"So . . . where did you just cum?" I ask him, casually.

"I'm not telling you."  He's generally not so evasive.  It had to be somewhere good, I could tell.

"Why the hell not?  It doesn't matter if it was in a kleenex or in a towel or a dirty sock . . . I don't care."

"Why do you even want to know?"

"I told you that when I masturbate, I like to imagine the guy's orgasm: it's what makes me orgasm.  So . . . where did you cum?" I persist until I wrench the information from him.

"Ugh . . . God . . . in a cup," he answers defeatedly.

"IN A CUP?!?"

"Yes.  It was handy."

"Hmmmmm."  I think a moment.  "Is the cup clear?"

"Kindof."

I yell excitedly into the receiver: "Take a picture of it!"

He immediately refuses. 

I strongly insist.  "Take a goddamn motherfucking picture right now!" I growl, not expecting him to do it.

"Oh, God.  I can't believe I'm doing this . . ."