So, I'm at my local, slightly pricier than Duane Reade pharmacy, and I'm in need of shower gel. I spot a rather large bottle of "Skin Milk," slightly fancy, but not much pricier than that overscented cheapish "Swiss Formula" crap I get at the DR in bulk. It's clean white, has a fresh sugary-vanilla scent, and comes in an aesthetically pleasing pump bottle. Lovely. I grab it without thinking further, along with some trash bags, some random shampoo and Synthroid, and head cheerily home.
I use the stuff for a few days. It's moderately lathery, requiring a few more pumps on the old shower puff than I'd like, but not as bad as some pricey tiny bottle of English crap that is lovely and soft and rosey but basically lasts four showers and costs ten bucks. Keep in mind, I am nearly stone blind in the shower without contacts. It's not too harsh on my winter-dry-chloriney skin, and it smells pretty without being perfumey.
But, one day, after some energetic, rushed pumping, I notice the splatter on the wall. And, suspiciously, look closely, squinting, at the opaque white drizzle on my shower puff, before vigorously squeezing it into lather-oblivion. And then, horrified, I realize...
This stuff looks like ejaculate. But exactly.
I've been soaping up every day with porno-pudding. Man-juice. Splooge. If I had a Dirty Sketch to compose, I wouldn't need to mix up fancy frosting or thinnish cornstarch paste, because Here it Is. Come in a Drum.
If I were that Sort of Girl, I'd do something whacky with Skin Milk and my digital camera. But I'm a Lady.
Splooge. I shouwer with scented, foaming splooge.
And I've got at least eighteen ounces left.
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