The lower half of his body is just a bulk beneath my sheets, and a few moles on his back disrupt the smooth whiteness of his naked skin. His face is away from me as he sleeps on his stomach. His long brown curly hair is streaked red. Some of it covers his right shoulder; some of it falls on my bed—nearly touching my foot. Complete filth! I watch his breath. Watch his back rise then deflate in a slow rhythmic pattern. Watch his fingers twitch from a dream. Watch my cigarette move to my lips and then away. Then watch the grey exhaled smoke swirl against his flesh and caress the sides of his very pale body.
I wish he would leave.
I change positions from sitting cross-legged on my pillow and lay on my back, my feet at his head, my head at his feet. He should sense my impatience. He should know that when you screw someone in a drunken horny blur that it’s common courtesy to be up and out of bed by seven. At least by eight. He should not leave me shackled to my sheets waiting for him to wake up; he should not leave me wasting away in my bed. Just pure inconsiderate.( Read more...Collapse )