Itch

In that delicate moment after I go,
Sometimes cleansing is incomplete, you know,
Leaving behind an itch, a discomfort,
Testing resolve, resisting the urge to cavort.

Perhaps I'll gently rub, discreetly concealed,
With the fabric of my undergarment, I'll yield,
Seeking solace, scratching the unwelcome stain,
Imprinting evidence on my panties, a skidmark plain.

Or maybe, if the itch persists, I'll dig in,
With fervent fingers, scratching with a grin,
Longing for relief, desperate, almost wild,
And yes, a quick sniff of fingers, unabashed and beguiled.

And yet, I'll attempt to assuage the itch discreetly,
Using everyday objects, hoping none notice me,
Sitting on sofa arms, corners of my desk,
Hoping for release, without drawing interest, grotesque.