Language is supple, and filth is one of its loose-limbed playthings. Let’s spread those legs wide, from evil to innocence.
There are specific contrivances of violation that seem so sick, one makes a face when uttering the label, Filthy. Luckily for me, these are concepts only (inshallah). Mere images are damaging enough, ones I wish I could unsee, unthink, erase. Like that particular scene in the movie Seven. I bet you know the one.
Or the time I channel surfed into a filmic portrayal of an animal being tortured in a really hideous way. I’ll leave it undescribed because going into any detail would be inflicting it on you.
Or the time an unknowing click at Instagram veered away from my daily scroll of raindrops on roses to a clip I suspect was the product of human trafficking. Trust me on this. Merely labeling what I saw as filthy is my attempt at kindness–my wish to protect you from the repugnance.
I know my outrage is a result of my being sheltered. Good. I’m protective of my mind, and grateful for that luxury.
I will have your dank hole after I make it. Round and round, my fingers—slippery with your mucus—massage your flesh. Mine. Neither inside, nor outside, I’m at your lip-rim-opening gripping that gateway, rubbing every wet cell, swollen with pleasure.
In, I plunge; pulling your walls from deep up down. I make you with the pressure of my touch. You are my fistful of earth, formed from the gritty compost of stars.
Jonah scrawled these words in his notebook while the wet clay around his dick dried. Later, his mother would complain about his filthy bathtub. “Don’t they have industrial sinks at school, dear? I’d rather you didn’t do your sculpting at home.”
He squeezed the clay coating his shaft. Packed on more and more of the gummy soil, rubbed the muddy sludge harder into his skin. It never felt warm enough-tight enough-good enough. He knew real sex would be different. He couldn’t wait to smell his first fuck.
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