We slept until late. Sunday, after all.
**********
Jen stayed the week, and I repeated my performance every night on schedule. At 4 am sharp the fucking birds made me hate nature. At 4:01 I was stroking my wife, and planning my attack. For the next two hours we had sex. We had rough careless sex. We had slow loving sex. We had fast and then medium and then fast again sex.
We had awake sex. Was the point.
I was exhausted at work. As was Chris. The day after Jen left, my wife plopped down beside me on our porch chairs and blew out a long breath.
“I’m bushed,” she said. “You need to let me sleep a little later in the mornings.”
“Not going to happen,” I said happily.
“But–”
“But nothing. You woke me up at 5 am too many times. So I am going to stick my dick in you at 4 am to prevent that.”
She sat back, smiling with the sudden knowledge of my plan.
Fuck that Justin asshole.
**********
I would like to report that we had early morning sex every one of the rest of the days of our long lives and had many children and lived happily ever after for certain values of happily and certain values of ever.
But I can’t, because that is in the future. I will try to make that come true, because I have the woman I love the most in the world and I will fight for her every day. Or every morning.
What I can report is something that did happen. Well, I think it happened. It happened in a dream, so does it count?
It’s just a dream. Remember?
Anyway, one night shortly after Jen’s visit, I was asleep. The part of my brain that is the interface between unconsciousness and awake, the part that keeps your heart beating and keeps you breathing was reporting that 4 am and those damn birds were just around the corner.
I dreamt that I was downstairs. The doorbell rang, a dog barked, there was a knock.
I opened the door, knowing I would find a figure in a dark hoodie.
“She’s not here,” I told Justin.
“Fucking A, man,” he said, “Where did she go? I’ve been coming every day and she’s never here.”
“She’s married. She’s not coming back. You can go away.”
He was naked now, as advertised. I did not see his clothes being shed.
He held his prodigious member and shook it.
“She needs this, dude. She loves it.”
I shook my head. “It’s not a real cock, Justin. It’s imaginary. It has no substance.”
He looked down at himself, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Besides,” I said. “I’m knocking her up. You like banging pregnant women?”
I saw the flash of disgust on his face. Of course the conjured bro would be stereotypical that way.
“Too bad,” I said, “I am going to keep her pregnant for the next twenty or thirty years.”
Justin turned away, his clothes suddenly back on him, his hood over his head.
“Whatever,” he said in resignation and faded into the darkness.