I almost got come in my eye. Yes, that's come, spelled come, instead of cum. Ever since I read True Porn Clerk Diaries, I write it come. You'll have to read the book to find out why. I should get paid for these teasers; oh wait, I do. I'm a tease of sorts, but anyways, back to the come.
The client was a shooter. It happens on occasion, perhaps 5 percent of the time. I define shooter as a person with a semen trajectory farther than the width of the massage table. Without interception, it'll hit the carpeted floor and immediately my back aches at the notion of renting the carpet shampooer at Price Chopper. I swear it weighs more than me and the cord has an affinity for my ankles.
I have never fully understood the internal physics of shooters. It's not something that a girl would ever have a sense of during sex; although if you're looking to get pregnant, this might be your guy.
In general, the younger the guy, the more likely for a haz-mat clean-up. I imagine the innards of such young-uns have tighter muscles, but again, it's really just a fraction of guys who make a mess of the floor, or have me wrangling their cock so that the carpet is spared. It's probably a genetic thing...the distance, some shoot and others dribble, like the ability to curl one's tongue. It's in your DNA.
But back to my eye...it was a surprise because he wasn't all that young and he had a somewhat mellow exterior. And then, well, it happened and I darted and ducked. I must've had a look on my face, because he looked at me like "what's the problem." I'm figuring safety glasses might not go over so well.
I recall a girl I worked with at a jack shack who got come in her eye. It was red all day. And I'm not sure how that works with STDs...can you get gonorrhea of the eye?
The next time someone rebuffs my prices, I'm going to tell them it includes the hazard pay.