hand soap
masturbation
was always ruined
by the smell of hand soap
dial hand soap to be exact
i’d get finished and it would be great
the breasts on the female news anchor
the nude scene i had frozen on a vhs
featuring some actress astride her male co-star
sitcom mothers and madonna
mtv v-jays with their leather minis
the cuban-american one
and the black one who spoke in a british accent
the women in short skirts
from another make-up infomercial
living breathing fantasies
that i manipulated into writhing flesh in my head
doing ungodly things to such a young boy
at least until i exploded
for some reason i always did it in the underwear
this was a result from doing it the first time
rubbing one out to my old man’s playboys
after my parents had left for work
ejaculating into my underwear
and then thinking
holy shit!
i didn’t think to take it out
and just shoot it into a napkin or tissue
there was no one to ask about how to do it right
not my old man or the other boys in school
who were talking about jacking off all of the time
how to even broach the subject?
i thought this was how it was done
just sit there rubbing until you came
i can’t begin to account
for all of the chaff marks on my prick from the friction
but after the joy was over
it was always the hand soap
the dial hand soap in a clear plastic tube in the bathroom
a golden tan goop just waiting for me to come in
with those soiled underwear in my hand
to run warm water and pour it all over the mess that i’d
made
the smell of that hand soap
the clean stench of my indiscretion
my bare ass on a summer afternoon
wringing out the underwear
and then throwing it under my bed until laundry day
where it became a crusty mess
a sign of my budding manhood
but more than that one more embarrassment
in a continued, bungling youth
that seemed so never-ending.
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