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Salty, bitter, metallic – the distinctive taste of cum. Caught off guard, I forget I can swallow. Matt lies down next to me while I pick up the nearest piece of clothing from the floor, spitting my own cum into the soft wool.
—What was that for?
—It’s called snowballing.
—Okay… just give me some warning next time.
First I’ve heard of it – I don’t read the Urban Dictionary for fun. And that kākāriki jumper? Not mine. I borrowed it from a friend last night for a cold walk home from the pub, and now I’ve (indirectly) cum on it. Staring at the viscous white smear in dim light, I think: is this machine washable? Matt puts his hand on my leg.
—What’s up?
—It’s just… this isn’t my jumper.
—Oh shit, you can wash it though, right?
—Yeah, surely.
The morning after, the jumper’s care label warns that I definitely can’t machine wash it. A coffee in hand, my ass still sore from last night, two futures furl out in front of me: hand wash it in my flat’s kitchen sink, or return it to my friend as-is? The second is definitely out of the question, and the first isn’t so appealing either. I don’t want the smell of my own cum wafting around the flat – not today, not ever.
Tip-toeing around the back of the house, last night’s rain seeps through my socks. I eye the vaping students over the fence suspiciously, as if they know what I’m about to do, and with a deep guilt I slip the cum-jumper into our general waste bin. I’ll say I lost it, or it got stolen by my deranged flat mate. Something like that. Hopefully, Frances will just forget about it. I’d like to forget about it too.
A week later, however, the jumper returns to my life. My deranged flatmate did actually steal it – out of the bin. He walks into the living room not just wearing it, but styling it. Tucked in, matching socks. He sits across on the couch across from me.
—Nice jumper, where’d you get it?
—Found it in the bin.
—You washed it first, right?
—Yeah!
—Good… good.