maybe too upmarket for her liking. But, in some strange way, she knew that the old place needed her.
And Christ, she knew about need, all right. She was here, wasn’t she? Cruising around, searching for places to satisfy her need.
Looks like I’ve found it ...
Too upmarket? Okay, Miss O’Neill, so break a few rules.
This one’s going to be your special treat!
It was as if that lonely old house, set back against dark shadows, was crooking its finger and beckoning to her. She imagined its whispering voice, mingling and swishing with the windblown palms lining its path.
Hey, girl. Come on in. You want tales? I got tales a-plenty to tell—and a thousand secrets to share ...
That clinched it. The white stucco house, detached and with around two, three hundred yards of driveway leading up to it, was her target for tonight. Tall, dark palms ran either side of the driveway. The rustling trees almost blocked out all of the remaining daylight until they looked like one long, dark, moving tunnel.