Walking in the night - Sex Stories

Walking in the night

I didn't know what had woken me. I felt as if I had been drinking earlier without getting d***k and had woken neither d***k nor sober. I considered the possibility. I didn't remember drinking. I had come straight home, to my new home, after a frenetic week at work. I'd microwaved lasagne for one while Tom Waits growled about love from the stereo. Later I woke with my cold tea on the sofa's arm and my paperback, page lost, in my lap. Perhaps people who claimed alien a*****ion felt as I did when they woke after spaceships, interrogation centres, intergalactic zoos or whatever. The line between real and unreal seemed narrow. It must, I thought, be easy to slip into the oncoming traffic and find oneself crazy or philosophising. I rarely dreamed pictures; mine was an audile mind. Mixed lines of songs passed through it. “I fell into the Ocean and you became my way”; “The ship is sinking . . . God's away on business…” Discomfort with pragmatisms at work jigsawed with Waits' lyrics. “Forget our virtue and put stones in our bed.” I wanted to turn over and go back to *****. My thoughts and bladder conspired against me. I sat up and tried to open my eyes. The lids were glued then ballasted with sand. They sc*****d across my pupils. My eyes refused to focus as I stumbled towards the bathroom. The terrain of the bedroom and livingroom beyond were foreign. Reality *****d itself on me. The strangeness of my bed and of the rooms were just that they were new. Part of my home of only five ...

... days. As I sat on the toilet the business in my mind faded. I grew aware of the real noises around my, and the bank's, converted warehouse. A tram clanked over the rails at the lane's end. The last tram left the city before one; morning must still be far away. A slight breeze entered along with the loom from the street lights through the window above the cistern behind me. It carried the scent of night dust you only find in the city. I became aware of people. I thought they might be downstairs; in the garage or, perhaps the tiny rear courtyard. I tried to fix my sensation of them. My stomach tightened and chilled. I sat naked, tiny, vulnerable and still. The plastic seat pressed into my buttocks. I had yet to relieve my bladder and no longer could. Their's was the sound of moving and voices not words. Almost not even tones. I strained to position them. They were outside. I took a breath. The ridge beneath my ribs stung. I bore down and the sound of my stream drowned out their noise. After I stood I sneaked a look out the window. Renegade bamboo ran between the fence and clothes line. The noise was from beyond the bamboo, from my neighbour's yard. There was nothing to see. Back in my bed, I was unable to return to *****. The sheets were too stiff or cold. I pulled the blankets high and grew too hot. I tried for my previous dreams. All the time I heard the neighbours' noise. It was clearer than from the bathroom. The bedroom had full height windows. Before winter they would need ...