It's Getting Mighty Crusty

I decided to blog post about this after touching myself tonight.

One of the big downsides to having my parents at home (which I am not really complaining about right now -- after all, they can help with shoveling snow) is that I can't wash my clothes the way I want to.  My Father has taken lately to doing it for me, despite Mother's protestations of me washing them too often, whatever that means.  He's probably fucking it all up, but I'll be honest with you: When I left for Kansas City and had, like, four pieces of dirty laundry, and when I came back I saw them all folded up (not neatly, just folded up), I didn't get as pissed as I would have in the past.  That two of those pieces are long underwear, which should not have been washed with fabric softener, even though I totally know My Fucking Father put it in?  Don't cry about it these days.

My cum towel is a different story.  I have two, but I haven't even dared to try and wash them since Mother came home from Las Vegas in March.  I fold them up and put them in the closet inbetween "uses," but I don't really attempt to hide them because I don't think My Fucking Father would snoop around in there.

However, he has complained in the past about how my room "smells."  That might be why he's been taking a more proactive approach in cleaning my clothes for me.  What I worry about, then, is that he'll sneak in to my room, smell my, uh, essence through the closet, and decide he thinks he can invade my privacy by opening up the closet.  And there my jerk-off towel will be.

I was so afraid of that happening that, before I left on vacation, I decided to move my towel from the closet to one of the drawers.  I really have no reason to believe that it would be more hidden down there, but I figured that since the long underwear there is cleaner, it would mask the smell of my faded cum, so My Fucking Father wouldn't detect it.  That's not as extreme as what I did over the summer: I took my other cum towel to my storage bin because ... I was scared they'd find that, I guess.  In retrospect I have no damn clue why I did that.  It wouldn't matter if I still have one they could find.  Fuck, I don't know.

In the meantime I have needs, and so I continue to beat up this poor, poor beach towel turned jizz rag.  And so it gets crustier and smellier, and I don't do anything about it because there isn't a time where I have one day to the house to myself because my parents are inexplicably still fucking here.

Just hope I don't get caught.