Hanging out with the roommates and their kids was more important than writing. I had spent a little time with the kids before work on Saturday, and had opted to fill my unexpectedly free Saturday night with adult activities. I wanted to spend time with them and the roommates. I wanted to hear their stories and see them laugh and watch their creativity at work. It was a fun morning before they had to go back to their other home.
A hot shower and masturbation were more important than writing. After the roommates and the kids departed, I slipped into a general funk. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my day. I knew the things I should do, the errands I should run. I knew I wanted to see the best friend, but she wasn’t free. I slowly made my way home with a responsible adult plan of action.
But, as soon as I walked in the door, a fundamental fact hit me: I was alone in the house. My other roommate was gone.
The warmth in my abdomen had not subsided since my Friday date with the Gent. If anything, it ebbed and flowed, but seemed to be making it’s way higher and higher up the hill of my arousal.
I took a hot fun shower. I danced to my music, singing a little. I washed my hair. I enjoyed the smell of my soap, cleaning off the last few days of scents. At the end, I let the scolding water thump against my back, trying to knead some of the knots out. I made a mental note to sketch the view I had of my folded arms accentuating my cleavage.
Drying off, I remembered I needed to clean my sex toys. The quick chore completed, I prepped my netbook to watch some of the porn N3rddom gave me. I slipped in my WeVibe. I never logged onto my netbook.
My body was in such a state of arousal that even on its low setting the WeVibe quickly raised me to the edge of orgasm. I closed my netbook and began writhing on my bed. The masturbation music for this session was only two songs: “Tell Me A Secret” by Ludacris & Neyo and “Hey Daddy” by Usher. I repeated the first song over and over, with the second getting the last few minutes of fun.
I inserted my blue dildo. I fucked myself, screaming as much and as loud as I wanted. My black dildo, my Lelo vibrator, and then “the lawnmower” followed. I screamed, thanking my Daddy wherever he is, and came over and over again.
Watching football with my brother was more important than writing. I hadn’t seen my brother in almost a month even though he lives less than thirty minutes from me. I texted him before my shower, making sure he intended to view the game. He confirmed, and I headed over there after I made myself stop masturbating.
Pollard’s assist to Smith’s interception. Pitta’s TD catch. I don’t remember who, but the dive for a TD, football in his outstretched right hand, and the face mask of a defender trying to tackle him in the other. And then Billy Cundiff’s missed kick. All I could do was shake my head to that.
Running errands was more important than writing. After I left my brother’s place, I swung by Barnes & Noble to return a book. I looked for a new daily planner, and for some odd reason they were out. I went to the grocery store and bought food for my lunches for work for the week. I came home and prepped the food. I folded clothes. I turned on my laptop and it actually booted up. I backed up everything onto my portable hard drive. I put my poster back in the Family Room.
Watching the end of the other football game with DeepEnd was more important than writing. It was getting late and I knew I still needed to blog, but I was hungry. I slipped downstairs for some food. DeepEnd had turned on the living room television, the only TV in the house with a converter box, and was watching the end of the game. I threw some food on a plate, heated it up, and joined him.
The game lasted for fucking ever. Overtime. Multiple opportunities for each team to score. And, of course, the team I rooted for lost.
Processing my emotions was more important than writing. I opened up my netbook, brought up WordPad, and started typing. The words that came were not a blog entry. They were the mind dump I’d been putting off for most of the day. They were my worries, my pain. They were not meant to be read by anyone but me. I didn’t cry, but I came close.
I let myself acknowledge my pain and all its causes. I read back what I wrote. I saved the file, closed my netbook, and laid back under the covers.
It was 11pm. I knew I could wake myself up early to try to write. I set my alarm for 6 and 6:30am. I laid down, then remembered to turn on my radio. With music lowly playing, I drifted to sleep.
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