Edit: I think they removed my post because I posted proof, sorry!

It’s a really short story.

We had sex a month ago or so after a “date” of sorts (we have monthly ecounters or every other week), but we did it in my car this time, because… well, it just happened, I guess. I told him he could wrap a tissue around the used condom, and that I would dispose of it later, since we didn’t want to throw it out the window and litter the place. So he did. He tied the condom shut and wrapped it on some tissue paper I had lying around. I drove him home, and he said, smirking: “well, don’t forget to throw this out. You don’t want [the coworker I rideshare with] to find it fermenting here when you drive her to work tomorrow.” We laughed and he got out of the car.

As I drove home, I looked at the passenger seat where the messy, scrunched up remains of the night were placed. I don’t know, maybe I’m developing feelings for this man. Friendship with benefits often ends up with one of the parties pinning after the other after a while, I suppose. I brushed those thoughts away, as they always surface after being plowed for an hour or so.

Anyways, I reached home and picked it up from the seat to throw it out in the nearby bin, but, maybe looking for my keys in a messy tote bag distracted me, I forgot I was holding it, and entered my flat with it balled up in my hand.

I went to the kitchen to dispose of it, but…couldn’t. I looked at it. It really wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before. We’ve been having sex for years now. But I couldn’t throw it away.

I stuffed it in a plastic bag and placed it in a drawer in my room. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I did.
Morning came, and I opened the drawer and there it was. I smiled for some reason. So I kept it there for a whole month now. It’s all kinds of brown and I dread just imagining how it must smell.

I’m borderline insane for this. I couldn’t imagine telling this to another soul. I mean, who keeps cum as a souvenir?

Can’t bring myself to throw it away now, for some weird reason. I’m curious about the psychology behind a behaviour such as this one.

We’ve had sex a few more times since, but it feels so…strange. If he knew what I did, he would probably freak out.

Now, I’ve been asking him to finish on my face, bum or belly. Every time he does, my mind wanders off and the fucking brown fungus infested baggy permeates my thoughts. Kind of a turn off.

So, that’s the story of why I have mouldy cum in my sock drawer.