~~~~~~~~~~~

According to Mary Poppins, "In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. You find the fun, and snap! the job's a game!" Personally, I think that's freeze-dried bullshit, but even freeze-dried bullshit has it's practical applications. Hence the cow chip toss.

So, with my Discman, equipped with baby speakers, on as loud as is comfortable and legal, supplied with all the ice cream I can scarf, here I am tossing dirty socks into the beat-up wash machine. I miss every third sock or so, but oh well, five billion folks on the flying mudball don't give a shit. Right? Right.

Bopping to the beat of 'Tallica's cover of 'Last Caress,' I finish separating my version of colors (stuff that bleeds) from whites (stuff that doesn't). I catch a hint of movement out of the corner of my eye and, thinking it's the 7-11 dude telling me to shut the fuck up, I dial back the volume.

"Sorry about that," I say, turning toward the source of my distraction.

Said source holds up one finger, looking as exasperated as any sane human being can as my jaw drops. "If you say *anything* about losing your mind, I swear by the living force I shall lose mine!"

I shut my trap with a click! although my eyes remain wide; wide enough that I'm sure they'll drop out of their sockets and land on my shoes.

Let me be perfectly clear here, oh my sibs and only friends, I've had some fairly detailed and wonderfully filthy scenarios about meeting this particular distraction, but none, *none* of them involved me in sweats and rag bag flannel in a dingy laundromat in the middle of the night.

I look over a young, delicious, wonderfully fuckable, extremely irritated, and very real, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

I spend a moment gawking, searching for a greeting that doesn't imply mental illness or sexual perversion. I stick with the ever-reliable, "Hi."

I don't think I did too bad. He's calming down at least.

And what a sight he is; fair faced, gold hair, unbearably sexy cat's eyes. They look a little like mine, blue and gray, with flecks of yellow around the pupils. Eyes a woman can drown in easy.

I probably would have, leaping in with a scream of purest gratitude, if he hadn't looked like a refugee from a slumber party; lipstick, glitter, and sundae trappings clinging to his shirt and pants. His tunic's not lying flat; he must've closed it in a hurry. There's lip-prints all over him, over skin, clothes, even his damn *boots*, man.

"So *that's* where everyone is," I say, the dots connecting.

I should explain. Earlier one of my gal acquaintances, as rabid an Obi-chick as has ever been made, (she insists on running her Anywhere But Here scenarios by me, much to my horror, shit like that's private) burst into my room and sanctuary, all aflush, begging me to come with her to a get-together she was having over to Da Pit (study lounge with dungeon-like ambience). I hate parties and needed to do laundry, so I lied my way out of it and did laundry.

Well that clears *that* up.

The mental picture of a half-dozen hormonally driven females pouncing on this poor man like rabid pack wolves flashes across my mind. I can't help it; I start laughing.

"This is not funny," he declares, the flush rising back to his face, enunciating and emphasizing each word carefully.

"Yes it is," I blurt and regret it as the color on his cheeks darkens to an alarming plum shade.

I hear the unmistakable noise of tap shoes on sidewalk and we whip our heads around to look out. Sure enough. You would not believe how fast these chicks move.

"Bathroom!" I order, striding to him, taking his arm, shoving him inside the tiny closet that just happens to have a toilet and sink in it, slamming the door, and whirling, planting my body against it.

A moment later the Glitter Brigade arrives, looking like rejects from The Church of Elton John.

"Did you see anyone run by here just now?" one of them pants, a feather boa around her shoulders.

I pride myself on the talent to fib on my feet. "Now that you mention it . . ." I trail off, thinking, leaving Feathers dangling. "There *was* a guy who went by pretty fast just a few minutes ago. He buttonhooked around the alley behind Joe's."

I revel in the blood leaving their faces. We have an in-town campus, y'see, and the alley behind our favorite urban oasis is gasp! gang territory. (cue sting)

"C'mon, we've gotta find him!" the apparent owner, if the bright red lipstick is any proof, of the mouth that spent some time lavishing affection on Obi-Wan's boots gasps.

