me: so, in your humble opinion, is it too outrageous even for me to post pics of my cum-stained pillow on my blog?
Jordan: see, i don’t see why you’re so embarrassed by the cum-stained pillow
imo, you are choosing the wrong things to be embarrassed about
me: oooh, really! tell me. tell me what i should be embarrassed about!
Jordan: umm chronicling all the details of your sex life on a blog?
hey, we all make choices
Because I live next door to my parents and because I am super fucking disgusting, I have to make certain masturbatory accommodations. These include ridiculous set ups and adopting an infant’s sense of object permanence: If I can’t see them, they can’t see me! Such delusions serve you well when you live on the second floor, across the street from a busy bar scene, restaurants, apartment buildings, etc.
I avoid masturbating in my bedroom at any cost, not because I am indecent and find it distasteful to get off in the only room with curtains, but because the internet fails to penetrate my wall. With the portal to smut unable to reach me, on the rare occasion that I am relegated to the realm of privacy, I have to revert to my hardcopy porn collection, meaning what is left of the porn I downloaded between the years of 2002 and 2005.
An unfortunate casualty in the endeavor of bedroom masturbation is my boyfriend pillow, as in, my big red pillow with mountable arms. The ruins were more discreet in college when my husband was tan, which blends in with nondescript bodily fluids and school cafeteria food—the spectrum that traverses clear, white, yellow, and brownish. But whitish on red is conspicuous—might as well be plaid, houndstooth.
Initially it was an accident and subsequently it became easier and easier to self-justify the progression. You know how vaginal fluids are thicker at certain times of the month? The first time I markedly befouled my pillow, I had pulled a dildo out of me upon completion, and there was an accumulation of fluid in the nook–between the pronounced corona and the shaft–that is supposed to grab the g-spot. It grabbed my vaginal goop, which plopped onto my boyfriend pillow, once my dildo was free from his duties as vaginal-filler. I thought, “Fuck, I should clean that,” then I realized how marvelous life is post-orgasm and that my pillow was not so clean anyway, and then I passed out and drooled on it.
Months later, the accumulation became a stockpile of thoughts completed—clean-up neglected. It was an embarrassment upon having company over; it became imperative that I remember to cloak it in towels—cum-soaked or otherwise. When my mom slept over to babysit my cat, I did not know what to do with it. Its bulkiness prevented me from throwing it under my bed, but I figured if I covered it in a presumably dirty towel, my mother might decide to do the laundry and reveal the ruins, much to her revulsion.
I contemplated how to ditch it discreetly, but that presented an obvious problem: It was too big to fit down the incinerator, but too blatantly disgusting to put in the service room with recyclables and over-sized items that actual people would have to handle. I wished that I lived in a non-doorman building—that I could sneak it out in the middle of the night and leave it on some street corner to be picked up by an unsuspecting garbage man along with the remnants of a summer night.
There was an equally obvious solution: Because the problem was effectively its size, I could cut it into pieces and dispose of them individually. I thought of puzzle pieces and arranging bags in a trunk; I was always one for spatial relations. I also thought about Green Day’s video for Longview and the prospect of disposal suddenly seemed like a party—and an even bigger mess! Where would I find a pendulum to faithfully recreate the scene, anyway? I wondered if the cum caking had somehow been rubbed into the pillow, creating cum powder—like powdered sugar, only not intended for consumption.
Post-sex I disclosed my predicament to Josh and he told me I should wrap it in a garbage bag and throw it in the service room. I looked unimpressed and he suggested, “Cut it into pieces and eat a little piece everyday.” Bewildered, I resolved to keep the pillow and cum on it forever!
My big break came Memorial Day weekend, after I pulled an all-nighter naked hot-tubbing, drinking gin, and musing about editing particularities like how you need to use a hyphen when turning a noun and past participle into an adjective, e.g., ‘cum-soaked.’ I informed my friend Parker of my dilemma, and, upon dropping me off at my place, he generously offered, “I’m here to dispose of all your biohazards.” That’s what friends are for.
