Sunday, December 25, 2011


The perfect thing to do during a cold-afternoon, especially on a day off, is to take a long hot bath. Nothing really beats lazing in the tub, with suds pooling in my navel and warm steam rising.
Yes, ideally there would be another person there too, but you can’t have everything.
So instead there's a book, a pot of tea, and an angry raccoon in the bathroom.


This particular angry raccoon claims to be German. He says he studied at Heidelberg.
Remarkably, there are indeed such creatures in Germany.
Raccoons were introduced both deliberately and accidentally, starting over seven decades ago. They've made themselves right at home.
Gone all native, so to speak.

He looks disapproving whenever he’s near me, and often mutters something about ‘nasty Dutchy, crush you’.
Not exactly the best company during a long soak. I’ve told him that I would vastly prefer someone female and clearly human, can’t he at least gaily wave around a pair of panties (with or without lace edging) to evoke some feminine charm for chrissakes, but he ignores me and gets dangerously close to my teacup.
Sometimes I’ll sit on the edge of the tub smoking, while he glares at me and suggests that I should use more soap. Like many Germans, he disapproves of my display of Dutch sensuality, and my charming badger-like nature.
I think he feels threatened by it.

Along with several of the other stuffed creatures, he has an attitude problem. The majority of them are not fully grounded in reality, and some are exceedingly maladjusted.
Fortunately, only the raccoon watches me bathe. It’s the water that entrances him. This is not surprising, as the German term for the raccoon is "der Waschbär" - 'the washbear'.
I doubt that it's my slickly wet male body, glowing and fragrant - there has never been much evidence of a sense of aeasthetics from the beast, and that again is very German of him.

Gunther (the raccoon) says he's willing to take a pair of crisply CLEAN panties from a nice young lady to wave about, but under no circumstances will he accept any panties that I might offer him. He distrusts any and all feminine undergarments to which I have any connection.
He also claims that my boxers and my socks roam around the floor at night looking for victims, who will never be seen again. Several of the roomies have similar beliefs about my clothing. Something about a bad aura or bad karma attached to the human male.
Well, specifically to me. Probably some masculine rivalry going on or something.
Be that as it may, they vastly prefer feminine underwear, and I shall not fault them for that.

Gunther has even said that if a nice young lady were to donate her panties, she could come over once a month to wear them for a while. Just to keep them in shape, he has no objection to that. Why, he'll even help her!
Despite his weird fascination with scanties, I try to keep him on the subject of underwear, because otherwise he'll threaten to bomb Rotterdam, or bring up the famous autobahns again.
Plus Stukas, and raids over Coventry.
He's rather obsessive.

Once, Gunther and one of the other residents in the apartment had a long quarrel about bikini briefs versus French-cut high waists. With or without lace edging, in nice fruity colours. It ended with the loser screaming about the siege of Leningrad and the bitter cold on the Russian Front, which, apparently, was an argument for more fabric.
Gunther holds out his arms to indicate how big precisely and no bigger the nice young lady whom he wishes would donate such a garment should be. Given that he's only a foot tall, you can imagine that she won't be much larger than that - he has short arms.

He's never spoken of brassieres, so it is quite likely that breasts are entirely beyond his reach. Or at least his attention. Though there is a distinct possibility that the fierce small she-sheep, who regards nice female bosoms as HER real-estate ("mine! I found them") has Pavlovianly dissuaded him from even coming near such things, by growling at whoever dares come close when she is happily nestled in between. Whatever the case, he will on occasion wax lyric about small feminine bottoms lovingly encased in silk or cotton.
With or without lace edging.
Then he starts singing in German.
I usually give up conversing with him at that point, and retire to the tub to read my philatelic catalogue and blow bubbles. Crazy furball.

A pot of tea, a few cigarillos, and an argument with an irascible raccoon, will take up a good hour of soaking.

If panties actually were involved, it would take a hell of a lot longer.
And I'd unceremoniously chuck the raccoon into the hallway.
He can stew in his own neurotic juices out there.
Rail furiously against the closed door.
Screaming "panties!"

Honestly, I have no idea why he's so obsessed with cotton, silk, curvature, gussets, and lace edgings.
Must be one of those German things that I just don't get.

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