Some things never change. My erection is one of them.
From about the age of 11, I’ve woken almost every morning with a mighty 3.5 inches* of engorged manhood pulsing between my legs.
* I reserve the right to disguise the truth: it’s not 3.5 inches. I wish!
Simple maths: that’s 30 years of morning wood, or 10,965 opportunities for a hand-shandy. And believe me folks, I’ve taken most of those opportunities! I should have bought shares in Kleenex at an early age, I’d be a wealthy man.
Even ignoring the regular turgid moments through the day, and the 9 year perm-e-rection from the age of 12 to 21, that’s well over half a mile of rock hard penis that I’ve produced in my life. Half a mile. Laugh that off, Jonah Falcon (I’ve lost at least half of you to that link).
By now my regular readers may have worked out that I’m an inveterate pervert, and will immediately assume the reason for my morning chub is that I’ve spent the night roaming the highways and byways of my fetid imagination, and rutting disgustingly with every man, woman and inanimate object that flits through my mind.
And that’s a shrewd guess.
But in many cases, the morning lob-on… hold on a moment while we admire that term, which I don’t think I’ve used since school… the morning lob-on is just caused by basic anatomy. When you need to stop yourself from piddling you employ your pelvic floor muscles, which are also used to maintain erections. If my bladder is full in the night, my body turns on the boner machine, and that’s how I wake up.
But often your first guess is correct; my turgid chode a result of vivid, Technicolor, occasionally disturbing sex dreams, and I wake up with an urge to roll over onto whoever is next to me, hold them down, and make the beast with two backs. Or, if they’re in “the other” position when I jump on, the beast with one back and two fronts.
For several years I’ve woken alone, and have had to decide whether to ignore the lower-lump, or take matters into my own hands. I won’t lie: it’s often the latter. If I find myself waking too early, that’s often enough to make me relaxed and sleepy enough to get another couple of hours sleep before I crawl to my desk, turn on my PC, and face the real wankers.
But these days I find it almost impossible to stroke out a white one, because of my cat. It’s not even my cat. It’s the neighbour’s cat, who turned up about a year ago and hasn’t fucked off since. You think I haven’t asked him to fuck off? I’ve yelled it at him almost every day, but he hates me.
I can tell he hates me, because I work from home and don’t start until 10am. My morning commute is about 12 feet, and I’m often still in my dressing gown at lunchtime. I work hard, but I treasure lazy mornings, and it’s one of the few genuine pleasures that being your own boss can bring.
But in spite of the opportunity to start slowly, at 5am every day I get several needle-sharp claws shoved into my lip, and I wake with a start to see the cat’s huge, pleading, glassy eyes about a millimetre from mine, and his feral little claw ready to strike again. And he thinks this is fun, because he’s making a purring noise like a vibrator on a tin tray. See: he hates me.
There’s then a battle of wills (which I always lose) in which I try to go back to sleep and he explains how much he likes tuna by doing a Foxtrot on my head and shoving his arse into my face. I could cope with that, but he also sheds invisibly thin cat hairs onto me, and they stick to me and irritate like I’ve somehow walked through a spider’s web in my sleep. I can feel them on me, I know where they are, but they’re glued to me and won’t go away until I wake and shower. So that’s it. Start work at 10, but get up before 6.
The cat deserves privacy, so I won’t tell you his real name. But to me, he’s always Cooking Fat.
His latest trick is to spot my morning wood, and attack it with both claws. He attacks even faster if there’s the slightest hint of regular up-and-down movements under the covers. I don’t know if he’s just jealous, having nothing but a saggy little bag where his manhood once lived, or if he has no idea that it’s part of me and thinks he’s murdering a mouse every morning. He’s quite the little murderer, and I’ve had to scrape up the tattered remains of many a pigeon from what I laughingly call my lawn.
But this habit of attempting to rip the skin off my morning tentpole has put quite a dent in my onanistic habits, and the build-up of sexual tension is such that the next (un)lucky lady to find herself in my bed is going to get plundered within an inch of her life. You’ve been warned!