An Open Letter to the Hand Towel That I Clean Up with After Masturbating
My tainted terrycloth companion,
As I sat down today to pen this letter to you, the nanny of my nether region, I was chagrined to learn that I could not remember last we spoke. My frayed, crusty friend, please forgive me!
And I do hope you will forgive me, my trusty towel, for the gratitude is genuine; my words true, erect and ramrod straight. I could offer nothing less to the object that's helped me through thick and thin, depending on what I may have eaten earlier that day.
While my selfish actions and distant behavior may not reflect it, I do in fact remember the day I found you in the clearance section of a nearby JCPenny outlet store. I recall smiling as I gazed upon your faded salmon tint, which I knew would be just dark enough to throw my roommate off the trail should I ever be lax enough to let him discover you, post-act, on the floor of our shared apartment.
Better still, when I gripped your tussled form in quivering, eager hands, I also recollect considering the faint paisley pattern that adorned your buttery soft surface. Should the dark hue of your cloth not throw my inquisitive, meddling roommate off the trail, I had thought at the time, surely that complex pattern would serve as an adequate secondary line of defense?
Yes, of course! Those distant memories are all too clear now: Combined with the discarded fruit of my loins, that paisley design would arguably assault my roommate’s senses with an impromptu Rorschach test, sufficient enough to distract him to the point where he would not investigate further—perhaps with an errant touch or ill-advised sniff.
From that day at Penny's to today you have been nothing short of an ever-attentive partner, addressing every wayward seed that threatens to stain the hardwood, bathroom tiles or carpet during my most vulnerable of moments. Such fond memories! I appreciate them all, as I do you.
Even now, I can hear the washer/dryer combo in the bathroom humming along, rinsing and fluffing you and your brothers for another go. Yes, I admit to you, towel, that there are others of your ilk that I employ in my merry manhandling from time-to-time, but they mean nothing to me. They, like so many others before them, are mere placeholders as I await your triumphant return from that necessary evil, the laundry.
I'd employ you every day if I could, friend, but towels and such are not meant to stand at attention as you do in the hours following our meetings, nor are they meant to chafe or feel like sandpaper against my skin. You are not a tent, sweet, silly towel. You are a towel, and it confuses me when I look upon your erect frame atop the laundry heap. Also, if you'll excuse my bluntness for a brief moment, there’s the matter of the smell, of which I will speak of no further, for both our benefits.
Towel, for all this and so much more I am eternally grateful. I am grateful for you, for the comfort you provide, and for the way your 300-thread count weave soaks up my lost sons and daughters without complaint and nary a sound. You are selfless and untiring and effective without equal. I love you, towel, as I frequently love myself.
And what's this? I can hear the dryer finishing up now, the buzzer and two glorious minutes of ecstasy mere moments away! When the buzzer finally comes we will be hand-in-hand once again, my friend. At which point I will probably come too, on you.
Forever yours,
Jack Loftus
Waltham, Massachusetts
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