"What's he look like?" I ask. Ever-helpful me, heh.

"Blond, blue eyes. Dead ringer for Ewan McGregor," my aforementioned friend tells me, the naughty look sparking her eyes.

"Oooh, the Paddlewan's on the loose?" I coo, a lecherous smile baring my teeth. Said Paddlewan is probably aghast at my wordplay, but he'll live. And I'm having fun.

"You have no idea," Bootkisser coos back as the others hop to it.

I see them out the door, sniggering, although it's not what they think. "Get some for me while you're at it!" I hoot at their retreating backs.

I manage to hold my peace until they're out of earshot, and then I start howling laughter. I haven't had that much fun in *ages*, folks!

The sight of Obi-Wan poking his head out of the bathroom like a little boy about to yell olly-olly-otts-in-free just makes it worse.

"It's nice that you see this situation in such an amusing light, my lady," he informs me, his voice a study in subtle and complete sarcasm.

My good humor vanishes. Whey they find out what I've just done . . . "You're welcome you bastard."

He heaves a weary sigh, the indignation draining from his face. "I'm sorry. I appreciate your help, I really do. It's been a rather long evening."

Oh Jesus, I got to hear that 'I'm sorry' in person! I have to fight to suppress a giggle. I wish I'd known that losing my mind would be this much fun a *looong* time ago.

"What happened?" I ask.

He sighs again, moving to one of the hard plastic chairs and simply collapsing. I lean against the washers, watching him, listening to the slow, heavy tempo of "The Small Hours." I wait, giving him time and space to put rampant insanity into rational context. It's not easy. Believe me, I know.

To grease the wheels maybe a little, I grab the as-yet unopened mini-tub of ice cream. Haagan Daas, the good shit man.

"Want some of this man?" I ask.

"Yes please," he replies, cracking the lid.

I retrieve a spare spork (never leave home without 'em) from the traveling office (old ratty backpack containing everything but the kitchen sink) and hand it to him. He nods thanks and digs in.

I watch him munch the strawberry goodness, thinking less than pure thoughts about the wonderful body. Curb your raging libido honeybabe; if he wanted ass, he would've stayed with the rabid ones. More attractive and more experience, every last one.

Speaking of which, what if they come back this way and find me sheltering and succoring their chewtoy? My mind shies away from the thought and I thank God that Obi-Wan can't be seen from the street where he's at.

He gets through about a quarter of the pint-sized tub, sighs again. "My Master and I are in town on a vacation. I was invited to a quote unquote 'little get together' by that little blonde in dancing shoes. When I got there . . ." he pauses, thinking how to put it. "They were all very charming for an hour or so, then all at once they started throwing themselves on me. I tried to say no but they persisted. I finally ran."

Separating truth from retelling . . .

My guess is he got himself talked into a few kisses and some heavy petting before the antics of the Munchie Ladies offended his delicate sensibilities. When he tried to beg off, they assumed he was playing hard to get. Guy that goodlooking's gotta be a fucktoy, right?

Jesus, and they say *men* think with the wrong organs.

The sharp look he's giving me reminds me rather pointedly that among other things, he's a mindreader. "You don't believe I'm being honest."

That pisses me off. I have a right to my own opinions. "How far did you have your hand up her dress when you chickened? Or were you ogling her tits perhaps?"

Pay dirt. He blushes. He gets to his feet and tries to storm out, until I grab one arm.

"You go back out there again they might see you, and then where are we?" I point out.

He glares knives at me. I glare right back. Gee isn't *this* the beginning of a beautiful friendship?

Obi-Wan rises considerably in my regard when he drops his gaze and sits back down, picking up and taking another bite of Haagan Daas.

"I'm Jean, by the way," I introduce, offering my hand.

He shakes it with a tired smile. "Obi-Wan."

