Celebrating the Trash Bag

During free time like I have available to me today, I celebrate the invention of the trash bag. Just how great is it that we have this product: a bag made of soft, slick plastic which we not only pack our trash into, but can wear and sleep in.

I love trash bags on their own, for the shiny, slick look of them and the lovely way they fit against my body. The plastic caresses me gently at first, and then, after five or so minutes, it fits me like a second skin as my naked body heat causes it to cling to me. It's wonderful to have a bag-like sheath of polyethylene to slip into, allowing that plastic to take us to never-boring sexual flights of fancy.

But as I say, their intended purpose—to put trash in—is also wonderful. I get weak in the knees from the sight of a bag of trash. The bag's plump, round nature, akin to a trashy space-hopper, and the outline of the trash against the bag, is a turn-on. But oh, that isn't the only great thing. It's the feel of that bag.

My weekly bag of trash contains mostly unrecyclable plastic—all the supermarket salad and snack bags, the plastic pots that yogurt and ready-made pasta meals come in, microwavable meal food trays, other plastic food packaging items, and almost countless numbers of used paper towels and cleansing wipes. I almost wish that recycling didn't exist, that it was 30 years ago, so I could also guiltlessly throw papers, cans and plastic soda bottles in there as well.

I sit in my chair at the computer, clutching a bag of my trash, holding it against me. I love the feeling of the bag, and the texture of the trash it contains, against my body. I keep the bag open at the top, so that the bag of trash spreads across my body and I get maximum exposure to it. I hug it against me, in orgasmic rapture, hearing the delectable crunching and scrunching of the trash inside. And the smell, that heady aroma of residue on plastic food packaging combined with the fruity smell of used citrus-power anti-bacterial wipes, is a feast for the senses. My trash never smells too bad—I don't put a lot of garbage in there—so it's a trashy smell, but nothing rancid or rotten.

I also carefully tie the bag up at the corners, to minimize air content in there, and take it to bed. The bag of trash resembles a big cushion and I lie right on top of the trash, humping it gently, feeling it crushing beneath me, and napping on it. Trashnapping, I call it. I love to snooze, and wake up to, a bag of trash beneath me.

Once a week, I will take it to the ultimate level. I slip on a trash bag, wearing it like a leotard. Then I pull the trashbag out of the trashcan, and pour all the trash from that bag into the bag I'm wearing. I shift the trash around a bit, to even it out and get a plump look to my bag. At that stage, I engage in a total fetishistic fantasy—namely, that I am that bag of trash. I am one with my trash as it surrounds me. I spend a sexually mind-blowing hour or two in the trash bag, with the trash packed right up against my body. The feel, sound and smell of the experience must be had! This is something that I honestly believe every trash fetishist has to try.

So, celebrate with me, during your next allotment of free time, the glories of the plastic trash bag and all the fetishistic fun, trash or no trash, that comes with it.

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21.03.11