Sweet strings flutter in the background,
Serenading my tired, aching body,
One too many late nights and naughty toddys,
I’m tucked into my couch with almond milk hot cocoa,
And a book.
My eyes glaze over as the neighbor upstairs makes a repetitive tapping sound,
Knocking on a wall,
Or bouncing a ball,
Or dancing slowly.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The words on the page cease to have meaning,
My eyeballs trace the words,
But the story stopped with the sounds.
I load the dryer,
Hoping white noise drowns my irritability.
I’m fueled by my desire to relax,
A soft adrenaline trickles through me,
With just enough prickling motivation to do something.
I want to feel good and alive, for a moment.
I reach up into one of the 4 boxes at the top of my closet.
This one is heavy, weighed down by hefty devices.
Left to my own devices, I grab my magic wand.
Since my bedding is stripped, I take the wand back over to the couch.
Plug it in the closest outlet,
And hold the large ball end over my yoga pants,
Distractedly continuing to read,
Waiting for my body to react and swell.
My brain is lethargic and somewhere between lazy and prudish this evening.
My thoughts flicker with fleeting fantasy,
Quickly returning to the simple reality.
The inside of my thighs going numb from the vibration,
My clit beginning to respond.
Eyes closed and the first wave starts.
But I can’t quite peak.
It’s a rolling wave, trying to break, trying to crash.
I’m caught up in the roll, never quite sure when I’m done.
I wonder if my neighbors upstairs can hear the wand,
Reverberating between my thighs,
Beneath my sighs.
I think about the faces I make as I start to peak again,
These sloth orgasms,
Subtle rushes under my skin,
Depleting my endorphins.
These are lazy and relaxing and boring and wonderful.
Is that my last one?
I pick up the book again, get two paragraphs read,
And I press the on switch again,
Rising off the last wave,
Moaning over Bach in the background.
Sighing myself into a stupor.
I notice the sounds upstairs have stopped.