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And God, I’m on my knees. The zipper of his jeans begs for my mouth, my teeth. Can I? Please. Long, gentle fingers find my chin and lift, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of dark hair and a striped shirt, I’m gone.
Silk pillowcases and a memory foam mattress welcome me back to the land of the waking. I blink my eyes against the warm light of the lamp beside my bed, trying to remember…Right. Collapsed face first into the sheets after a full day of interviews. I swallow the dryness in my throat, and that’s when everything comes back to me. I have to curse out loud and hide my face in the pillow, pouring all my humiliation into a tight grip.
It’s not the worst dream I’ve had. It’s not even the worst one I’ve had about…
Suddenly, I’m aware of the state of myself. My scalp is practically dripping, my pits stick to the inside of my arms and the front of my shirt is soaked through. I shift uneasily, attempting to move the comforter away from my overheated skin, but it only brings my attention to the root of the problem. A groan escapes my lips as the slightest hint of friction hits my body like a train.
One of those nights, then. Doesn’t have to mean anything.
I can only grind into the mattress for a few moments before I’m already needing more. I’ve never been a patient man. I shove a hand into my sweats and begin to palm myself through my boxers, sighing in relief. Flipping through various scenarios in my mind, I’m mildly frustrated to find nothing that interests me. There are only sensations. Fragments of feelings. Hands holding my hips, guiding them where they want me. Lower, backwards.
Dames, I need you. I need you so bad, baby–oh, Jesus.
It’s been a while since I had something inside me, properly. That thought alone pulls a full-body shudder out of me. I have half a mind to squirm and shuffle to the other side of the bed, get out and use the toy that sits in my nightstand drawer. A joke gift from one of my mates a couple of years ago, which became less of a laugh when boredom and temptation eventually got the best of me. But a wank this late and in this state of mind doesn’t exactly call for too much extravagance. I’m also positive that if I took my hand away from my dick for even a moment I would burst into tears.
After working up the fortitude to roll over onto my back, I’m greeted by the white of my ceiling. A layer of reality that isn’t very conducive to getting off. I squeeze my eyes shut and let my mouth fall open as I yank down the accumulation of cotton and elastic, giving myself a few strokes. There’s a familiar tinge of embarrassment at the absurd amount of wetness I’ve already produced. Graham used to say–
Enough of that.
“Fucking hell.” I throw my head back, immediately wincing at how close to the headboard I’d landed. My hand works at a faster pace now, more out of frustration than a desire for release. Get it over with. The problem with this sort of thing is I feel as though I’m playing a mental game of whack-a-mole. Once arousing, now irritating words whispered in my ear with no one in the room to give them life. It’s hard to keep your mind blank with decades of junk knocking around in it.
I grit my teeth. Almost. Fucking. There.
A faint tingle on the skin of my neck. Objectively a drop of sweat, but in my daze it presents itself as a pair of lips, mouthing sloppily under my ear. I fist my free hand into the sheets, twisting my wrist as if it’s been pinned by another. What I wouldn’t give to be fucking smothered– held, worshipped, made to come by a larger hand with tears in my eyes–for one more night.
I gasp into the stillness of the room, and I can’t help but recall those times when I wasn’t alone or asleep in here. The vulgarity of what’s been heard by little tchotchkes collecting dust on the surrounding shelves and chest of drawers. Too many voices and differences in the volume of their noises to count, but I’m horribly inclined to hear one in particular tonight. I manage to send the covers flying before I regret the likely aftermath. My stomach tenses up, and a rather ugly whimper leaves me like a vindictive, backstabbing lover.
Gorgeous. S-so gorgeous, Day, oh god yeah. I’ve. Thought about this. The whole- uh- tour.
Grah, Graham–please.
My thighs shake and saliva pools in my mouth as I come, inevitably sent off the edge by an image of Graham as I last saw him in person: exposed, toned forearms folded over his chest, wearing a black button up that gracefully showed an iota of chest hair. The ecstasy subsides, and I’m forced to look down and acknowledge the mess I’ve just made. All over my pants; some on the sheets, despite my best efforts. I reach to grab a handful of tissues from the nightstand, where my iPad has remained plugged in. I strain my eyes to wipe up any visible spunk in the dim lighting. Could’ve just put on some porn, I suppose.
Too lazy to get up and walk to the bin on the other side of the room, I toss the tissues on the nightstand for tomorrow-me to deal with. I switch the light off and tuck myself back under the covers, closing my eyes. With my sleep schedule disrupted, it’ll be a miracle if I wake up in time to talk to that journalist…what was the name?
I’m finally drifting off again, but part of me has to blearily wonder if I’m imagining that cologne: somehow still drenching my sheets after almost a year of missing his short-lived weight on the mattress.