I’m writing this Sunday night for you to read on Monday. And I’m thinking about the freebie orgasm I’m allowed, a freebie I haven’t taken in weeks. I’m thinking about the cool air of the air conditioning kissing my skin. I’m thinking about the tightening of my nipples as I sit on this hotel bed, naked and alone. I’m thinking about how my labia gapes open as I sit on this bed, legs crossed like a child.
I look down at myself entranced by the sight of dark pink, untouched skin. I’m thinking about the long, frustrating week I’ve had and the long week ahead. I’m thinking of the smooth, soft sheets of the bed; they look inviting. I’m thinking I should stretch out and listen to siren call of pillows and blankets.
I can’t help but run my fingers through my hair, finally set free after a long day spent as the tireless professional. I’m thinking that my wild hair reflects an untamed spirit. I’m thinking that I want to soak this bed in my juices, violating the cleanliness of the pristine blanket. I’m thinking that the poor underpaid, overworked woman who will clean up behind me tomorrow will either be unimpressed, annoyed, or maybe, just maybe, she’ll secretly smile, understanding my need for release and pleasure.
Beeps and horns, voices and music, noises I still have not grown used to over the past five nights invade my space. I’m thinking I should add my own moans and gasps to the cacophony. I’m thinking no one can hear me over the sounds coming from the city street below my window. I’m thinking my squeaks and squeals are a more beautiful song than any I’ve heard recently.
I think I’m done thinking. Tonight is a solo performance of wild, musical abandon.