I’m laying on the bed instead of sitting at my desk in the living room where I should be. I tried to work but I just couldn’t focus. There’s no use if you can’t focus. You’ve got no flow, every stupid minute of concentration is an effort and if you get any results at all they are usually poor. I could have gone outside for a walk. Crazy isn’t it? Instead of going out into a bright, fragrant summer day, I went into my bedroom and closed the blinds.
What kind of a person can’t be productive unless they take a break to masturbate? And why did I have to go in my room? I live alone. I could have just laid down on the floor under the window that overlooks the street and no one would have known. There would have been the atmospheric effects of the curtains too, moving slightly in the warm breeze, wafting in the scent of the lilac bush. There was the couch of course. But that was just high enough off the floor that it was theoretically possible someone could have seen. Unlikely, since they would have had to walk right up to the window and look like they were breaking in. It’s one thing to fantasize about that but the real possibility, however remote, ruined my concentration.
It’s crazy how this just takes over sometimes. Not all the time. I’m not a freak, as far as I know. I took off all my clothes and stretched, reaching up and waving my arms in the dim as if posing with long velvet gloves. My hands drifted slowly over the flat and sinewed terrain of my stomach. I wandered all over myself like a blind person. Sheets, pillows, darkness and skin. I took all the time it needed, there’s no sense in rushing because I’d just have to go back again an hour later and then no work would get done.
You must be extra sexy today, wherever you are.