We both undressed and got into the tub—where we sat sheepishly, not knowing where to start. Dean grabbed a handful of spaghetti and piled it neatly on my right kneecap. I burst out laughing, tickled by our shyness. He threw some strands of pasta at my chest, where they remained stuck. “Well, I guess that’s cooked,” I giggled. It felt cold and slimy on my breast. Next, he poured the tomato sauce down my front. “Ow! What the fuck? That’s hot!” I yelped. Out of habit Dean had heated it up. Nice. He rubbed some of it on his penis and it actually hardened. “Are you turned on by tomato sauce?” I asked. “No, but you’re naked and that always turns me on,” he said, embarrassed. I couldn’t help but laugh again—this time at the spaghetti clinging to his erect penis. “That totally does not do anything for me,” I said.

The smell of pasta and tomato sauce wasn’t exactly arousing either, so we resorted to dessert. Dean slathered the pudding on my sauce-strewn breast. It was nothing but painfully cold, and the smell of tomato and vanilla mixed together was a major mistake. I slopped a big handful of the stuff onto his penis and it instantaneously shriveled. By that point, we were hooting uncontrollably at the smelly, gloppy, entirely unsexy hodgepodge.

I can’t say the sensation of spaghetti in my butt crack turned me on, but the indecorum of sploshing certainly left me feeling unrestrained—and subsequently lusty. After a shower, we were squeaky-clean and finally ready to get down and dirty, and did.

Jamie says:

If you’ve got an obsessive-compulsive streak like me, you’ll want to make it completely clear that neither urine nor feces is considered a permissible sploshing substance. Personally, I’d go for an all-dessert sploshgasbord: pudding, whipped cream, custard, pie filling and ice cream.

*Writer’s name has been changed to protect them from their mother.