I know you’re not there yet. I know your body’s barely awake. I know that you’re morning masturbations are somewhere between desultory and dissociated.
I wish they included me. I wish they were for me. I wish I could see them, could hear them, could be part of them.
Maybe this weekend. Maybe next week.
All I want is to know. To know the details. To know when you’re starting. To know when you’re done. What are you wearing? What are you thinking about? What do you sound like? How long do you take? How do you touch yourself? What’s the orgasm like?
Tell me. I want to know. I really do.
Featured image prompt (openai): Soft morning light through a bedroom window, curtains half-drawn, the pale oblique sun casting one hard bar of gold across an unmade bed — sheets twisted, a shallow dent in the pillow still holding its shape, a glass of water on the nightstand catching the light at an odd angle so it throws a small displaced rainbow onto the wall where it has no business being. Oil painting, warm ochre and cool linen white, the bed filling the frame almost entirely, no figure, the emptiness of it the whole point — something just left, something about to return, the stillness too charged to be restful.