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Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing

June 20, 2012

I’m not a huge Chris Isaak fan, but I’ve always liked that song. Maybe, because it speaks to a part of me that wants to do bad things just for the hell of it, or maybe it’s because of the two strong memories I associate with it. One, Stanley Kubrick’s last movie. Two, a play I was once involved in. Either way, I like it, and it’s a perfect fit for the impulse I gave into last night (or early this morning rather).

I don’t know what the temperature is like in your part of the world right now, but where I am, it’s hot as a motherfucker. The sun is blazing, the air is thick, and the only thing I have to cool myself off is one lonely fan.

As most of you know, I’m a freelance writer, which means I work from home, which means I make my own schedule, which means if I don’t enforce some kind of routine, I usually go to bed when the sun is rising.

Falling asleep is impossible when the sun is creeping through my curtain and the birds are chirping, so when I finally decide to head on over to bed, I cover my window with multiple thick towels and I’ve taken to wearing earplugs in the last few days to keep the sounds of birds starting their day at bay.

Wearing earplugs is always a strange feeling. It blocks out most surrounding sound, but it also amplifies the sound of your own heart and breathing. It reminds me of that scene in The Graduate where Dustin Hoffman’s character is wearing a scuba diving suit and all he can hear is his own oppressing intake and release of air among the chatter of his parents idly sitting by the pool. That scene speaks of alienation and dissociation to me.

That’s how I felt last night (or early this morning rather) when I was lying in bed with the suffocating air pressing against my skin with the sound of my own breathing to keep me company. My breathing and my laptop, and by extension a million other people who, in different time zones, were starting their days instead of putting an end to them.

He was awake and online; the signs where there. I sent him a simple Facebook chat consisting of his name and I waited for a response. The “hey, what’s ups?” and “how are yous?” out of the way, I didn’t waste anytime. I asked him if anyone was reading over his shoulder, because what I was about to write wasn’t meant for the eyes of significant others, kids, or co-workers:  “It’s 6am in my part of the world, I was just about to go to bed. I wanted to tell you that I will start masturbating in the next thirty seconds. Something for you to think about while you go about your day.”

I got a “Goddamn” out of him and a request: “Please think of me all the way to the end.” “Maybe,” I said, “but I can’t make any promises.” I signed off, but not before he had the time to write: “Perfect answer.”

My orange foam earplugs were still blocking out the world around me; there’s nothing like cutting off one of your senses to make you feel disconnected and with my laptop closed and pushed to the edge of my bed, all connections were cut. I was alone, engaging in a solitary act that is all about the self, all about engaging your own senses for one purpose only: pleasure, but by telling him what I was about to do, I felt strangely connected to someone half-way across the world.

I did think about him all the way to the end, and I’m hoping, no, I know, I was filling his thoughts at the precise moment I made myself cum; once, twice, three, four time, and maybe, just maybe, he felt a twinge of pleasure when I  let his name ride a moan out of my mouth into the humid summer air.

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