they're touching me

I slept. It was not the deep comfortable sleep of alcohol induced unconsciousness. It was the troubled half-way-to-hell sleep of the righteous and the sane.

When I woke my anxiety was high. I needed to be clean. I felt every fingerprint in great ridge detail upon my skin and I scrubbed several layers off. I still feel it. There is no disinfectant strong enough to make the stench and tacky stickiness of humanity go away forever. The shaving helps. No fine hairs to catch their bits of virus coated offal. The air caresses with wrinkle free shrouds around me .. and I am eased.

The bedding was next. Thrown into the hall to be washed by one of the slaves. On the rare occasions I let someone into my pristine place of peace, I tend not to allow them to touch anything I can not throw out to be laundered. Even the idea of not doing so sends a shiver up my spine. Their pours oozing body scented oils that leave prints everywhere as a testament to their invasion.

My hygiene rituals are extensive and precise. That includes orifices that otherwise might offend me by lack of attention to detail. Fingernails and toenails trimmed and cleaned to perfection. I use cheap strait forward soap that has no perfumes or dyes to pollute it. A bit of mint can always be detected on my breath. The rest .. you'd have to know me a little more personally.

When I as well as my chambers were clean. When the smell of soap and mint replaced the scents of cheap perfume and cheaper pussy. When the anxiety was paid her due, I decided to take a walk.