I’m in the soap aisle of the Kroger store, staring at the polished silver handle of a very nice upholstery brush. I have no interest in upholstery brushes.
The ghost in the polished silver handle– big and bouncy, meaty, outrageous. Oh you. Go your way - Jigging among the bottles in defiantly tight and definitive black jersey, swollen to bursting like a Macy’s Parade balloon. Where have you been? Oh thou gorgeous heifer?
Jig. Jig. Jig. God bless that savagely sumptuous Bison rump, fellatio lips snickering a delicious hum, oh the humanity, that staggering tonnage of her Charmin clevage swaying unhinged like a surprised suspension bridge in wind.
Big and boozing, irreproachably lewd, from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All, swelling Tide, the agreeable white grub between my amused legs awakes “Lugt Schwestern! Die weckerin lacht in den Grund!”
Surreptitiously on toes, closer I, a prince among detergents, for if she turns oh how fine on sheets as fresh as snow, to smother languorously below the salt dark, undulating, mucusly slipshod, riant bore as she humps over head. To slam on the juice! From Bounce to Shout to Finish then Snuggle!
“Is this cheap stuff any good?”
Unhinged, civilized me again under the unthrillingly dumb florescent lamps.
“I think so. I use it.”
Eroticism can happen anywhere.