Everywhere he went, he dribbled cum. He dribbled jizzum in sporadic squirts that sometimes soaked through his pants. Nobody ever noticed but the stains were visible. If they had noticed they might have thought they were ink stains or food or drink stains. They might have thought they were lingering droplets of pee that soaked through after he urinated. Rather than ask someone about this unusual bodily phenomenon or seek answers on the Internet or in books, he learned to deal with it. He wasn't alarmed. He just took it for the non-threatening slightly absurd thing that it was.

All day long he dribbled cum. At work. In church. At the dentist's office. Everywhere. It wasn't because he was sexually excited. It wasn't that he was eternally reaching climax. He just dribbled cum--like a leaky faucet dripping sluggish gobs of yogurt sludge.

He took God very seriously. But he felt self-conscious about going to church. Because he knew he was in the house of the Lord and it felt wrong to be dribbling cum there. He was a deacon at the church. When he got up to collect the week's tithing, he would stand at the end of the aisle with one fist clenched in his other hand over his crotch trying to shield himself from being noticed by easily-offended and gossipy church ladies. They passed the offering plate in a zig-zag pattern across every aisle, starting in the back. With each successive aisle, he dreaded being noticed.