Thursday Morning 4:27am

Thursday Morning, 4:27am

I don't sleep well; when I sleep at all in the summer it is a fevered, intense, sweat-slicked darkness that holds me. Unmerited thoughts weigh like leaden cobwebs in the unused throughfares of my daytime mind, obscuring and confusing. The heat that makes me somnambulant in the day prevents me from achieving the sanctity of the big black at night. Often, I will lie, nerve-shredded and paranoid, lurching from treacherous shallow dozing to anxious waking as the sky progresses slowly from black to grey to pink to blue; at this point I will give up, rise, shower and begin my day. My mental health suffers as the hands of the clock move painstakingly across the Eastern hemisphere of the face, mocking me with their reluctance. The noises of the town change; from the drunken shouts of revellers making their way home at two, through the short silences of the witching hour to the progress of the street sweepers and early birds who are on the job before seven. The rumbles of the last trains fade seemingly aeons before the milk runs begin a few hours later.

The neighbours who live in the other flats that make up this rambling Georgian townhouse in addition to mine also have their nocturnal patterns, which I am unfortunately well-placed to observe. The young man who lives on the ground floor tends to be in bed early but rises at dawn and clangs the gate as he and his dog go for their morning run. The two girls who share the first floor flat come home early in the evening and then depart for the brighter lights in the centre of town, returning giggling and with clicking footsteps usually around midnight. I wonder if the other residents pay heed to my comings and goings, as unremarkable as they are. They probably just think of me as the old man in the attic; a grizzled and grey forty-five-year-old relic of distant times.

Tonight, I have begged a God in whom I have no belief that I will sleep soundly. For every night that this happens, perhaps four or five pass in the aforementioned pattern, though, so I am not confident that it will be the case. In order to prepare myself I cycled to work this morning (I am a tree surgeon and enjoy being outside in all weathers), cycled across town to the new sports complex upon finishing for the day, and then swam for an hour. Once home I ate sparingly, all the better to be comfortable when I went to bed. I read for an hour or so and then stood in the garret window and meditated as the sun sank over the mausoleum that stands on the hill a few miles to the West, bathing the white marble and green oaks that surround it in a blaze of gold. Once the sun was gone and the night began in earnest I read my book, sitting cross-legged in my underwear on my freshly changed bed before undertaking another half-hour's breathing and stretching exercises.

Alas, it seems that this was not sufficient. I lie here, listening to anonymous sounds (cars, aeroplanes, the one-sided conversations of phone-glued pedestrians), silently questioning how such an active and yet mindful day can leave me bereft of sleep. Treacherously, my mind begins its usual psychological betrayal, trawling through the poor decisions I have made, fatuous statements I have uttered and unhealthy relationships I have had; it litters my path with such caltrops, over which I metaphysically stumble as I relive each moment, deriding and chiding myself for each mistake. It is hard to let these things be... I find myself wondering if this lack of sleeping is a subliminal masochism or the result of decades of unresolved difficulties.

I find myself thinking back to Heather, as I often do, and wonder for the millionth time where it all went wrong. Was it her, unfaithful and fickle, or me, paranoid and stifling, that caused a beautiful beginning to end so badly, seven fraught years later? Who knows... Who cares, really, as neither of us were equipped to deal with the intensity of our own feelings or the consequences of our many mistakes. We were children, in all honesty. Children who grew up too fast and yet not at all.

There have been others, of course. Initially a torrent of the exotic and unsuitable, wanton and unstable, in which I attempted to drown my helplessness at being apart from her. Then, periods of guilty celibacy before attempts at monogamy that end in tears; Maya, the feminist with fire in her veins and combs in her hair; Emma, the poetess who was as damaged and unlucky as I; Ruth, the saviour who left me for the next basket case. And others, too. Kelly and Cara and Stephanie and Sarah and on and on and on and on and on, until here I am, waiting for sleep that will not come. Waiting waiting waiting waiting. It is long past two and my mind is awash with tiredness, sadness, regret and missed opportunities.

