Cold.

December 17, 2007

The cold frost glistens under the warm orange sunlight, each contradicting the other in both temperature and colour. Underfoot, grit keeps the roads safe. The weekend’s drunken vomit lies frozen near to bus stops. Scarfed drivers hop out of their cars to dump piles of hastily-written Christmas cards into the post box to allow, doubtless, their only communication with some names in that pile to arrive on time.

Proper winter temperatures are finally biting. All I want for Christmas is snow.

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Fucked.

December 12, 2007

On Sunday, I was hungover. Hungover means one thing: The hangover horn.

I got up late, probably around noon. I turned on the computer. Straight for the porn. A nice way to start my day.

I start browsing. I start stroking myself. Very often I’m not in it for the quick orgasm. I appreciate the build-up.

An hour passes. Not much longer. I’ll finish the job soon.

Another hour passes. I realise I haven’t eaten or showered. So I go and cook breakfast; naked of course, and pre-orgasm. I eat in front of the computer, resuming my hard-on. I still haven’t showered.

In the back of my mind, I’m thinking about all the reading I wanted to get done today. But nudity and fucking is captivating.

Another hour passes. By this point, I’m at the stage where I can barely touch myself without almost climaxing. This just adds to the fun. The pre-cum dribbles down the side of my dick in sometimes alarming volumes.

Another hour passes, and I’m still going.

Another hour.

I decide to cook dinner. Again, naked. Again, pre-orgasm. I eat, and watch some TV to allow myself to calm down. So to speak.

I go back to the computer, and resume from where I was previously. It never takes long to get back into it.

Another hour passes. And another.

And at this point, I climax unintentionally. I would probably have kept going for another couple of hours, and just spent the entire day at it if I could have. I found myself longing to have my tongue buried between an intelligent woman’s legs when I accidentally let go. The accidents are never so much fun, scrambling to avoid the inevitable mess as I was.

Fucked self.

Since it was accidental, I quickly have another one.

Fucked self again.

The Sunday alone with my thoughts in front of my computer seems prompted my RSI to flare up.

Fucked wrist.

Fuck.