I’ve got this fever.
Every day it haunts me with its exhausting fervour. I wake
up hot and agitated, with you by my side sleeping gently, chest rising and
falling without a care, drifting on a sea of calm and rest while I burn beside
“So you think you squirted? Show me,” you said. “I want to watch.”
Shivers cascaded through my body at the thought of being so vulnerable and open. It was something we’d tried together for years and I’d been a little apprehensive to tell you it had happened in the shower without you.
You reached down, sleep still soft on our bodies, and found me molten between my legs.
And instead of feeling stressed that I might let myself down by not coming, I was afraid I might I might tremble around your lightest touch before we’d even kissed.
Awake but in stasis, I should just get up, start my day but everything feels so wrong. Blood runs fizzy in my veins and my head throbs. Why can’t I be one of the sexy insomniacs from the films, pounding the streets or hunched over a laptop writing wretched dark novels while chain smoking with gaunt cheeks and staring eyes.