Karencita Moxa, in the throes of admiration, pays a private tribute to an unknown object of his desire. With no witnesses, he unleashes his pent-up lust, his hand a poor substitute for the real thing. His strokes are long and deliberate, each one a whispered promise to the absent lover. His breath hitches as he nears the edge, his body tensing before he finally releases, his offering spilling out, a solitary testament to his devotion.