The flat was dark. It was late in the evening – a very hot evening at that – and the open balcony window provided me with a soundtrack of blissful silence from the world below me. The only light on was, apart from the actual little light next to me, coming from the glare of the TV. I had in one hand a copy of the July edition of Elle Belgium. The other was tucked under the elastic of my knickers, fingers finding an outlet for their fidgeting on my willing clit.

I’ve been masturbating a lot more as of late. It’s become one of my go-to’s when I’m not sure how to get a release. Any kind of release, really. Stress, low humming anxiety, tiredness, boredom, you name it. I’ve even taken to masturbating when I’ve turned myself on from writing hot scenes. Which – yeah, fellating my own skills a bit here, but I do occasionally crank them out.


ILB knows I masturbate. The other week, I announced I was feeling the twitch as he was playing on his DS. He just nodded and went on playing. He knows, and I’m willing to venture a bet that he doesn’t really mind at all. After all, he knows me. He’s seen me in my darker moments, and he knows that anything that gets me a release is good.

So I reckon that he wouldn’t have even blinkered if I told him that I lay on the couch in my mother’s flat last night, getting myself off because the last few days had been some of the most stressful, agonizing and confusing days of my life.

Most of you will have caught my Tweets about my mother and her being in hospital. And if you don’t mind, I would rather not retread the path of What The Fuck Happened? again, because it would be like finding a fresh bruise and poking at it a bit. Needless to say, I’ve been on edge for about a week now. The kind of edge where everything serves to make you more confused, even the smallest things. I’ve had little sleep due to the heat and the stress, I’ve been commuting back and forth between my mum’s new flat and the hospital pretty much every day, and the bleeps and ticks from the big make-you-better machines surrounding my mum are enough to grind my nerves into a fine paste. Jamie Oliver could probably make pesto out of my nerves right now.

Half of the time, I’m at a loss for what to do or how to feel. Deep down, I know that things are looking up – the docs told me as much. So, it wouldn’t be logical for me to sit and wonder and agonize all day. Still, whenever I do let myself go and try to make the best of things, there’s a niggling doubt over whether I should really be -gasp- having a bit of amusement right now. The should you really feelings come thick and fast: should you really be laughing? Should you really be reading that book? Should you really be writing/knitting/walking/trying to take your mind away from the intense feelings of anxiety that have been consuming you?

I don’t know what to do to please myself. I can’t physically be in a constant state of worry because it wears you down until there’s nothing left of you. And nothing is not a lot to function with. I don’t know where to go with my energy, with my intense feelings, raging through me.

So, I masturbated last night. And I’ll probably do so again and again, until ILB comes back from his summer work gig and he can grab me and take me and fuck me until I find my release.

And then we’ll probably do so again and again.


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