Evidently, as I reach my twilight years and prepare to march gracefully into the sunset, my body is still playing catch-up in terms of "which bit we're going to fuck up next". Over the last week, it's been wreaking havoc on my arousal level, with particular emphasis on when I'm at my horniest. Predictably, it's usually when I can't actually do anything about it, but that's not a massive surprise.
I briefly woke up the other day from a pleasantly filthy dream, both in a semi-wakeful state and incredibly hard, before slipping back off into another dream which involved helter-skelters and Poppy, but wasn't really too filthy that time (although I still woke up horny). The feelings faded as I forced myself to get on with my day, but then yesterday I sat for half an hour on the Piccadilly Line, 28 minutes of which were spent bending slightly forwards in my huge winter coat, trying (and, thankfully, succeeding) to hide the huge bulge in my trousers which had come about due to reasons completely unknown. Thanks, body.
This morning, although I got up far too early and should have just gone back to bed until my alarm went off like any rational human being would (but then, I'm neither rational nor a human being...), I did manage to deal with my horniness through the simple act of masturbating it away. It didn't take me that long, either - just about 15 or so minutes of functional wanking, on and off, and I had a very pleasant, highly efficient orgasm. I flicked through a magazine, watched an episode of Glee and then realised that I was about to fall asleep in my computer chair. I went back to the bed, lay at a very odd angle, and immediately realised I couldn't move.
My body had fallen asleep, but my brain hadn't. Christ, I'm old.
Time sifted away like sand through an hourglass, and I'd had about ten minutes of lying in this rather odd state before I realised my penis was doing something very strange. I was, most definitely, hard again - almost painfully so, like I was ready to orgasm again even though I'd had a large one not half an hour prior. It wouldn't be the first time two have happened in such quick succession, but nevertheless, it was a little surprising, and since I could barely move, it wasn't like I could have done much about it, anyway.
Five more minutes and I realised that I didn't actually want an orgasm, nor did I want to use the toilet. I was just hard for being hard - like 'art for art's sake', but involving my penis rather than any creative/expressive endeavours - and it wasn't a particularly unpleasant sensation. Just a slightly baffling, quizzical one, if anything.
No, I don't understand, either.
My girlfriend came home and sat on the bed with a flump, shocking my body back into responsiveness; I sat up after a while and dragged my tired arse and perma-hard cock to the bathroom. I was, I reasoned, perfectly justified in going round one more time...
...before deciding that what I really needed was a cup of tea, a biscuit, and another little lie down.
I'll be dead before dawn.