He releases my hand, calluses catching on my skin. I slap yet another lid on my libido.

A look of horror bursts across his face like a Forth of July firework. "Oh Gods!"

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"How am I going to explain all *this*," he indicates the stains on his clothes, "to my Master?"

"We could run them through the wash real quick," I offer.

"Would you? I'd be indebted to you Jean."

Would I do Obi-Wan Kenobi's laundry? Is this a rhetorical question?

I examine some of the more enthusiastic lip marks. "We should be able to get these out." Uh-oh. "These aren't dry-clean only are they?"

He gives me a blank look. I rephrase; "Can we wash these in water without wrecking them?"

"Oh! Yes of course."

"All righty then." As I turn to my baskets to retrieve the Spray-n-Wash, a thought makes my heart stop. "Do you have anything to change into?"

"No," he says, giving me a don't-*even*-think-about-it look.

Well I *wasn't* thinking about it, so there!

Not seriously.

Really.

I rummage through my already-clean clothes. Hope it went through already . . . there! I pull out my brand new dryer fresh black terrycloth bathrobe and a washcloth.

I hand them both to the Jedi, not meeting his gaze. "Clean yourself up as best you can and put this on." He obediently trots into the bathroom and closes the door.

I finish putting my wet stuff in the dryer, dump detergent in with the dirty stuff, cram in quarters where necessary, and start the machines.

Just as I switch 'Garage Inc.' with 'Workshop of the Telescopes,' Obi-Wan emerges from the bathroom, dressed only in my black bathrobe.

I gulp. Suddenly, clapping lids on my sex drive becomes exponentially harder.

Back to the business at hand, love. I take the armload of clothes he hands me and spread them out on the folding table, examining the damage. He looks over my shoulder, close enough for me to smell the fabric softener on my robe and the fresh soap on his skin. Damn he must've taken a full-out sponge bath while he was at it.

Oh shit . . .

"Oh we can get these out, no problem," I say, reaching for the Spray-n-Wash.

"I hope so," he says feverently. Damn what sort of wrath was he facing if the Master discovered a lip print on his student's clothes?

More oh shit. There are times when a filthy mind can be a *severe* pain in the ass.

I spritz the troubled areas with the Spray-n-Wash, taking care to examine and treat every inch. When I'm fairly sure I've caught all the stains, I take the tunics (Great Christ, how many layers does a Jedi need?) and trousers and dump them in the nearest unoccupied washer.

And give Obi-Wan a raised eyebrow when he dumps a wadded-up ball of socks and underwear in with them. Oh well, it's none of my business if the man leaves a skidmark in his drawers.

He takes a seat, finishing his now-runny ice cream, while I measure out a cup of detergent, pour it in, and add the requisite amount of quarters.

I briskly fold up the current dryerload (jeans and towels), and the purely mechanical bullshit over, turn to the man wearing my bathrobe. Before Christ, how do you make chitchat with a Jedi anyway?

He starts, going through the easy subjects of school and acquaintances while he uses a rag to clean his boots. Talking to him's fairly easy. He must've had lessons in dealing with shitty conversationalists. Thank God.

After a bit, the washers stop and I fish out my clothes, take the dry stuff out of the dryers, and replace them with my last load of wets. He gets up and gives me a hand, chatting amenably about his last mission, a diplomatic excursion to a planet called Nal Hutta.

"The Hutt homeworld?" I ask, leaning into the dryer to hunt up that one last sock.

"Yes, how did you know that?" He stops me from answering. "Never mind."

The washer with his clothes in it stops. We open it up and look over his wet stuff carefully. So far so good. Looks like everything came out. Even the morbid black lipstick.

We toss the stuff into the dryer (the little over-the-shoulder flourishing toss he uses makes me giggle.) A little more comfortable with each other, we stand shoulder to shoulder, folding my clothes. (He insisted, although the sight of a Jedi folding my underthings scores about a 9 on the su-fuckin-real scale.)

