"I can't do it tonight. I have an early presentation tomorrow."
That is what I hear every night. A man's gotta take care of himself. I took off my T-shirt and underwear and stepped into the shower. I looked at my shrived manhood, feeling a moment of profound envy at a youth that quickly swooshed by, like the warm, leisurely jet coming out of the brushed nickel shower head, spiraling into the dark drain hole. Suddenly I was inspired. I pulled the shower head out of the mount, switched it to massage mode, and aimed the faster, more focused spray directly at the back, above the frenulum, like a laser beam, and a soothing warmth rose from within my pelvis. I let my mind wander, thinking about pink, soft, slippery things, and me on top of her, ravishing her. I squeezed my nipples with my left hand, feeling the sensation somewhere between pain and pleasure. I felt the muscles between my legs tighten involuntarily and moaned softly with pleasure--am I taking too long to shower? Will she hear me? I bet she doesn't care anyway. The pleasure built up slowly, but definitely, in waves after powerful waves, and suddenly reached its apogee and with a series of cataclysmic contractions. Yet and again. Me and myself. Live together, die alone. I quickly rinsed it off the tiles--the advantages of doing it in the showers--waited a few minutes for the tumescence to resolve itself and dried myself off with a towel.
Perhaps I will sleep better tonight.