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17 May 2006 @ 03:40 pm
Today, and part of another.  

Cum On the Lap
by Peter McCann.

Is it always with the rain? Every night like this starts with rain. I swear. “It was a dark and rainy night.” I wonder how many stories start with that? It was a dark and rainy night and I’m sitting in my own cum, contemplating life. Ok, so I’m sitting in some of someone else’s cum too, but that doesn’t matter much. I’m contemplating life, that’s the important thing. What? I have to be a monk is some Tibetan temple to think about the heavy things? Most people have sex, and smoke. I have sex, and think about why Winnie the Pooh will never be happy.

So yea; cum in my lap and Winnie the Pooh on the brain. I got Brian…it was Brian wasn’t it…? Shit. So I may have a Brian lying next to me, and I just know it’s gonna be weird in the morning, so I might as well just not think about it. It’ll be weird if I worry about how weird it’ll be, and it’ll be weird if I don’t. Who needs the grief? Like I have a choice.

I shouldn’t drink so much. Everyone says that. And everyone is right. Drowning in the stuff, and swimming towards the shores of some sloppy night of sex, that will without-a-doubt lead to eggs on toast without any eye contact the next morning. Why do we do it? Is the idea of walking into a place, conversing, and enjoying someone’s company while still being able to say the alphabet backwards, so alien? I’m sure somebody’s doing that. But maybe it gets old, like everything else.

Oh no. He’s moving. The arm…shit, please don’t get up. I really don’t want to talk to you now. Stay asleep. I can’t face you now. I’m too busy sitting here, getting crusty and musing about life. Sleep. Sleep. Wait…ok. Yes, he’s still out. Thank you, Jesus.

Where was I? Sit. Got too scared there, lost my thought. Hate that. So annoying. Too humbling. You can be making this insightful point on like, the ways of things, and the possible dreams that can make it all better and then…nothing. Blank. You go from deep pondering to “shit, fuck, cunt, remember damnit!”

4:30 AM. No work today, thankfully. Does he? Oh my god, is his alarm clock set for some job he has to be at? Is it set to ring and ruin everything? A ticking bomb just waiting to force us to actually speak to one another? Oh please, I hope it’s not. The mission impossible theme isn’t playing, it shouldn’t ring. There’s not a red/blue/violet (violet, god, you are such a fag) wire to cut. Lemme…shit! I can’t reach it from here, no way. I can try to get off the bed, but he might wake up. Can’t chance it. Damn. This is trouble. Ok, it can’t be for at least another hour. Who wakes up for work at 5:30…? Some people do...damnit! This isn’t good. How fast can I get dressed and out the door? Figure it’ll take him 20 seconds to fully wake up and realize what’s happening; that I’m fleeing for my uncomfortable life. Can I make it in twenty? Maybe if I don’t wipe off the cum. That’s not that big a deal. Just shower when I get home. Double wash the jeans. Ok. We can do this. One. Two. Three. Shit. Pussy, faggot! You are suppose to go on three. Wow, he looks cute like that. He really does have cute hair... didn’t notice that before. But, everyone looks cute at 4:30 AM, dummy. OK. On three. One. Two. Three!

Ugh. I hate myself. Ok. Just go to sleep. Be nice in the morning. Smile, remember to smile. Don’t make too much eye-contact, just enough to show him you’re not a jerk, but not enough so he think’s you’re some kind of stalker. Eat the eggs and be nice. Wow, what if he doesn’t have eggs? No, he’s got to. Who goes to a bar, and doesn’t have eggs for the next morning? He’s got eggs. Sure of it. Ok. Sleep now.

I wonder if he’ll want to see me again?