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,
The other...
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?
Suck it?
Stroke it?
Fuck 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,
It's now,
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,
Snoring.
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.
I remember.
That was then.
Now nothing is overtaking me.
I can't find my rhythm.
Maybe my words will help,
Rhythmic chanting,
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.
