Mornings aren’t kinky. Not in the same way as the late night, when things are winding down, when you can immerse yourself in a scene. You’re not conscious enough for the whips and the rope; you can’t plan, and you can’t organise. The room can’t become your domain in the morning. It’s still claimed by the grogginess of sleep, and the slow rise out of slumber.
The room is the morning sun’s, and there’s nothing you can do about that. A wash of gold that only budges with time, as AM turns to PM.
Instead, you get clumsy fumblings, giggles, chuckles, and muted moans. Groans as you just enjoy one another, fingers and thumbs and lips and noses brushing up against one another. In the morning you’re animals, motor functions with a libido that drives you, while the rest of your brain carries on dreaming, adjusts to this happy new reality that was so similar to the nocturnal emissions of yore.
It’s tempting to say they’re more free, a more honest depiction of the attraction and care that I have, but that’s not really true. It’s more about earnestness, of stripping back all the theatricality that I layer on in the evenings. It’s simpler. Less complicated.
I like complicated. Complicated makes you come more. Complicated makes you bite the air, and complicated lets me slip into that intoxicating headspace where all I want to do is make you scream.
But mornings are sacred, and I hold them with a different kind of reverence. They’re the crepuscular rays slipping in through the window, and watching the dust dance on that golden shaft. It’s ignoring all that and fucking anyway.