The last thing I remember for a while was finding myself half asleep and my cock softening, still semi-hard and still mostly inside Qing’s asshole. I grabbed the ends of the condom before I softened any further, and withdrew. This was not sexy. The condom went over the side of the bed.
I thought I should clean up. Including Qing’s asshole and perineum. A semi-liquid mess of faecal matter and lube had escaped from her asshole.
Dan Savage launched the habit of calling that mess “santorum”, after Rick Santorum, the creepy religious right politician. But that never felt right to me. It must annoy Santorum and that’s probably good, but associating him in any way with sexual pleasures, even ingloriously, seems to do the man too much honour.
Also, he’ll be forgotten soon, while faecal accidents and by-products will be with us forever. We humans are part of the biological world, even the beautiful and golden Qing.
Anyway, that faecal mess doesn’t happen with most anal sex, and even when it does it’s a perfectly natural by-product of a vigorous anal fuck, and not a sign of damage. But I was mostly responsible for the mess being there, so it was my responsibility to get rid of it.
Also, I’d learnt by then that girls sometimes found the sight a little challenging, and that if I cleaned up quickly with a damp cloth or a handful of tissues, without their being shamed or embarrassed about it, then life and post-fuck calm will go on. Harmoniously.
So I thought about searching for the bathroom, which was probably on the other side of the kitchen. And then she put her hand on my waist and I fell asleep. Did I say that humans are biological creatures?
When I woke up again it was much lighter outside. Qing, fortunately, was still sleeping. I edged out of the bed silently, and took the little collection of used condoms to the bathroom. I disposed of them, washed my cock thoroughly, and collected a bunch of paper towels.
Back to the kitchen I saw it was after nine, so I made instant noodles with strips of egg, shallots, black mushrooms and a very mild, slightly sweet soy sauce. I had to hope that Qing would like Chinese. But she, or her household, had nine different kinds of soy sauce. I figured she probably did.
I took two bowls and my tissues, two of them dampened under the tap, into her bedroom. Qing was stirring and looked up at me. “Breakfass? I’d have made you breakfass.”
“But you looked too cute to disturb.”
She smiled. “You shoul’ see my ass in a kitchen.” The smile became a laugh. “Specially you.” She chanted, “Jaime likes my aa-ass, Jaime likes my aa-ass. Wooo! You really like my ass.”
I held out the bowl. Instead of taking it she said, “Oh! I mean, thank you. Tha’ smells haochi.” I didn’t ask. “Haochi” was clear from context. It was good, and it meant something like “yummy”.
So I put her bowl on the bed beside her head, and pushed her down onto her front. I brushed her back with one of the wet clothes, by way of misdirection, and then opened her legs and wiped away the mess. Three dabs and a rub with a wet paper towel, then finishing with a drier sheet, was all it took. The mess had been there and it was gone. It would have been much more dramatic if she’d seen it. Qing didn’t even murmur. All was well.
I scrunched the paper towels into a ball with the unused sheets on the outside, and dropped it on my side of the bed. A second later I said, “oh. Juice.”
I hopped up, flushed away the paper towels, washed my hands, and returned to the kitchen, where I’d seen some horrible, thick green juice in the fridge. I poured her a glass, and unhealthy ginger beer for myself.
Qing was just finishing her bowl when I returned. She said, “Tha’ was grea’. Gimme some of yours, and you might get to fuck me. Again.”
I raised my eyebrows. So much for her feeling submissive.