Fantastic, will become your Bidet
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A bathroom is a room for personal hygiene activities, generally containing at minimum a toilet and sink. A bathroom may also contain a mirror, a bathtub or a shower, and possibly also a bidet. In North America and some other regions, it characteristically contains at least a toilet and a sink; hence in North American English the word "bathroom" is commonly used to mean any room containing a toilet, even a public toilet (although in the United States this is more commonly called a restroom). In other countries, including the UK, Australia, France and Japan, homes may have a separate toilet room. In Iran almost all homes have two distinct rooms for the bathroom and the toilet room. Bathrooms often have one or more towel bars or towel rings for hanging towels. Some bathrooms contain a medicine cabinet for personal hygiene products and medicines and drawers or shelves for storing towels and other items.
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her butthole hasn't smelled the same since we got a bidet, and I miss her old stink
In a few minutes we were in a five franc room on the Rue Amelot, the curtains drawn and the covers thrown back. She didn't rush things, Germaine. She sat on the bidet soaping herself and talked to me pleasantly about this and that; she liked the knickerbockers I was wearing. Tres chic! she thought. They were once, but I had worn the seat out of them; fortunately the jacket covered my ass. As she stood up to dry herself, still talking to me pleasantly, suddenly she dropped the towel and, advancing toward me leisurely, she commenced rubbing her pussy affectionately, stroking it with her two hands, caressing it, patting it, patting it. There was something about her eloquence at that moment and the way she thrust that rosebush under my nose which remains unforgettable; she spoke of it as if it were some extraneous object which she had acquired at great cost, an object whose value had increased with time and which now she prized above everything in the world. Her words imbued it with a peculiar fragrance; it was no longer just her private organ, but a treasure, a magic, potent treasure, a God-given thing - and none the less so because she traded it day in and day out for a few pieces of silver. As she flung herself on the bed, with legs spread wide apart, she cupped it with her hands and stroked it some more, murmuring all the while in that hoarse, cracked voice of hers that it was good, beautiful, a treasure, a little treasure. And it was good, that little pussy of hers! That Sunday afternoon, with its poisonous breath of spring in the air, everything clicked again. As we stepped out of the hotel I looked her over again in the harsh light of day and I saw clearly what a whore she was - gold teeth, the geranium in her hat, the run down heels, etc., etc. Even the fact that she had wormed a dinner out of me and cigarettes and taxi hadn't the least disturbing effect upon me. I encouraged it, in fact. I liked her so well that after dinner we went back to the hotel again and took another shot at it. "For love," this time. And again that big, bushy thing hers worked its bloom and magic. It began to have an independent existence - for me too. There was Germaine and there was that rosebush of hers. I liked them separately and I liked them together.
- Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer
- Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer