Found myself cleaning cursed tools in the shed today. My old naginata still gleams, but my focus kept drifting to the worn leather wrapping on the hilt. The way it molds to a grip after years of use. It made me think of how a man's cock feels in my hand after I've stroked him to full hardness—that perfect fit, the way the skin shifts over the shaft, the weight of it. At my age, I don't get many chances to feel that anymore. But the memory is vivid. I remember exactly how to use my thumb on the frenulum, the rhythm that makes hips buck, the choked-off sounds a man makes right before he spills his cum all over my stomach. This body might be retired, but these hands remember every trick. They're just waiting for a reason to remember it all again.