That thing you feel on Sunday Mornings

And how many people sick of holding it back
(I am, I am)
How many people want to kick some ass

Well I would if i could but I’m really just a sensitive artist
Perpetrated like I am the hardest
Acted like I’m not the smartest
I’m really just a sensitive artist
(artist)

I couldn’t sleep last night so I started writing. What follows is what I wrote. Well, it’s a part of what I wrote anyway. I’m hungry. I’m also feeling a little groggy. I hope you enjoy the piece.

I woke up feeling particularly unsexy that morning. Tina, my girlfriend of six years, laid next me, still asleep as I took my morning’s cigarette in bed. We had sex the night before, so it was apparent that she still found me sexually appealing. However, that was not the case on that morning all those years ago. It been sometime since I found myself appealing enough to actually masturbate beside my sleeping lover. I had never been problem before, nor did she seem to mind it when awakening to noises of self love. But that morning, was different. I had no erection, for starters.
Since I was a kid, I always woke up with a healthy erection. Most of times, I beat myself silly until the tiny bouts of orgasm would spurt—first from my non-adolescent body and then—from the tip of cock, into the air and splattering across the small tangles of my belly hair. And when my lover woke up before me, she’d take it into her own delicate mouth until both my spirits and my mind awoke, spilling my seed in the every depths of her throat.
Not case, as I looked down on my flaccid penis hanging limp and rather tiny upon my scrotum. I smoked the last of my cigarette, before crushing its butt on the ashtray that rested on the night stand by the bed. It was an old, the ashtray, something I picked up on one of my many adventures of scouring garage sales. It was a hobby of mine. Something to keep me busy and entertained on the weekends as most people Boroughs had garage sales on the weekend. From Saturday morning to the evening on Sundays, these people would open their homes and pour out their useless garbage so that others might have the chance to fill up space in their mundane lives. And that counted double for me.
Tina shifted beside me, turning over and looking at me as I crushed out the butt. Her voice, which since childhood, I’ve been told, had never reached a mature pitch and always was in a whisper. Growing up, many teachers sent home notices that Tina may suffer from some sort of aliment and that a doctor should be sought. Perhaps, her quiet voice was an outcome of some menacing trauma. It was her nature, however, that gave her such a shyness—she was everything but shy, to be honest. She was the one who picked up at the bar that night so many years ago. We spoke philosophy and literature and how the two were such a bore in the classes that we took.
That morning, years, on what would possibly be the last time I slept with my beloved Tina, she turned to me and stared before asking the inevitable.
“Don’t you still find me sexy?”
“No,” I answered. “Well, yes, I find you sexy.”
“So which is it? No or yes?”
“Yes, I do. I find you rather sexual in nature. However–“
She cut me off, “And?”
I adjusted in the bed and let another cigarette. “I no longer find myself sexy.”
“That ever been a problem?”
“No. Not until now.”

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