Completely, Disastrously Horny
The doctors were right; I have become too horny.
A man cannot fly a spaceship while painfully erect. It keeps bumping the wheel. I cannot focus on star charts while I remember your black nightgown, while I recall my hand on your hips. A proper flight path to Rigelius 12 was not plotted. Not after you ripped both our clothes off, stood in the candlelight on full display, and said simply, “Hi.”
I couldn’t hear the warning alarms over faded dreams of the sound of my bedframe creaking. “Jesus Christ!” screamed my copilot. So did you, when my head was locked between your thighs.
You jolted.
So did he.
You grabbed my hair.
He jerked my shoulder.
You asked, “What are you doing down there?” and bit your lip.
He asked what the fuck I was doing “over there?!”
“Fuck me.”
“Fuck yourself!”
We crashed into a neighboring swamp planet. Drawing an imagery parallel to our night together is possible, but I haven’t the time. The rescue rocket came too quickly.