I'm too sleepy to write a post tonight. It's been a long, hard, stressful week, and I'm too sleepy to post. But I hate to leave it too long or you will all wander off in search of hotter, lustier, kinkier pastures.
I'm too sleepy to write tonight. I've been going to bed too late this week. I've been working late but still need the same amount of downtime so I've been going to bed too late. MSNBC until 1 in the morning. Dumb. Not a good way to lull myself to sleep.
I'm too sleepy to write. I stayed up late last night and didn't sleep well. All the stress triggered a manic attack. I thought I wasn't supposed to have manic attacks any more. I take lithium now. Though maybe it would have been worse without it, maybe it would have lasted longer, maybe I would have had a fit of road rage, stuck on the Beltway during rush hour, trying to get down to Virginia where yet another synagogue friend was sitting shiva for a parent. And now another member lost a parent today. That's three this week, on top of three during the High Holy Days. We could be aiming for an unwanted mention in the Guinness Book of Records. Both my parents are still living. I'm afraid to answer the phone.
I had a manic attack yesterday. I sent reams of ridiculous emotional ramblings to my perverted pedagogue and... I don't even know quite how to describe his reaction. Stoic? Philosophical? Wry and dry, that's for sure. And not at all sadistic. I deserved worse. And I suppose eventually I'll get it. But for now... thank you, Sir.
I'm too tired to be creative. It's Friday night. I owe you one. I was going to give you a lovely masturbation scene, a nice leisurely bit of self-love... hands passing gently over nakedness, bare back and buttocks reveling in the cool cotton sheets beneath... fingertips idly tracing loops around nipples, which strain towards the ceiling, pleading for abuse... fingers pinch, twist, but never enough, there's something that won't allow them to hurt the way he would... hands traveling down... doing things I can't talk about... traveling, touching, encircling, teasing... swimming in soup of honey and velvet... fingers probing, bending, curling, finding the spot.... a smile and a tear at memories of lessons to find that spot, that spot that should bear a different initial in honor of the guide who showed the way... a fierce twist of a nipple, a small cry, it was harder than expected, fancy that... and down in the dark of the Cumberland mine the fingers are slippery, they start to work harder, after all these years there's no thought involved, it could have been over in a minute or two but it's Friday night, a little self-indulgence is allowed... the fingers know what to do... little sounds escape, body tenses... how do you describe it... this feeling that builds... the fullness... the richness... the swelling... almost an itch... until it's too late... it's too late to stop... an earthquake... a girl-eating wave... an explosion... all those clichés are but vain attempts... pure feeling can't be pinned to a board like a butterfly, it would lose its essence, just like the butterfly... and then... yes... now... it happens... sometimes cataclysmic... sometimes a gentle sigh... and then a pause... and then body-wracking sobs.
And then sleep.
I need to sleep.
So I won't write this post tonight.