I like doing it in the morning.

It has emerged as a sensual ritual since the deciduous death of my sexy, thirty-two, adult soldiers.

Most stand upright and salute when I smile like victors of a daily battle with debris.  I am sole leader of a decay-prevention platoon who boldly confronts caffeine stains; random, organic brown grains, and loose bits of broccoli and breakfast bites.

Some soldiers are lazy and lean into their own alignment lack. This challenges my white fight, so I  deploy sadistic tactics.

My provocative pistol is pink with a SENSODYNE lubricant ─ a loyal, mint paste ─ that trumped an adolescent Crest.  She is a dedicated instrument, a SCUBA, who knows her role: follow the lead of my left-hand guide and the right-angle bend of my elbow.

I know her best as my soft, bristled lover designed to massage gums into orgasmic glee and leave every soldier longing for ten minutes more. Pink to palm, paste to bristle, porcelain and mirror: the battle ensues. I am now one with my oral.

Rebellious, I defy rules and employ horizontal flurry; an allegro pleasure exercise.

For two minutes, I stroke left and ponder my day’s heavy agenda.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      For two more minutes I reach for the rear-right and wonder why oranges are orange, but apples are red and who are the fruity Gods  deciding the definitive?

I slow down, I slow-stroke and give attention to a fallen soldier’s grave.

He lived a good life, but the Super Bubble and Blow Pop years called him to heaven. His empty tomb earns a sacred, single stroke. I reload my weapon of  brush destruction and continue to enjoy a full-fledged affair with my mouth’s most crucial ─ the front.

With a decisive, vertical allegiance, I reach for the clean, and  I chick-stroke my top rowed soldiers who selfishly beckon eight minutes of overtime love. They must be spotless and void of “something stuck in between.”

They need to unequivocally be a whole-milk hue. They invite the kiss and guard both my praying and perverse lips. They deserve fifty, passion strokes and seductive attention. They own emotional trust and secure my smile. A flood of foamed spit lathers as I continue to make morning music with my mouth agape, but I must now emit. With faucet assist, I fill a cute cup with lukewarm city-sewer-punch. After one gulp, I look like a new-aged Dizzy Gillespie preparing to gargle my gross:

I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ internal rinse wash.

I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ tongue roll  cycles.

I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ followed by a staccato ─ squish-squish.

I do side-to-front-to-side, throw back my head, and muster a “gag-free-utterance.”

With feminine bend, I release to the sink my nasty elixir and re-gift the city.

Some swallow, some spit; I am the oral hygiene latter.

Penny Dickerson © 2011

Note: This selection was contributed to a visual arts project titled Beyond Clean.  See http://www.beyondclean.org to read the complete 108 “Cleaning Stories.”