I do it.
Yes, I'd rather someone else do it to me.
But sometimes, the urge is just there. So strong.
And either there's no one available to help me vanquish it, or I simply need the job done as quickly and easily as possible.
So I admit, I frequently quell the desire all by myself.
With my own hand.
Or any number of purposely designed or make-shift devices I have laying about for just such an occasion.
I have them throughout the house, for whenever the need arises.
There's one next to my bed.
There's one in the bathroom.
There's the cheap thing I bought in Chinatown.
There's the thing in the utensil drawer.
Hell, I've even been known to use furniture or wall corners in a pinch, the urge is sometimes that strong.
I have the world's itchiest back.
(And you're all a bunch of perverts, BTW.)
If Heaven is a place filled with nothing but things designed to bring us pleasure, than Suze Heaven consists of walls made of coarse sandpaper to rub against, people with long fingernails willing to do my back's bidding, and Eucerin waterfalls.
I don't know if it's dry skin, excessively sensitive nerves or what-have-you, but I derive such pleasure from a good back scratching that I've been accused of having secondary and tertiary clitorises (clitori?) in my shoulder blades.
If I were to be captured by the enemy, I'd be able to stick to "name, rank serial number" if subjected to water-boarding, "the box" or sleep deprivation. But so help me, I'd give up every thing I had on each and every one of you if they teased me with a light scratching across my back.
So out of all the bloggable things going on in the world today...TSA screenings, Tom Brady's hair, Kardashian kredit kards, Leslie Nielsen's passing...what made made me write a stupid blog entry about my neurotic/erotic/psychotic love of a good back scratching?
I'm home alone.
Everyone's at Lansdale's Christmas tree lighting.
I got itchy.
I saw the bread knife...
and now I desperately need a Band-Aid.