long weekend

In honor of Victoria Day, and the masturbation month of May mayhem. Just to pass the time really before I completely make-over this place.


I wake up too early to the sound of his snoring on the other couch. He is just a friend.

The ceilings are high in this cottage. Sun comes in through unlined clouds, bouncing off a bedsheet lake, slipping through pine tree branches, through an Italian window, onto my face. The ceiling fan spins round and round. The last of the fire in the stove must have died off a couple of hours ago. Traces of alcohol still in my blood I think. I am cold. No one awake.

He is just a friend. Brotherly. Short with a shock of thick black hair. He tells good stories. We like to order each other around. I call him bitch, he calls me ho. Sometimes the other way around, for variety.

I’m lonely. I’m horny. Truth is I just want hands naked on me.

Yes it’s lonely. No one to touch, no one to be touched by.

Yes I’m horny. Always am when I wake up in a new spot. Like territorial pissings, I feel the urge to release signature orgasms wherever I may roam.

First night in T’s guestroom I masturbated into the shorts that he lent me. I remember that I was thinking vaguely of him. I suppose it had slight creepiness factor. We had sex the next morning, if that helps.

That morning really is a stuck record in my memory, as imprinted as his thumbs felt when pushing onto my back right at the very beginning then.

Yes I miss T. My body feels under-exposed, isolated. See myself naked in the mirror after a shower and something is missing. It is that feeling again, the knowledge of being no longer a hop-skip away from his possibility. I know there will be other possibilities. But I must pause now, must rest.

Friend on the other couch, I’m lonely. Come and lie on top of me, your stripped knees on my stripped knees. How much of sex is just a hug anyways?

Nothing left to do now. Tug the checkered sleeping bag over me now, closed. Hide my hands underneath. Unbutton a button, ease a nipple out of my top so it hardens and scrapes against the flannel. Stretch my back slowly like I’m just aching from the previous day, just waking up. This way I can slip one hand straight down and under both my pajama bottoms and panties in one quiet swoop. Feel the wiry curls- I haven’t bothered to shave since - covering my clit.

Begin to pat on the little button of flesh, quietly, just pat.

Friend on the other couch, you stopped snoring. Are you awake? I can’t see you. Are you listening, watching? Can you tell what I’m doing?

I think I almost wish you could.

Send down thoughts now to accompany my little pattering fingers. I have no mind to be specific, no narrative. Thoughts just hit me unsifted, jostled back and forth in wavy dreams.

Fine, if it is T then let it be T. Let him hold me from behind, let me push backwards on to his solid cock. Twitch to that thought if you must, jolt to that. Friend on the other couch, you can join if you want. You can find me here like this and help as T fucks me. Creep up to me now, save me the trouble of having to be quiet like this. Let there be hands on me, just let there be many hands. Let them draw out my pleasure, tug like fishing wire, taut and caught, let them pull me in. Women and men both welcome, sliding sweaty thighs between my sweaty thighs, placing juicy lips on juicy nipples, squeezing firm back with firm hands, there, then there, then there, yes there, again. Being tender and rough at once, in forests, in cramped cottage bathrooms, in canoes, on deserted docks. And you can mock me, taunt me if you want, I can take it. Despise me, humiliate me if you must. Revere me, ignore me, adore me, it doesn’t matter. You will know me, whenever, wherever, take.

Must not be caught. I lay this trap for myself, if no one else will trap me, pin me here to this moment, to this spot.

I am trapped in this sleeping bag. I am trapped by that which I cannot let others see. The heat beginning to rise from my body hovers in gusts over my trapped self.

I circle my two fingers on my aching nerves, quiet now, quiet. My other hand cups onto my soft breast. I want this.

I need to flip on my stomach again, so I do. It is hard to grind like this without moving my whole body too much. I scrape up on my moistening clit with the side of an index nail, around my labia, flicking upwards carefully in warm quivers of sensation.

Friend on the other couch, are you there? You’re getting up aren’t you? Have you seen me? Should I stay still?

He is up. I stay still. He can’t hear my pounding heart, can’t feel my heating body. I keep my face buried in my pillow, hand poised underneath.

I flutter my eyes sideways quickly to catch him walking off drowsily to the bathroom, passing by me, scratching his head, his shock of black hair cocked up like a rooster’s comb.

It is time to let go. Take this moment alone because I want to come hard. Angle my ass up so I can pivot my whole body right on the tip of my two fingers. Grind vigorously so I can forget all. Though I must remember still to stay quiet.

If someone were to walk in, they would see my oscillating bundled up body, tense, humping comically onto the couch.

I pant into the pillow as I feel it loom closer and closer, my eyes screwed shut, and this is the most dangerous part now, the point where it would be near impossible to stop, and then yes I’ve found it, I just need to push one more time now, the world needs to push with me one more time.

And oh this must be heaven, this implosion, the sweat that springs from the back of my neck, the jaw that slacks, the tongue inadvertently out, the ragged scratchy breathing, the body shivering and yawning, this pounding peaceful inferno inside this sleeping bag.

Friend on the other couch, you're back, you missed it.

My heartbeat circuits all through blank me. Me.

He trundles past again and slumps back onto the other couch. I am already falling back asleep.