Is life really full of extremes? Some days it seems so. But then I think on it and define that what seems extreme today was routine yesterday, and will be so tomorrow. Sitting naked on the bathtub floor today, showered by nothing yet more than a load of jizz from the Morning Mas #1, I looked at a clock and saw that in 20 minutes I had to be on a subway car. I had to get the jizz off of me, to keep it from functioning as an aphrodisiac. Everyone knows women are drawn like moths to men who cake their bodies in cum. I must protect myself from that unwanted attention. So I shower. I bathe. I clean the extremities of my body that most men are said to ignore in their daily ablutions. Legs. Toes. Ears. Asshole. (That last body part, not considered an “extremity”, is usually left out of the discussion of male cleanliness and bathing habits. I cleanse it daily, and since including this little flourish into my daily rituals of bathing I find the simple act of sitting in a chair is considerably more comfortable. I would have to go back to not cleaning my asshole to compare but I don’t want to go back to those days. Today I want only to get to today. Showering and scrubbing myself clean of Morning Mas #1 I vanishingly soil my body again, Morning Mas #2, this time under flowing water that washes the cum straight to the drain. I start to feel normal, and sane, but I have to be on a subway car in 10 minutes and I will barely have time to dry my body and decide which shoes to wear. It is a rain day so I should wear boots, not sandals. I wear boots. As I type these words my feet feel warm and cramped within the confines of fully enclosed boots. Before deciding on boots my feet were breathing freely, cleansed of cum and scrubbed as clean as any man could make them. Now they are hidden, hiding, wanting to breathe. I found underwear to contain my still half-hardon and cleansed ass. I let the feet breathe just a little longer before stuffing them into socks. When I wear boots I wear white socks, instead of the usual black thermals. The white socks cause a predictable and seemingly unchanging memory to surface. The woman who saw me wearing nothing but these socks found them repulsive, or terrifying, I don’t even know which. It was after we had sex and I was getting dressed. The first articles of my clothing I found strewn about the living room were the socks. I put them on and stood in place, looking for anything else. Shirt, underwear, where the hell were they? She had not deliberately hidden them. When she threw them from the couch they ended up behind the air conditioner that sat in the middle of the living room floor. This made them harder to locate than it might sound. The time spent searching for the rest of my clothing was filled with her acidic comments about the sight of me wearing nothing but white socks. I looked like a sand man, or a snowman, or something sickening and vile to her. My cock, still fresh and alive from being inside her, felt like it shrunk, or shriveled, as her namecalling turned to biting anger, and even took on an air of a threat. There is little space between being alive and not being alive, and I thought for a hot moment she was going to find a weapon. I knew what I was getting into with her. Another abusive relationship, just like the previous one, but with an even more menacing threat of physical abuse and with a woman who turned to a monster after just a second glass of wine. I found the remaining articles of clothing and left her there. She had retreated to her bed nad p assed out drunk, as was routine after we fucked and she swilled wine on her couch. I left her apartment, shaking, going home to sleep and waking the next day surprised to be alive. It was the white socks that I wear now that drove her to such anger, to a state where she was caoable of physically harming a mostly naked man. Putting those socks on today I felt, again, surprised to be alive. After the socks it was pants, which I checked for the proper accoutrements. Keys, wallet, Metrocard, bluetooth mouse. No cash today, I realized later. Not a dollar or a dime on my person. I searched for a shirt that would get me to the subway in the 60-degree weather in some level of comfort. An old Oxford style Gap shirt that definitely shows its age. I believe I wore this shirt when I was interviewed for the Today show back in 1990-something. THis brief memory reminded me how impressed my mother was with that appearance. She said I looked “really good.” She seldom made such remarks. The shirt is chosen, the short is worn, I stuff a sandwich and breakfast strawberries into a new and generally loathed messenger bag. Exiting the apartment I find a small box at the door, an Amazon delivery, reminding me that there had been an odd encounter last night with a woman I did not recognize but who seemed to live in the building. I had taken the box inside but she knocked on my door saying it was her delivery, left at the wrong door. I didn’t doubt her, didn’t even look at the box to see who it was addressed to, and handed it to her. I was mostly naked and a little drunk. She looked Asian and cute. There was nothing more to the encounter except I think she might have rung my bell later, as I sprinted off to sleep. If that was her ringing my bell it would have meant that she returned the box, and that it was not her and had not been misdelivered after all. I don’t remember much else except that an Amazon delivery person made an appearance and he seemed confused. That box awaited me as I opened the door to leave today. It is now back in my possession. Rightfully. Walking briskly to the subway I reflected on how I am now fully attired and work-ready, when just 10-12 minutes earlier I was cumming for a second time and washing it down the drain. I remembered a similar scenario with a woman at a bar. We were there, talking, being friendly with others, saying goodbye to everybody. 10 minutes later we were naked in my bed, fucking and sucking each other like we would die if we stopped. I made it to work early today.