Dried, girl cum and guy cum are visually indistinguishable; I noted that people would assume the damage was his own doing. Parker said if he were stopped on the street and asked, he would state simply, “This is my pillow buddy: sad but true.” I suppose it is less embarrassing when you know it is not your own work, when you are unable to recollect the point at which it went from accidental to routine—war stories to go with the scars.
I started getting nostalgic and almost didn’t want to part with it. We had had good times together. He caught me gently when I collapsed post-orgasm and never demanded a BJ in return. Once again, I entertained the notion of keeping him forever and ever! Throwing him out would signify the end of an era. Like graduating or getting married. Only sexier.
Worry not; on this sentimental occasion, we took commemorative photographs! I showed Parker each splotch and splatter I intended to capture, regular slimy cum and thin g-spot fluid alike. He bestowed me with the highest honor: “You are the Jackson Pollack of masturbation.” From now on, when a guy complains about being rained on, I will think of him as my canvas, the surface claimed for my masterpiece.
I prepared my computer for our professional Photo Booth photographs and Parker gasped, “Oh my God, feel your trackpad!” I would have wiped my computer down had I expected company! He must think my entire apartment is coated in a thin film of vaginal fluids. Some people don’t shower; I bathe my apartment in vaginal fluids. Different modes of crustiness. I’d say mine is the more attractive one, creative and deliberate. Okay, maybe ‘deliberate’ isn’t the correct word, because it is merely a biproduct of deliberate action. But, at least, ‘active.’ Think of the effort it took to produce all that fluid. You could get crusty just sitting there and sweating.
Before he rid me of my masterpiece, we sent a facebook message to Andy, his friend whom I slept with many months ago, offering to pass on the “fluid-stained pillow.” I made certain that Parker remembered to hyphenate ‘fluid-stained.’ Andy replied, inquiring whether he was on the pillow, but declined the generous gift upon being invited to make his own “contribution.” With that, Parker parted and assured me that if the police ticketed him for disposing of an over-sized object on the street, he would grammatically encourage them; “Make sure you hyphenate ‘cum-stained,’ sir, or else it might as well just be ‘stained.’”
me: my extra super disgusting pillow: disposed of
but don’t worry, there are commemorative photographs
Josh: well thats nice
you can make a video diary with ‘thats what friends are for’ playing
me: i think i might post the pics on my blog, because what could be more tasteless. the caption will be “the jackson pollack of masturbation.”
me: too outrageous even for me?
Charlie: wait, do you know about my “office”
me: you mean your couch?
what is your office?
Charlie: no ok so like
from ya know about 6th grade til like
well i guess til i left for college
and got a laptop
my computer was in this office in our basement
and i was the only person who used that computer or that office
so clearly that was like my jack off chair
and well, id basically just cum in there multiple times a day, and never really clean it up
so by the time i left for college
there was literally like… almost 8 years of jizz
caked onto the sides of the desk like where your legs are
Charlie: and yeah
no it was disgusting
i mean at some point my mom sold or got rid of the desk or something
and i have no idea to what extent this was noticed
me: sold it!
Charlie: yeah i mean
me: this is like stories people have about putting snot under their beds
me: only more “mature”
Charlie: someone somewhere might have literally trillions of my potential babies
me: i’m sure your spermies are long dead
Charlie: haha well yeah
me: but think of all of those opportunities wasted
so like my favorite phrase from literature ever is “wasting sperm,” as in “leeza and i wasted some sperm in the bathroom.” [from Choke, of course]
Charlie: hahaha ive never heard that phrase
me: but it’s so accurate
Charlie: i mean its hard to consider sperm wasted
unless you had a really shitty orgasm
me: ha ha, true
i sometimes consider sperm wasted in porn
Charlie: why, because its not deposited in the correct place?
me: like i have this vid where this guy is fucking this hot red head who dresses like i dressed in high school (combat boots, etc) and he jizzes on a car! a car! what use is that?
Charlie: hahaha yeah
me: i love the word “deposit”
Charlie: haha yeah
it works well with the idea of jizzing
depositing for safe keeping
me: cha ching