I wake up to things I write and wonder what all I was even thinking when I bolted up in the middle of sleep to note something of importance. Sometimes I delete, but I keep most of it. Future reference and all. Sometimes it’s a sort of flashback experience, reliving whatever it was I’d been so adamant about keeping. The long and short of last night is wanton carnal knowledge. There were rattling desks, echoes of pews, hushed confessionals, moving cars, tight bathrooms, granite countertops, thick shag-like rugs, squeaky tile, bar stools in Illinois. Strangely, none of my usual forays into the woods. The reason for the large variety was I kept getting interrupted by some asshole or another who knocked or otherwise threatened to violate the privacy of one person engaged in being bent over all available furniture and the other trying his damndest to fuck her everloving brains out. The exposition was naturally nonexistent. There was no question about what led up to this or what the climax would be. (Note: erotica and dirty talk. In matters erotic and physical my imagination requires tangible. Fingers, moisture, lips, and so forth. Of interest.)

But the focus is those interruptions, or: the inability to finish. This is perhaps the point of the exercise. Try as I might to have come to my full inside this girl (who went on a hell of a tour), there was no finale. I’m left to wonder what troublesome realities my mind conjured up to keep me from, at the very least, fulfilling my biological imperative. Reflection beckons. Perhaps none of it means a damn thing besides sexual frustration.

I’m also humbled by the fair certainty that during all this humping I was, in fact, thrusting into the mattress, not unlike a dog who dreams of chasing a car and kicks his legs in a fury.