ocean sunfish

"ah, the smell of fresh cum in the morning,"
thinks the beautiful big-dicked boy,
just after he has thrown back the covers
and lay on his back and jerked off
slowly and luxuriously and spurted
his cum all over his chest and belly
and dribbled it into his tough wiry
little nest of pubic hair. "ah,"
thinks the beautiful big-dicked boy.
"the smell of fresh pleasure. there's
nothing quite like it, is there?"
he asks to no one in particular,
perhaps to the ceiling overhead,
perhaps to the curtains at the window,
perhaps to the row of old books on the
shelf over his desk.
the beautiful big-dicked boy
then wipes himself off with an
old t-shirt, holds the cum-moistened
t-shirt up to his nose, inhales
the scent, then gets out of
bed and tosses the t-shirt
into the laundry basket,
wraps a towel around his waist,
and walks across the hall
into the bathroom and
climbs into the shower,
the last splotches of
cum that were clinging
to his smooth tight skin,
banished, sent packing,
down the long winding
road of plumbing lane,
the march to the sea.
he could almost smell
the salt.

--Carl Miller Daniels