Get That Ass Laid Out

"Fighting... Temptations"

Dare To Go Somewhere You've Never Been Before

Midnight comes and goes, the clock blinks the hours by in what seems like days and the realization of insomnia sets in.

Fuck.

He stares up, through the skylight, up at the midnight sky. Counting stars and hoping to drift off into slumber, but only drifting into insanity. Pangs of frustration shoot through his entire body. His mental frustration comes from work and all the other shit on his mind, while the sexual frustration comes from the lack thereof. It’s the worst of situations: he’s tired, but can’t sleep.

He slips out of bed quickly, walking over to the window. He stares off into the distance, wondering how everyone is sleeping tonight. As he turns around, he looks at the clock. Its red, block numerals tease him, telling him it’s a little after four. He’d only be going to sleep at this time, had he stumbled in drunk, or maybe just gotten done with the female du jour.

He sits on the edge of the bed, taking the remote in his hand. He scans the television, hoping to find something boring enough to put him into La La Land. Maybe a documentary on Seth Bombay or some bullshit like that. But, no luck. Plenty of boring stuff, but nothing boring enough.

He turns the television off, tossing the remote on the bed and heading for the bathroom.

This will be the third dose of sleeping pills...

They go down quickly, and Trent’s quickly back in bed, staring up, again. He feels dizziness most of all, but they don’t do much for sleep. Almost angry, he jumps out of bed. He rushes out of his room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

Fuck this, I need a drink.

The refrigerator door swings open with ease, and his eyes peruse the scattered contents of the fridge quickly, in search.

Fuck He slams the door, rattling the food inside. He must’ve thrown out all the alcohol when he thought he could actually do this shit.

He paces, coming to the resolution that he needs something else. Something Doctor Reid isn’t going to be happy that he got. But, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and what she wants, is hurting Trent.

The Book–the one with the girls he’d have no problem calling at four in the morning for a little fun–finds its way into his hands and open. He searches, searches, and find a name. Bianca. He doesn’t remember her, but she has a star by her name, so she must be worth calling.

Quickly locating the phone, he begins to dial her number, but stops before completing it. He’s having second thoughts. He wants to believe that he has self-control, that he can go without it for a few more weeks. He wants to believe, but he wants that piece of ass a little more.

He dials, the dialing sound seems deafening and condemning, but he conquers it, placing the phone up to his ear. It rings, rings...

Shit. He hangs up, drops the phone on the bed, and sits. Sighing, he can’t understand what’s going on with himself lately.

He’s thinking that the couple times the phone rang woke her and expecting her to call back. While one part of him wants that to be the truth, another feels differently. Ultimately, the latter wins, and the phone doesn’t ring.

So, what is a sober, sleepless, and horny guy to do?...

He steps into the bathroom. He looks into the mirror. His reflection reveals condemning eyes, with knowledge of what he’s considering.

It wouldn’t be a big deal, if this were a normal practice for Trent. He prides himself on always having that girl to fill the empty space in his bed, and never thought he’d have to result to such matters.

His grip, strong and cold to the touch, accompanied by a slick layer of lubricant. His wrist begins to move in a slow, unsure motion, soon growing into continuous strokes. All other factors of the moment seem to fade out, his mind becomes numb to the world around him and only a slave to the feeling, the pleasure.

Eyes squinted, his left hand pressed against wall for support, his lips slightly parted, groaning as the images of different women flash through his mind, with each motion of his tight-knuckled hand.

The psycho-slide-show reaches its peak, Trent reaching his maximum, and his body goes into a moment of spasmodic jerks.

He breathes. Harsh.

The creamy, pearl-colored fluid hits the water below, some landing on brim of the porcelain.

A generous flush and a bit of cleaning up, and Trent finds himself back in bed, relieved, but guilt-ridden.

He looks over at the clock. It’s now five. His conscience is tearing him up inside, almost ashamed, almost embarrassed, and almost remorseful.

