It hit the ceiling, I swear it did. I lay back in awe and watched it go straight up in the void of air as though in search of a target in the stucco above. Gravity gave it no nevermind as it went upwards, in search of…there was no target, though.
It never has a target. It simply has aim. The aim…the purpose of this shot is mess.
Whether it is to be showered on a body, get caught in hair, or something more nefarious…it wants to mess with whatever it lands upon.
Perhaps triggered by my hand alone, or by another’s hand in company, it rockets out in search of its non-existent fantasy target. That target…the one it craves to coat.
Protection from it we seek in sheaths of rubber to wrap that which shoots it, or adding drugs to a diet to deflect its aim…and yet we crave it and call for more as though its assault were welcomed by all.
Its warm wet white wandering droplets that cover those that would have it. The taboo of its actions that dare not speak words among the vanilla and meek who feel virtue is tarred by its whiteness.
It is brought on in relief of inhibitions, resulting from libido, and as the most simple of reflexes for some. It is a sign of power and strength from the one that created it and is a gift to the one that calls for it. It is currency between lips of lust and seen as gold to those of faith.
Songs are written claiming a false flag of flame in hope for this. Lives are lost for loose aim and the messes that it creates.
Whatever brought it, it cums with aim as it rockets away from its source.
It aims to create a mess.