The last thought I remember is of a day Heather and I spent at a ruined castle that stood a mile or so up a gentle valley that wended towards the sea. It was one of those places that you had to know about in order not to miss it, secluded as it was. We went there one summer around the turn of the millennium and stood alone on the ramparts, staring into the blue distance, lost in each other, or so I thought. I was lost in her, certainly, her feyness and long hair, her long red dress and the shapes of her body. She was lost, too, but not in thoughts of me; although I didn't know it at the time, she was deep into a prolonged infidelity. I'd though we would last forever.

The vivid, shallow and unwelcome half-waking dreams eventually take me.

* * *

I do not hear the front door open. I am unaware of how you got in, how you walked quietly into my flat and made yourself comfortable on the wicker chair in my bedroom. All of this, ironically, passes me by. When, finally, I surface in panic from my lurid nocturnal hallucinations enough so sit up in bed, I do not see you. With a familiarity born of a hundred sleepless nights I swing my feet out of bed and make my way out of my bedroom door without turning on my bedside light. I make my way silently and without looking out of my bedroom door and across the hall to the bathroom, where I urinate and then splash cold water on my face in an attempt to drive the demons back into the corners of my mind. Drying my face on a towel I ask myself how long this can continue and why what little sleep I can find brings me nothing but torment and questions. I pad back to my bed, turning my pillow over and plumping it in order to make an attempt to return to sleep more comfortable. Still I do not see you. I get back into bed, close my eyes and hope. Within minutes I am lying on my back, eyes wide open, arms thrown above my head and cursing the light that is beginning to show, grey and wan, through the curtains. An ill-advised glance at the clock shows that it is 4.27am on the 13

th

of June. Please, I scream silently, give me

some

hope,

some

relief.

Time dies. There is nothing and there is everything. I grind the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, sending coloured lights bursting across the red-black of my retinas. "Please.....", I whisper to the universe, "Enough". I still don't see you.

I do, however, catch a whisper of movement, a crackle of wicker and a slight rustle of fabric. I ignore it; I'm too tired to bother wondering what trick my mind is playing on me. I shake my head to clear my vision before closing my eyes for the thousandth time. I exhale deeply, breathe in slightly, hold it for a count of seven and exhale again. I repeat this triangular breathing in the hope that it will bring unconsciousness. I am deep within the cycle when I hear the first soft footstep, which of course, I ignore, on the old oak floorboards. The second causes me to pause in my breathing and I cautiously open my right eye just a fraction,

and then I see you.

At first, I assume I am imagining you, but then you move, slowly, to the edge of the big iron bed. My heart begins to thump in my chest as panic threatens. "What the..." I mumble, but then I feel your fingertip on my lip, and the cry dies in my throat.

"Shhh", you whisper, your voice a distant and gentle breeze amongst the trees that line the street. "I'm here now". I force my heart rate down and look up at your silhouette which is imposed between me and the window, the washed-out light of dawn casting your shadow over me. Even in this weird, shadowed twilight your beauty is awe-striking; you stand, one knee slightly bent to allow you to lean down towards me, and your hair swings forward, spilling across your left shoulder in a cascade of darkness. It is just light enough for me to see the shape of your curves, and with a start I realise that you are dressed to make an impact, and all in black. Your legs are encased in nylon, and a short, kilted skirt brushes your hips. A slash of pale skin shows at your waist before being occluded by a sheer mesh wrap top, behind which I can vaguely see the contours of your breasts nestled in the confines of your bra.

The bed creaks as you climb carefully onto it, lifting your right knee over my body and pinioning me under the sheet that covers me. I feel your weight settle across my groin, and the heat at your centre. You lean forward and whisper my name, your hair falling forward to tickle my face, and I try to reach upward to kiss you, but you sit upright, uh-uhing me almost silently. The accompanying shake of your head is reciprocated in your hips, and this then causes two things to happen. The first is that your skirt rides further up, and the second is that suddenly I am ragingly hard and hungry for you. The blood pounds in my ears as my brain does its best to keep up with the situation, a small part of it that can retain focus desperately suggesting that this cannot be happening and being ignored by the rest.

