NaPoWriMo 21: Idly wanting

A warm tingle
sparks dully
in my lower abdomen
as I lie on my back,
stare at the ceiling,
and roll a memory
between my back teeth.

My limbs are magnetized by my lethargy.
The ground pulls them.

A finger rubs absently
at the inch below
my waistband.
My hips push slightly upwards,
never leaving the mattress,
hold a moment
and then collapse slow
like a sigh.

I am,
it seems,
too tired
for the vigorous frigging
of masturbation–
though not nearly too tired
to lie back
and idly want you.



She pulls her blankets to her chin,
and under them
her hands reminisce,
retracing the lines they remember
you drawing with your tongue.

Her skin prickles with the residue
your touch had left caked
on her nerve endings
and so she soothes
and strokes
with warm palms
until her lust hazes over
the ache of your absence


Fill me, please,
she whimpers
memory scalding
as she thrusts herself upon her fingers
until she clenches
and curls into herself
and floods
into her hand


hips dragging
tired but still
back and forth
against stiff fingers

as though she could martyr her cunt
to exorcise your ghost.


Lately, the rumbling of the bus seats always seemed to get to her.
It wasn’t that the city buses didn’t normally rumble—they used big noisy motors, and the vibrations always carried up a bit through the seats. She was simply a little more sensitive of late. Adjusting her groceries in her lap, Paige bit her lip and looked out the window.

Gina. Vexing, goddamn siren of a woman Gina.

She had answered Paige’s ad for an apartment mate roughly 5 months ago, and it had gone relatively well from the start. They were friendly with each other, but generally good at keeping out of each others’ hair: ideal qualities in a suitemate, by Paige’s estimation. But the past month, good lord…

The bus hit a bump, and her stomach fluttered. She ground her teeth.
Utterly vexing. She must have gotten very comfortable over the past month. Because there was no other explanation for the way she had taken to lounging around the apartment in that tshirt every evening. Kicking her feet up on the coffee table. Grabbing that mug from the highest shelf. That god forsaken tshirt stretching and lifting and exposing teasing bits of the curves that demurely hid above those gloriously bare legs.

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Making Do

God, he was lovely.

There was a steadiness in his movements, and a firmness in his hands when he pressed her down against the bed. And there was a building need in his hips as he ground over, and over into her. He pressed insistent against her very best inner places, rooting himself inside her. And soon, everything for her was sensation. Shivering, vibrant sensation.

Which is why she sweated frustration when she woke up alone, empty and oversexed, in a standard issue extra-long twin cot. Martha rubbed her fingers over her tired lids and then blinked rapidly, waiting for the digital clock beside her bed to come into focus.


This earned a small grunt. It was not unusual for her, to have dreams like these. Merely irksome. Because she never actually made it to orgasm in a dream for the same reason that she never died in a nightmare; her increased heart rate would simply wake her up in the nick of time. And so here she sat in bed, chest pounding, adrenaline prickling her skin—tense from the waist down for the concept of a man already half faded from her conscious.

Achingly aroused, she grasped at every image from her dream that her waking memory could cling to. He had been…hot. And, pounding, fingernails in hips, that spot…She slipped a hand beneath the band of her pajama pants and sought out the dampness of her sex, finger strokes short and wistful. That spot…fingernails in hips, harder, and…and…Oh fuck it all. This wasn’t going to work without a cock.
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