Saturday, 12 January 2019

Crash Space

For the past few days, the sofa bed in our lounge - that usually functions as a sofa - has been, well, a bed. We had my girlfriend's mother visiting for a while, and because there are suddenly no hotels in London or something (I don't know the actual reason; I just went with it), we put her up. For the time being, this now means that there's a bed in two out of the four rooms in our flat. One more and we get the Glenn Quagmire award.

I'm sure I'll be putting the sofa back together at some point. That just may not be now. In retrospect, it was actually quite a good decision to leave the bed down, at least until this afternoon.

Let me paint you a picture. ILB, not at work for the first time in quite a while, is chilling in the lounge, both the newly-repaired central heating and Peter the Heater making sure that chilling doesn't involve a lot of chill. He has had lunch, cleared out his e-mails and watched the DVD of Teen Titans Go! To The Movies he got for Christmas. He's aware he should be doing something, but he's not sure what that is. He is, essentially, being lazy.

ILB has been exhausted for weeks. Getting up has been a victory.

He is reflecting on what to do next. He would like an orgasm, but something is holding him back. He isn't sure what. There isn't any genuine reason as to why he shouldn't be enjoying an orgasm. It hasn't happened for a few days, mainly for reasons outlined in the previous few paragraphs.

In any case, he has the time and he has the technology, so ILB brings himself to orgasm. (I shan't bore you with the details. It involves a lot of text and a fair amount of frantic pumping. You're welcome for that image.) He almost instantly phases out and slumps backwards in his computer chair, staying like that for... a while; he isn't quite sure how long, exactly. He had forgotten what long, drawn-out orgasms after long, drawn-out periods of time do to him. And, as has been said, he is exhausted.

ILB would usually, at this point, clean up, followed by going to make a sandwich or hot drink in order to replenish afterwards. In fact, he is up to doing neither of those things. His first instinct is to go to the bedroom and lie down, since every cell in his body is screaming at him in protest at his making them do anything at all today.

He pushes himself to his feet. He is dizzy, and fading fast. Maybe he hasn't quite gotten his legs back after that odd period he spent post-orgasm. A few more steps and he may fall. He can feel himself fading.

ILB falls, sideways, with a flump onto the bed in situ. There is a small clink from somewhere, a creak from the bed itself, and silence. ILB had deactivated, at least for the moment: he is part of the formless mass of blankets crowning the valiant sofa bed. Technically, he isn't comfortable... but his body is thanking him for it.

And that, gentle reader, is why I'm pleased I left my sofa bed how it was.

You'd almost think this was planned.

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