Sunday, 24 June 2018

Guilt

I'm hungry.

I raise myself from my chair, pick up a plate, and totter unsteadily to the door, which I open. On the left is the kitchen. It's unusually quiet.

This is unexpected. I wasn't expecting anyone to be here.

The two new housemates are in the kitchen. Neither of them are speaking. I don't know their names, or anything about them; all I know is that they both speak French and they are staying here for a week. I am moving out in a week. My packed boxes are littering the corridor.

What do I say to them? I have to be civil. They're new. I can't just stand here making food, just after my... my...

And then a realisation hits me.

Oh God! Do they know?

I start to feel more self-conscious.

Maybe I'm giving off some sort of signal. I'm certainly feeling that post-orgasm glow. I'm walking unsteadily, I must look slightly unfocused. And I've said it's quiet - maybe that's just the buzz you get after climax. I must look flushed. I'm going red. I'm giving off all the signals, I just know it.

Panicked slightly, I hurriedly wash up my plate and start piling random bits of food onto it. One old wrap. Peanut butter. Jam. I'll grab a Pepsi once I'm back in my room.

Nothing more. If I'm in here any longer then my new housemates will know I've just had an orgasm.

I'm not even sure why that's bad, but it most certainly is.

Oh God! My Eroticon mug is on the draining board! What if they Google me? What if they then see this post?

I practically run the metre and a half to my door and sit back down in a state of nervous collapse.

It was a very good orgasm, though.

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