But, at least he can sleep...


	"Fighting... Temptations" Dare To Go Somewhere You've Never Been Before Midnight comes and goes, the clock blinks the hours by in what seems like days and the realization of insomnia sets in. Fuck. He stares up, through the skylight, up at the midnight sky. Counting stars and hoping to drift off into slumber, but only drifting into insanity. Pangs of frustration shoot through his entire body. His mental frustration comes from work and all the other shit on his mind, while the sexual frustration comes from the lack thereof. It’s the worst of situations: he’s tired, but can’t sleep. He slips out of bed quickly, walking over to the window. He stares off into the distance, wondering how everyone is sleeping tonight. As he turns around, he looks at the clock. Its red, block numerals tease him, telling him it’s a little after four. He’d only be going to sleep at this time, had he stumbled in drunk, or maybe just gotten done with the female du jour. He sits on the edge of the bed, taking the remote in his hand. He scans the television, hoping to find something boring enough to put him into La La Land. Maybe a documentary on Seth Bombay or some bullshit like that. But, no luck. Plenty of boring stuff, but nothing boring enough. He turns the television off, tossing the remote on the bed and heading for the bathroom. This will be the third dose of sleeping pills... They go down quickly, and Trent’s quickly back in bed, staring up, again. He feels dizziness most of all, but they don’t do much for sleep. Almost angry, he jumps out of bed. He rushes out of his room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Fuck this, I need a drink. The refrigerator door swings open with ease, and his eyes peruse the scattered contents of the fridge quickly, in search. Fuck He slams the door, rattling the food inside. He must’ve thrown out all the alcohol when he thought he could actually do this shit. He paces, coming to the resolution that he needs something else. Something Doctor Reid isn’t going to be happy that he got. But, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and what she wants, is hurting Trent. The Book–the one with the girls he’d have no problem calling at four in the morning for a little fun–finds its way into his hands and open. He searches, searches, and find a name. Bianca. He doesn’t remember her, but she has a star by her name, so she must be worth calling. Quickly locating the phone, he begins to dial her number, but stops before completing it. He’s having second thoughts. He wants to believe that he has self-control, that he can go without it for a few more weeks. He wants to believe, but he wants that piece of ass a little more. He dials, the dialing sound seems deafening and condemning, but he conquers it, placing the phone up to his ear. It rings, rings... Shit. He hangs up, drops the phone on the bed, and sits. Sighing, he can’t understand what’s going on with himself lately. He’s thinking that the couple times the phone rang woke her and expecting her to call back. While one part of him wants that to be the truth, another feels differently. Ultimately, the latter wins, and the phone doesn’t ring. So, what is a sober, sleepless, and horny guy to do?... He steps into the bathroom. He looks into the mirror. His reflection reveals condemning eyes, with knowledge of what he’s considering. It wouldn’t be a big deal, if this were a normal practice for Trent. He prides himself on always having that girl to fill the empty space in his bed, and never thought he’d have to result to such matters. His grip, strong and cold to the touch, accompanied by a slick layer of lubricant. His wrist begins to move in a slow, unsure motion, soon growing into continuous strokes. All other factors of the moment seem to fade out, his mind becomes numb to the world around him and only a slave to the feeling, the pleasure. Eyes squinted, his left hand pressed against wall for support, his lips slightly parted, groaning as the images of different women flash through his mind, with each motion of his tight-knuckled hand. The psycho-slide-show reaches its peak, Trent reaching his maximum, and his body goes into a moment of spasmodic jerks. He breathes. Harsh. The creamy, pearl-colored fluid hits the water below, some landing on brim of the porcelain. A generous flush and a bit of cleaning up, and Trent finds himself back in bed, relieved, but guilt-ridden. He looks over at the clock. It’s now five. His conscience is tearing him up inside, almost ashamed, almost embarrassed, and almost remorseful. But, at least he can sleep...