You begin to move, rotating your hips and bringing pressure to bear on my shaft. I begin to speak but you press your right index finger to my lips again and say "No talking, because if you speak, I will leave. I will do the talking". I flop back into my pillow and watch as you slowly raise your arms above your head and peel your top off, maddeningly slowly. Now you are here all I can think about is being inside you, pushing into your centre and taking what I have always wanted. However, the rational part of me knows that if anyone here will be doing any taking it will not be me. I am fine with this, I decide.

I watch hungrily as the fabric of your top slides across the skin of your stomach before working its way outwards again, across the jut of your breasts and upwards again until you hold it raised above your head and drop it quietly onto the floor beside the bed. I feast my eyes upon the shadow of your cleavage, the cups of your bra barely containing your flesh when it moves under the influence of your shoulders as your arms descend again. You hold your breasts gently, one in each hand, and a smile crosses your face as you see my eyes widen in anticipation. "So, you like it when I touch myself, do you?", you ask mock-playfully. It is all I can do to nod my agreement.

I finally manage to galvanise myself into action and drag my arms from behind my head and place my hands on the narrowness of your waist. Your skin is pale and cool, in contrast to my own, and I run my fingertips appreciatively over it, causing you to shudder slightly, reflexively. I revel in the tautness of your abdomen, the strong softness of the skin in contrast to the roughness of the skin on my hands. I watch as you continue to knead your breasts through the fabric of your bra, a look of part pleasure, part amusement on your beautiful face, and as much as I want to tear the bra away from your body and see the nakedness of your breastflesh, I do not do that. I watch and wait patiently, enjoying both the sight of your flesh rolling and the sensations that the pressure of your pelvis continues to bring to bear on my groin. I drink you in, hoping to burn the vision of your beauty into my eyes forever.

The movement of your hands causes the straps of your bra to work their way across your clavicles and down your upper arms, and I reach up and hook my thumbs through them, resting my fingers and palms over the band that crosses your back. The smoothness of your skin and the fine fabric of the bra send the neurons in my fingertips haywire as I reach for the clasp that holds the band together, but you shake your head and push my arms away.

"I'll take it off when I'm ready. Have patience and you might get what you want", you say quietly, a humorous tone in your voice. "I will certainly get what I want". With reluctance I let you arrange my arms to your satisfaction and watch as you lean down, resting your weight on my shoulders, and take my left nipple into your mouth, biting and sucking at it. I writhe underneath you in delicious agony as you work away at it, using my weakness and inability to resist to ensnare me further. The scent of your perfume, subtle yet entrancing, wrestles my nostrils and adds to the assault on my senses and my head is full of memories from summers long past and the agony of waiting for something I know I'll never have. The feel of your lips on my left nipple is complemented by your nails on my right, plucking and scratching gently. I arch my back, pressing my sex towards your heat through the thinness of the sheet, groaning in frustration. I am putty in your hands.

I am tall and wiry; you are shorter and delightfully curvaceous. Were our body types different you may struggle to maintain pressure on my groin whilst simultaneously sucking my nipple and pressing the softness of your breasts into my abdomen. I silently give thanks that this is not the case. I can feel your breath playing over my chest as you torture me, and your hair lies soft along my ribcage. You pinch my right nipple hard between your slim fingers, twisting it until I gasp in pained delight, at which point you release it and nip hard with your teeth at my left, causing me to gasp again. You sit upright once more, sweeping your dark hair into a ponytail as you do so, and in the increasing light I can finally see your face. Your gorgeous smile shows a slight smudge to your otherwise perfect lipstick; there will surely be a corresponding smear around my nipple. Your breasts heave pleasingly as you hold both arms behind your head, securing the ponytail to your satisfaction. "You always were a breast man, weren't you? Don't think I didn't notice you looking all those times". The tone of your voice suggests that you weren't angry about this, and perhaps even wryly amused. "When you have a shape like mine you see people looking all the time. Sometimes it's flattering, sometimes not. I liked seeing you doing it, thinking about seeing me naked, though". I reflect that my mind must be easier to read than I would like.

