I don’t want to get off the bed. I don’t want to keep a schedule. I don’t want to be responsible. I don’t want to do what I should.
I just want to lay right here and let my fingers gently caress my smooth mound. I want to delve between the slick cleft and find the waiting pearl that is the most alert part of me at the moment. I want to be languid, and stay blissfully naked, doing nothing more than admiring the contours of my body.
But I don’t always get what I want. So up I go, into leggings, a t-shirt and Nikes, before heading to the track to push my languid ass around a small town football field in lane two until my lungs feel like they’re going to explode.