Five-Minute Fantasies

Sleep Shorts on a Texas Ranch Porch at Pre-Dawn

Alone on the porch at 5:30 a.m. with the coffee going cold on the rail — I slide my hand inside my sleep shorts and work my fingers in deep while the cattle stand motionless in the blue pre-dawn, and when I'm done I bring my hand to my mouth and taste myself before anyone else in the house is awake.

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Mild

Before the House Wakes

452 words · 3 min read

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The cattle haven't moved. They stand out there in the blue-grey pasture like they were set down by hand and forgotten, every one of them still, their outlines soft in the dark that hasn't quite decided to lift. I've been watching them for ten minutes now, both hands wrapped around a mug that stopped being warm somewhere around five-fifteen.

This is mine. This hour. Before the boots hit the kitchen floor upstairs, before the screen door starts its rounds, before anyone needs anything from me at all. The porch boards are cool through the thin soles of my feet. The air smells like damp grass and something sweet underneath it — clover coming in early this year, or maybe just the dark itself, which has its own smell out here that I've never been able to name.

I set the mug on the rail.

The cotton of these shorts is so thin I can feel the temperature change when the air moves — a small, deliberate pressure across both thighs, the hem just grazing the crease where my legs meet the bench. I've had them long enough that the waistband has gone soft, folds over easy with one hand. I'm aware of that. I've been aware of it since I sat down.

The thing about this hour is that I'm not performing anything for anyone. Not patience. Not competence. Not the version of myself that holds the whole house in its hands all day long. Out here I'm just a body on a porch in the dark, and the body wants what it wants, and there is no one to negotiate that with.

One of the cattle shifts. Just its head, swinging slow to the left, then back. Then still again.

I exhale — longer than I meant to, the breath unfolding out over the rail into the cool air before I'd decided to let it go.

My left hand stays flat against the bench beside me. My right hand drops from the rail.

The waistband folds. The fabric is warm from my skin on the inside, cooler where it hasn't been touching me. I'm aware of both. The contrast is specific and unhurried, and I stay with it for a moment — the tips of my fingers against the inside of the waistband, not yet moving further, just present there, just knowing.

My stomach contracts once, low and tight, before I've done anything at all.

The cattle stand motionless in their blue field. They are not watching. No one is watching. The house behind me breathes its sleeping breath and holds its silence, and I have all the time in the world, and I know exactly what I'm about to do.

Hot

Blue Hour, Wide Open

478 words · 3 min read

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One finger first. That's honest.

The fabric shifts when I move — the thin cotton settling back against my wrist, warm from my skin, and I feel that too, that small pressure at the edge of everything. My stomach is already pulled tight. Has been for a while now. I've been sitting with that tightness like a thing I earned, like I was owed it before the day started taking from me.

Mid-scene teaser

The shift in pressure is immediate — specific, interior, a different kind of knowing. My left hand grips the edge of the bench. The worn wood is cool and I hold onto that, the contrast of it, while my right hand does its work and the thin cotton lies across my wrist and the waistband folds soft against my forearm and every sensation has a name and I am naming them all, cataloguing, staying with each one the way I stay with nothing else all day.

Spicy

Fingers Deep at Five Thirty

535 words · 3 min read

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Three fingers. That's what this morning is. I'd known it since two fingers stopped being enough — since my hips rocked forward on the bench and my body asked for more and I gave it without deliberation, without ceremony, just pressed deeper and felt the stretch of it open and hold. My left hand is white-knuckled on the bench rail. The worn wood has a grain I know by feel now. The cattle haven't moved. Not one of them. They stand in their blue field like they've been standing there since before I was born, and I'm three fingers deep on my own porch with the waistband of my sleep shorts folded...

Mid-scene teaser

Ragged. Too long. It goes out over the rail into the cool air and takes something with it.

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