Sign Of Your Thighs

To be so lonely

Shit. That's big. I can feel the thick, girthy rocket standing between my slightly tanned, mildly hairy thighs. My veins lie prominent as I reach for a clenex and three pumps of my grandmas best floral  lotion. I can feel the excitement in each steady wave of every throbbing pulse. Sometimes I worry if I'm being too loud, but then I remember the roaring sounds coming my my adopted grandmothers bedroom at 7pm. I have a favourite scenario that plays in my head when I'm in the mood. It always starts with me waking up shelterd by the stiff trunk of my peer body, then eventually after a few needed strokes- my grandmother come in wearing some variation of the same Victoria secret crotchles Pantie and nightie set. Oh damn!  I didn't think it would go so fast pace. I see it begin to flow from the sprout of my crotch. I think I smell it- the sour yet sweet aroma of a royal icing like substance dripping only my unwashed black joggers. My lungs inhale as my lemon jizzle appears to curdle. I wonder what it tastes like. I wonder what it feels like as it cements of my tongue. I wonder what would happen if I just... just... I scoop the puddle of unborn liquid child, using my hand as a spoon- bringing back bitter memories of playing with myself at the sand pit when I was six. I remember the confused looks my grandmother would pass to other parents. I can still feel the stares from the other kids. I pour my man juice on to my open mouth and stuck out tongue. Not bad. Surprisingly not bad. I go for another scoop- bigger this time. Then another and another- until eventually there's no wet snack left. Why on earth would anyone want to spit when you can swallow? Why let this perfectly good protein go to waste?

I really need someone else to do that for me.