Flakes, another kind

Two hour flight and I'm home. I'm wearing a long-sleeve sweat shirt and I want to change into some shorter sleeves to relax after the flight. One hand holding the other sleeve as I pull my arm under and wiggle. Then the same ritual to get my hand out of the other sleeve. Then, with both arms under my shirt crisscrossed, I start to bunch up the shirt from the bottom up and that's when I smell it. The sweet smell of another man's cum that has dried on my shirt. A momentary pause when I smell it and take a huge whiff before I pull the shirt over my head and off. I still smell it. And I see it, too. Dried flakes on my skin like I'm in the process of a reptilian molting exercise. But it isn't my skin. It's the cum from the guy that I played with right before my flight. And I'm shedding it like I shed my shirt - enough to have the memory flooding back in a huge wave like the giant spray that flooded me that's causing all this. And as much as he flakes off me, I take that part of him in my mind forever.