"Maybe it's time, then", you muse, and drop your hands to my chest again. "The question is, shall I let you take off my bra or should I do it myself? Oh, I forgot - you're not allowed to speak, are you? What a pity..." You are maddening. My brain is exhausted, overloaded and over-stimulated, and now you are playing games. You are maddening, intoxicating and more entrancing than I can explain. Do I care enough to make a decision, even if speaking were permitted, or do I just wish that the bloody bra would come off as quickly as possible no matter who removes it? I honestly don't know, but as it happens what I think proves to be irrelevant; you reach behind yourself and unfasten the clasp, sliding the straps down your upper arms and, finally, removing the garment entirely.

I gorge my eyes on your breasts. Though we are of a similar age, they are still full, firm and delightful, the pale skin crowned with darkened areolae the size of watch faces. You sit still for a few moments, watching me watching you, before gently lifting your left breast to your lips and sucking on it gently. You really must be able to read my mind, I think. You make eye contact, a subtle, knowing smile playing across your features, and continue to nurse yourself. It is all I can do to keep still and quiet as I watch, seeing your lips, teeth and tongue working together as you stimulate yourself. A slight moan escapes you, and I briefly wonder if I am about to ejaculate, before forcing myself under control. You continue to stare into my eyes as you suck, as if daring me to comment.

How you know that seeing a woman doing this is a sight that I find particularly enjoyable I do not know. I briefly speculate if I have ever told you this, or that we've had a conversation that could.... No, that doesn't seem likely. Have you spoken to an ex-partner of mine and pumped her for information about my sexual kicks? My mind can't seem to function at any level beyond the immediate, tired as I am, and the sensations that your movements and weight are delivering leave me little mental run-time to devote to my musings.

"I think that maybe it's your turn. Would you like to make me feel good?", you ask in a whisper, dropping your breast from your hand and bending forward. I nod eagerly and prop myself on my elbows the better to receive your proffered flesh, drawing the saliva-coated nipple between my lips and delighting in the turgor of it. I flick the tip of my tongue across the bud and hold it between my teeth, listening as your breathing quickens slightly. The skin tastes clean and new, and I suck more of you into my mouth, running my tongue around the areola, the puckered bumps slick. You nuzzle my neck, nipping at the skin above my left carotid artery, shooting spikes of pain across my being. Your hand makes its way behind my head and pushes my face further into the contours of your breast, mashing my teeth into the flesh. "You can bite me a little harder, you know. I'm not made of glass". Again, your voice is soft but steely; you know what you like and are intent on getting it. The feel of your breath against my ear makes my skin crawl deliciously.

As per the instruction I use my teeth more forcefully, chewing on the skin and licking a trail of saliva from your nipple to the underswell and using my incisors to gently bite where it meets your ribcage. I hear you gasp, so I do it again, my face pressed into your skin, inhaling the intoxicating scent of you, wondering at the unlikeliness of your being here.

I feel you pulling against me, so I stop and let you sit upright before reaching up and finally taking the delightful weight of your bosom in my hands. I cup each breast, running the rough pads of my thumbs over your nipples and watch as you tip your head back and moan quietly and tell me how nice it feels to finally feel my touch. I want to tell you how often I have dreamed of this moment but am scared that you will hold true to your word and leave if I speak unbidden. I content myself with watching your breastflesh spill over my hands and wondering at their size, softness and warmth. I could do this forever.

You, however, have other plans, and although obviously reluctantly, you tell me to stop, so I do, just as reluctantly. For a fleeting moment I think you are about to leave, as you shift your weight from my groin and sit further down my thighs for a moment, breathing deeply as you allow yourself a moment's rest. Fearful of you going, I lie back and say nothing, keeping my eyes fixed on your curves. If this is to be the sum of this strange encounter, then so be it. I will not spoil or sully it with begging you for more. Presently, though, you begin to pluck at the fastenings of your skirt, unbuckling them with your slim fingers that are tipped by lacquer that matches the shade of your lipstick. You pull the skirt away from your body and it joins your other garments, the inky top and the nebulous bra, on my floor at the side of the bed. I note that what I thought were tights are hold-ups, their lace tops undershot with the paler tone of your skin, and also that you are without underwear. The folds of your sex are hidden by the rumpled sheet, but I can feel the heat emanating from you, nonetheless, as your thighs straddle mine.