The first tentative chirps of the morning birds far preceded the dawn. He snapped to and imagined it no later than four. There was a cardinal, the robin at the arbor, the turkeys on the hill and the mourning doves all calling below the stars still spattering the resistant sky.
He smelled eggs boiling downstairs-does the woman never sleep?-and a whiff of coffee. By the stench he knew it bitter and strong-would need heavy doses of cream which he was fairly sure had curdled. She could fuck up a one-car funeral this one.
He’d been dreaming about a train accident that Frank was somehow tied up in. He was being interviewed on the teevee-Frank was-and the camera had inadvertently it seemed allowed his cock into the frame as he was not wearing pants. Why didn’t anyone notice? Could the camera man not see it there hanging listlessly like a sail on a windless lake? Weren’t there editors to prevent such things from getting onto the air? Truth be told though, old Frank’s uncircumcised seven (don’t let him tell you nine) would not be the worst thing to hit telly today.
He’d never get back to sleep now. His own cock was soft and bladder full but as soon as he went downstairs he’d be done for. Maybe piss out the window. Had she brought in the laundry? He fluffed his pillow and lay back in a huff-determined to wait out the night. The bob-white called but he didn’t count-he was up all night the poor bastard.
Hot Bottoms 