Seventy Three

These are terrible things. The grease of my flesh as I rub thumb to index, fingerprints catching partner ridges as they slip another pass; inching closer to the face above the sink, eye level with clogged inspiration, I gain twisted pleasure from expelling the spirits of my flesh; their manifested white cum splattering the reflection of Tahitian tiles and Egyptian cotton towelettes. Ah, thank goodness for honey-suckle-softsoap to wash my sins away.