Everybody loves *****, they tell you it's wrong to call it that: *****.
My mother slapped me in the face when she realized I was thinking about it.
I was five.
She caught me sticking my hands down my pants handling the soft warm muscle of myself, as Jeri Ryan spoke cold and hard to me from the cargo hold of the U.S.S. Voyager.
Jeri's **** were so hard and stoic in that grey spandex, and a slight ******* took hold of my hand and my body cooled and warmed at the same time.
When I was fifteen, I first felt one, a *****.
It made itself known through a hole full of wetness and stink in Mary's bebe jeans.
Mary, was a puerto-rican girl who smelled like marlboros and perfume.
She talked about bubble baths.
I took my finger and ran it through the rough fabric until i felt her.
I felt her pelvic bone, and a soft, giving rubber of human flesh on the tip of my finger.
In the movie theatre I searched until I felt an infinity of giving an indention in the soft flesh of breathing warmth and maximum.
With a whole world in tow, the lander of my finger slowly entered a wet, sticky atmosphere
poking, prodding, returning and re-entering this wet, fishy-syrupy smelling world.