Occasionally - in fact, fairly regularly, realistically - my girlfriend gets up to go to work three and a half hours before I do. This is admirable and shows a level of fortitude and constitution that, had I not done the same thing a few years ago, I would believe impossible. I'm finding it difficult to put on trousers at the moment, which gives you an idea of exactly what my physical state is.
This nominally gives me three and a half hours to get out of bed, wash, get dressed, eat something for breakfast, have a coffee, and get through some of whatever book I'm reading before picking up my bag and heading to the bus stop. This has happened all of once, my de facto reaction to being alone for a while consisting of rolling onto the other side of the bed and accidentally getting some of the sleep that I no doubt had trouble with during the night itself.
Sometimes I masturbate. Yes, that's where this post was going, don't pretend that you had no idea.
Again, this isn't something I do very often. I probably should, seeing as how I'm at my horniest both late at night and in the early morning, and it's usually at least a thought in my head that there's a possibility, but it's the kind of thought that doesn't always link that easily to deed. It's good when I do, because (after the few minutes' grace period of lying there, drifting on the surf) I tend to feel a little more awake post-orgasm. Breakfast, a secondary concern, can happen afterwards. Not that t ever really does, but my intentions are good.
At some point during this week just gone I did, in fact, bring myself to orgasm in the morning. I'd been both horny and anorgasmic for the past couple of days, and when the chance finally came, it was something close to explosive. A jet of warm, viscous cum, splashing all over my stomach and heaving chest. Familiar, but no less satisfying.
After which I realised that I didn't have any tissues nearby. Or in the room at all. I was lying in bed with a pool of my own cum forming, some dripping down my sides like some particularly wanton icing of a too-small cake, and there was nothing to wipe myself down with. I'd left it too late for a shower (and besides, I had a shower the previous evening); all the toilet roll was in the toilet (which would have been easy to access, although I'd have had to walk, naked, out into the corridor and across to the room, dripping cum, which probably isn't a sexy look to my housemates); I wasn't going to use any discarded clothing (it's a bugger to get out, even with the most potent washing powders); I wasn't keen on just lying there in my own jizz (what is this, porn?); I'd lacked the foresight to actually have some tissues near my bed at all.
I've got a cold coming on, so I should have done so already! I'm terrible!
The above thought process, including Rolodexing the different options, took about three seconds. Three of the longest seconds of my life, staring at the ceiling with an expression somewhere between naughty schoolboy and abject horror, prickling with indecision and indecency.
I ended up wiping myself down with a J-cloth that had been through the washing machine and was now, fortunately enough, drying on the clotheshorse we use to keep the wardrobe door shut. I took it downstairs, threw it back into the washing machine (along with a couple of tea-towels, lest any housemate think this suspicious) and returned to my room, feeling both inventive and thoroughly ashamed.
While questioning my life choices, I checked my 'phone. It was ten past eight. I had twenty minutes before my usual getting-up time.
So I went back to bed. Fell asleep, got up at nine, and proceeded with my actual morning routine: blind panic, flinging on all the clothes I could find, and running at breakneck speed to the bus stop, using up all the fluid I'd managed to retain and swearing at the top of my voice. At least I know how to do that...