Filth ain't filth if it's funny!
Young and recently separated from my long-time partner, I felt like seeing what was new on the penis scene.
I held several auditions for potential new penis in my life. After a few dinners and multiple texts, I decided on an African immigrant.
My girl friends and I had several discussions about the pros and cons of the situation. I decided to go ahead and experience jungle love. He claimed to be single, and from the multiple conversations at different hours of the day and night, I believed him.
For my first safari outing I wore sexy animal print panties and bra, happily drove across town his apartment to receive my promised massage after a stressful day. His penis game wasn’t bad at all.
Reeking of essential body oil from the massage, I went into the bathroom to clean myself up after our jungle love session. Being a curious type of girl, I opened the medicine cabinet.
Vaginal anti itch cream. Vinegar douche juice. MONISTAT® 7 8 9 and 10 also. Pussy deodorant spray. All in the cabinet of a single man.
Shit! What if the Essential African oil somehow compromised the integrity of my American condom? I saw visions of my vagina suffering from Jungle Rot Crotch by proxy.
Flies were circling in for the kill, trained by their fly ancestors to zero in on anything with animal print. It would spread over my whole body aided by the ‘Essential’ oils.
I could literally feel my stomach expanding as I stood looking at the traces of Bad Pussy Hygiene on the shelf. I imagined my ribs poking through my ashy skin, one bone at a time.
I could hear the faint sounds of drums. A previous conversation I’d had with the African echoed in my brain, “Cats are dirty. Evil. Africans do not like house cats. They will steal your breath out of body, take your soul. I avoid them. Bad, very bad!”
Apparently, this African had no problem with infected pussies.