Tuesday, 24 January 2017

Touching myself

So I'm alone, in the quiet, in the stillness, in my room. My computer's on and I'm lazily browsing sex blogs and even the occasional snatch of porn. Nothing's quite catching my attention. I've even got some music on - some relaxing stuff by my friend who thinks he's Sonic the Hedgehog (if you've read my book, you'll know him). I'm distracted, but I don't know what from, or what by.

Craving some heat, I close the windows, draw the curtains and turn the radiator on full. I've long since kicked my trousers off - I'm wearing nothing on my lower half at all. An ill-fitting T-shirt covers my top half. But that's all. I'm alone. I'm protected. And I'm warm.

Eventually it dawns on me, like a sliver of light through the dark, that this is what I need. I don't need to come right now. I don't need the stimulation. I don't even need to be hard (although I am). I just need warmth. And softness. And quiet. And calm.

I run my hands lazily over my bare thighs. It's a good sensation - a soft caress, tracing the lines over my curves with the tips of my fingers. I don't even realise I'm doing it for the first minute or so. Maybe it's a nervous thing, or maybe it's just because I like touching, or that I like being touched. Perhaps I just can't sit still. Whatever it is, it's working.

True, I don't particularly like my body. I'm not very fond of the way that it looks or even the way that it works. But, at this time, with the heat and the quiet and the stillness... and the fact that I have all this time to myself... I'm ready to admit it. I do like the way it feels.

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