I can't find my rhythm tonight,
Sleep for an hour, then up again,
Tired as all hell,
But my body and brain
Won't play nice with each other,
One tugging me one way,
Maybe that is my rhythm.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
Fuck the rhythm!
I'm hard too.
Too early for morning wood, not at 1:30 a.m.,
And I just got up to take a leak,
So it should be down.
But it's up.
Damn! Too damn tired to jack off.
Too damn tired for nearly anything.
Snap. Flash. There! Share via email.
In your hands now. Look at it.
If you were here with me now,
What would you do with it?
You're there and I'm here.
So the answer really is nothing.
What you "would" do and what you "can" do -
That's the issue.
Starbucks. Why the fuck isn't it open at 1:30 in the morning?
Throw on a pair of jeans and that tight black jersey you like,
Decide between blue socks and the brown shoes or white and my sneakers?
Who the fuck cares at 1:30 a.m.?
I could walk to the Starbucks, take maybe 5 minutes if I walk briskly.
It's cold out - yeah, the walk would be brisk.
But then smell the bitter and strong aroma of the Veranda blend,
The blonde roast - just so I can order a "tall blonde" -
It never gets stale saying that.
Not to me, at least. Can't speak for the barista.
But they are not open. If there was ever a time for a jolt of strong caffeine,
So what good is Starbucks anyway?
I can't sleep.
My body is fighting me tonight.
Still hard. Slide my pajamas down and touch myself,
Just like I sent you in that picture a minute ago,
The illuminating flash accentuating
My pale white flesh,
My full brown nest of pubic hair,
My hand surrounding my shaft...
Why can't I just bring myself to stroke myself?
Why can't I just jerk fast, cum fast, and then
Fade into the post-ejaculatory sleep that
Always seems to want to overtake me
After you and I fuck?
You remember that, don't you?
The last time I was over?
You said I had to go at 10 o'clock,
And by 9 we had fucked a few times...
No, I didn't count how many!
But I drifted. I remember that. I drifted,
And I probably lay there naked beside you,
No trouble finding my rhythm in your bed,
As your small breasts pressed against me,
As the sweat evaporated, and as the smell
Of our sex slowly faded, lingering slightly
In my nostrils,
As my eyes became heavy, as my hands struggled to
Hold on to you
Knowing that soon they would be pushed away,
And your fleshy buttocks would be covered again in panties,
And a bra pulled over your breasts, hiding your nipples from me,
And the words,
"You have to go back to your son...he needs you"
Would be uttered and then...
And then I would cry inside.
Maybe you'd see a tear moisten my eyes.
Maybe you don't see my tears.
But then, my eyes closed,
The post-coital somnolence overtaking me.
That was then.
Now nothing is overtaking me.
I can't find my rhythm.
Maybe my words will help,
Repetition of my mantra,
"I want you, I need you, I love you."
Over and over again, the words that say all that matters.
I want you.
I need you.
I love you.
I am still hard.
But I can't do it. Not on my own.
I can't bring myself to do it, to stroke myself.
To release myself.
To taste myself.
It is rightfully yours, you know.
That should be your hand in the picture I sent you, not mine.
And when I lose that milky white onto my belly,
It should be your tongue scooping it into your mouth,
And your lips forming the words, "You taste so damn good."
Not mine. Not my finger brought to my tongue,
Not my words telling you, "I taste so damn good."
Maybe tomorrow night?
Actually, being anal retentive, I have to point out that
Since it is already 1:30 a.m., it is morning, so properly
I should be asking "Maybe tonight?"
I have my quirks, my neuroses,
You have yours.
I'm the anal one,
You have OCD.
Somehow the two work well together.
We work well together.
I know. After she is asleep.
And I know that I have to be gone by 11:00.
But just to see you. Just to hold you.
Just to smell you, the way your perfume permeates my clothes,
Permeates my skin,
So on my long drive home I can still smell you on me.
The way I bring my hand to my nose and smell you on me,
Sometimes your perfume mixed with the scent of your pussy,
At least what is left after licking your wetness from my fingers.
So as I lie awake at 1:30, I can smell you on me,
And I won't be alone.
There is a reason I don't wash my hands after we...
For now, I can't find it. My rhythm.
Sleep eludes me once again.
I listen and all I have is silence,
Not even the breathing, or snoring,
Or your naked breasts rising and falling beside me.
Your small breasts, but one day you'll believe me when I say that
Size does not matter. It really doesn't.
I love them just fine.
I love you just fine. No changes required or wanted.
Just you, the sound of your breathing beside me,
The scent of you beside me, on me,
The warmth of you with me.
It is a curse, the erection. It really is.
No little blue pills wanted tonight.
Isn't there an anti-Viagra I can take?
I want sleep, if I can't be with you.
I don't want this damn hard-on keeping me awake,
Tempting me to just go to town on it,
Whack it, jerk it, jack it.
I know if I did, I might sleep.
The Starbucks comes back into mind.
Nothing at 1:30, but if I needed gas I could find it,
Or a pack of cigarettes if I was a smoker,
Probably could buy a full basket of groceries if I needed to.
But not a tall cup of liquid comfort,
To keep me even more awake.
But with caffeine, you come by your insomnia honestly,
The chemical way.
I can't find my rhythm,
So I will just accept that this is another
My cock will soften eventually.
I know that at some point exhaustion will overtake me,
And all my musings will be past tense.
Then the alarm will go off.
Not nearly enough sleep. Damn. As usual.
For now, all I have is a flash photograph of my hand
Holding my hardness.
Enjoy it. Maybe even in the middle of the night, if you can't sleep either.
Quietly walk to your computer and open your middle of the night email.
And look at your middle of the night picture.
Tonight - 9:30 - not so many hours away.
Just to hold you, for a moment.
Just to be held, for a moment.
And then a whole night of smelling you on me.
You can be my Maltese Falcon.
The stuff that dreams are made of.
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