Cashmere Bouquet

Sometimes I feel as if I spend half my life unwrapping bars of cheap soap. Because I bite my fingernails, the unwrapping is an ordeal, and drives me half-mad. But what I object to is the cleaning-up itself. At the Liberty Inn, or the Kew Motor Inn, or at the Herald Square, the last few minutes of any encounter must be given over to washing away the residues of sex. I hate this soaping and rinsing. I wish I could carry away the smell and the sweat, the film of cunt-juice on my face, the seed smeared on my body, the blood under my (bitten-down) fingernals. Instead, I leave with Cashmere Bouquet clinging to me. Oddly, I feel this as an outrage committed on what should be, an outrage far more grotesque than any other I commit - a lie I cannot excuse, if you like. Perhaps some shame lies at the back of this that I do not comprehend, but the surface shame I appreciate entirely - something is deeply wrong if I can glory in sex and yet not glory in its traces.