My Father does my laundry nowadays. I still want to do it, but the right way, meaning that I actually look at each item's tag and see how it's supposed to be washed and dried. But My Fucking Mother kept bitching about how I was doing a load a week, and I think My Fucking Father started to bitch at how I had, like, two pieces of clothing that was wash warm/gentle-dry low. Plus my old man is retired and needs shit to do during the day, so I just let him do it. His one-cycle-fits-all routine will ruin all my clothes, but I need to keep the peace.
Got home from my night job last night to see that he did all the dark clothes that were in my hamper. (I did do the whites Monday.) But I saw something else: My yellow Abercrombie & Finch hooded, zippered sweatshirt hanging on my desk chair with a coat hanger.
How in the hell did he get a coat hanger? Well, of course I know where he got one -- my closet. Where, stuffed down near the floor and wedged against a hamper of clothes, lies my cum towel.
My Fucking Father is a perceptive son-of-a-bitch. Cunning, too. And although he's old, I'm sure he looked at all the shit that's in my closet and took a sniff, expecting something musty and instead getting something ... uh, cummy.
There's an outside chance he saw the towel. Regardless, I'll have to toss that into storage before the next time he fucking invades my privacy and opens up my closet. In the meantime, I'm sure he'll come down on me, either this morning or this weekend at dinner, by suggesting I should start throwing away the clothes sitting in the floor of the closet. Half of those clothes is shit you two bought me, asshole.
Got home from my night job last night to see that he did all the dark clothes that were in my hamper. (I did do the whites Monday.) But I saw something else: My yellow Abercrombie & Finch hooded, zippered sweatshirt hanging on my desk chair with a coat hanger.
How in the hell did he get a coat hanger? Well, of course I know where he got one -- my closet. Where, stuffed down near the floor and wedged against a hamper of clothes, lies my cum towel.
My Fucking Father is a perceptive son-of-a-bitch. Cunning, too. And although he's old, I'm sure he looked at all the shit that's in my closet and took a sniff, expecting something musty and instead getting something ... uh, cummy.
There's an outside chance he saw the towel. Regardless, I'll have to toss that into storage before the next time he fucking invades my privacy and opens up my closet. In the meantime, I'm sure he'll come down on me, either this morning or this weekend at dinner, by suggesting I should start throwing away the clothes sitting in the floor of the closet. Half of those clothes is shit you two bought me, asshole.
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