A description of the aghast look on his Master's face when he mispronounced a word in Huttese and inadvertently insulted Jemba the Hutt's mother (to be exact, he insulted her tastes in food, sex, and business, the three subjects nearest and dearest to most Hutt hearts) damn near puts me on the floor laughing. I feel a little guilty (so does he, I can see) about laughing at Master Jinn behind his back like this, but what the man don't know won't hurt him I guess.

Conversation pauses. I stand still a moment, watching Obi-Wan watch his clothes tumble in the dryer. Good God he's beautiful.

He turns his head and looks at me, and let me tell you baby, I throw myself into his eyes here and now and cheerfully sink. If I'm not back in three weeks send a search party.

"Why?"

I come up for air. "Why what?"

"Why haven't you . . ." he searches for the word, "propositioned me?"

"Arrogant little shit aren't you?" I snap, turning away and sitting.

Shit! From which end of the gene pool did I get my smart mouth?

To my shock, he doesn't take offense. He sits next to me, his hip almost touching mine. "I suppose I am," and he smiles, "and you're evading the question."

"Oh fine then," and heeding an impulse (at what point in my life will I ever be within kissing distance of Obi-Wan Kenobi ever again?), I give him a little kiss on the end of his nose. "Happy now?"

"No," and he gives me a look so direct me spine rattles. "And you still haven't answered my question."

I sigh, hoping, wishing, okay *praying* that he'll return my gesture. With interest. "I try not to make a habit of throwing myself on a complete stranger. In your case, I might make an exception if approached correctly."

He takes my hand, caressing my soft palm with his callused one, brings it to his lips, kisses the little scar over the knuckle. Again. And again. "Like that perhaps?"

"Exactly," I manage to croak. Great fuckin seductress I am.

He turns my hand over, pressing his soft lips against my palm. Then at the heel of my hand. Then at the bend of my wrist.

I shift my weight so I'm sitting on my hip and use my tingling hand to turn his face into mine. Our lips meet, and let me tell you friends and neighbors, if I die right now, I die happy. Not content, no no, but happy.

The dryers, natch, choose *that* moment to shrill their stop. Our kiss breaks and I curse feelingly, rising to rescue my clothes.

I open the dryer door and dig out my warm shirts. Obi-Wan walks up, nice and slow, and leans against the dryer's open door, watching me. Watching me shake, the sadistic motherfucker.

Geez, it's easy to see how this man could be mistaken for a walking dildo. All he's done is kiss me and I'm ready to bear his children. Or at least have a lot of fun trying, y'know?

Just as I finish digging, the dryer with Obi-Wan's clothes stops and shrieks. My turn to watch the play of muscles and movement as he ducks inside the huge dryer and goes prospecting for his socks. God, someone should bronze this man for posterity.

Suddenly shy, I tend to my folding while he looks over his fresh clothes. He turns each tunic inside out, closely examining every square inch.

He sighs in relief. "Everything came out."

"Phew! Now can I have my robe back?"

I mean it flippantly, but he doesn't. He puts his hands on his hips. "Come and retrieve it then."

A *strong* snap of irritation makes me table my lust for the time being. "Get dressed and gimme my clothes back, you hypocritical fuck."

He has me in his arms just as the words leave my mouth, propelling me to the wall. My back hits the plaster with a soft thud.

So, oh my sibs, reality check; I'm trapped, pinned between a rock and a hard place (Aw Christ, that's the shittiest pun I've ever heard). For a good fifteen seconds, Obi-Wan presses his body against mine, letting me appreciate just how tall he is, how powerful his body is. My hands are pressed against his chest, and even through the thick terrycloth, I can feel how hard the musculature is.

And underneath, I can feel his heart, beating fast as a hummingbird's wings.

Almost as fast as mine.

