The Crust of My Lust

Horatio writes: We are fascinated by the small details of the act. Like this, from Guy Regan of San Francisco:

My Mother did all my laundry and I, considerate son that I was, wanted to avoid having to make her consistently wash my soiled sheets. That's how it started.

Lying in bed alone, post coitus, wearing only a sticky hand and a guilty smile I came upon the idea of leaning out of bed and drying myself on my pale yellow carpet. My sheets were still clean. Genius.

As the days, weeks and months wore on I had to lean further and further out of bed to find a spot on the carpet that hadn't dried into a dark yellow crusty matt. An ever increasing semi-circle of my self-love. But my sheets were still clean.

At the other end of my room, another crusty circle was growing where I used to sit with my back against the door for daytime lovemaking. This went on from the ages of 14 to 18 till I went away for a year to travel the world and see how other cultures lived. In some countries they use tissues, hankies or items of underwear.

On my glorious return, my mother was pleased to tell me that she had taken advantage of my absence to "redecorate" my room. There was a new wardrobe and a fresh carpet, cream this time.

Thanks to my travels and worldy education, this carpet was never sullied.

My mother and I have never discussed this. Not even a single thank you for all those years of sperm-free bedlinen.