That lust I tabled? It leaps up and possesses me, sparking every nerve in my body to life. I exhale hard as logic and reason bid my mind a civil adieu.

"Look at me," he orders, his voice a raw twist of lust.

I can't.

Up until now, I've been operating on the idea that I could treat this as a sort of superreal encounter, neither believing nor disbelieving; that I could wait to decide whether or not any of it's real until later, when I'm somewhere dark and peaceful with a teddy bear in my arms. (And maybe a stiff drink by my side.)

Huh, that ain't gonna happen. An utterly fictitious character, the figment of the imagination of a man I don't care for very much anyway is denying me the luxury, grinding his body against mine, demanding I acknowledge him as real in the most intimate sense.

I *am* losing my mind.

One warm finger hooks under my chin, elevating my eyes, and his gaze hits me like a load of napalm. Every part of me starts to burn, body and soul, stoked higher by the flex of his muscles through our clothes. He's real, God help me, he's real.

His mouth comes down on mine, seizing, possessing, exploring, dancing, leading. My hands slide up his chest and to the column of his throat, noting the texture of skin and hair, the weight and shape of his skull, the motion of the muscles in his jaw.

Christ, I haven't had a kiss like that since fucking *grade* school.

"Ahem."

I did not hear that. Please God, if you're listening and taking requests, I did not hear that. Please God, please?

If the sudden retreat of anything resembling color in Obi-Wan's face is any indication, then yes, I heard that. And so did he.

The realization of just *whom* that 'Ahem' belongs to slams into my mind, acting like a shot of icewater. Check that; liquid nitrogen.

I gulp as Obi-Wan takes his body away from me, turns, and we see the interloper.

Who is it?

You guess.

"Master!" Obi-Wan croaks as I peel myself off the wall. "I can explain . . ."

"I look forward to hearing it Padawan. Get dressed," Qui-Gon Jinn grits out, looking as morally angry as I've ever seen anyone.

Obi-Wan grabs his clothes from where he dropped them on the folding table and flees into the bathroom, leaving me flushed and horny, spiked on the Master's outraged gaze.

I sigh, reigning in my raging hormones.

"And just what did you think *you* were doing?" he demands, somehow managing to loom over me even from three paces away.

What the hell's he angry at me for? "Checking for his tonsils," I snap back, letting my mouth run away with itself . . . again. Yet another beautiful friendship commences. Great.

While he fumes, I check him out. Qui-Gon's tall, immense, and damned intimidating, impeccably dressed, creases and droops in the correct places. He, like his student, is a study in how to make the female of the species turn into protoplasmic goo.

And he's apparently had firsthand experience, I realize. I can't help it; I burst out laughing.

"Pray tell what amuses you so, my lady?" he asks, his tone a masterpiece of absolute venom.

I fix my eyes to an odd smudge just on the fold of his inner tunic. I'm too much of an addict not to know fudge stains when I see them.

He looks down at himself and sees where my eyes rest. Oh what a treat it is to see this man blush! I grin cruelly. "Missed a spot."

Obi-Wan emerges, dressed and looking much neater. "Master . . ."

"We will discuss this later." He flashes me a look I can't interpret, turns on one heel, and strides out.

Looking like a little boy on his way to the woodshed, Obi-Wan follows. Or starts to; he stops by me, hands me my bathrobe, and we share a look of profoundest regret.

"It was nice meeting you Jean," he finally tells me softly.

"Same here. Listen, if you're ever in town again, look me up. Maybe we can have a drink together sometime?" Listen to me, I've known this man all of one evening, and the thought of never seeing him again makes my heart cry.

"Of course," he promises, and leaves.

I watch the night swallow them, my body whimpering for his touch, my mind a mess.

I finaly press my face into my robe, scenting his skin. Standing in the middle of an empty laundromat in the middle of the night, I try to put the whole encounter, about ninety minutes of absolute insanity, into something I can express and rationalize.

"Did that just fucking *happen*?!?"

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