Self-Service

I staggered down the stairs yesterday evening and clattered around in the kitchen for a while. Extricating milk from the fridge and looking for the mint hot chocolate that I've been ritualistically nicking from my sister every evening, I heard the unmistakable tapping at a laptop keyboard from the room next door.

I turned towards the kitchen door, my dressing gown flapping open due to lack of cord and that fact I'd released my hand's grip on it. I wasn't, of course, wearing anything apart from the dressing gown, so I steeled myself as I pulled it close and walked through to the back room attempting to look as if I hadn't just had a massive orgasm.

Of course, I had. All the signs were there, even if you weren't looking for the signs. If my mother had been consulting a checklist as I walked in, it would have looked something like this:

Messed-up hair (from dragging hand through it) ☑
Slightly dizzy demeanour ☑
Small grin (for no apparent reason) ☑
Flushed cheeks ☑
Unsteady gait ☑
Regularly punctuates speech with 'phew' ☑
Heavy breathing ☑
Halo ☑

"Would you like a drink?" I asked her, as evenly as possible. Fortunately, my mother was concentrated on whatever horrors her laptop was throwing at her under the pretence of "working at home"; I could have walked into the back room without holding my dressing gown closed and "I JUST HAD AN ORGASM" tattooed across my chest and she probably wouldn't have noticed.

She muttered something about wanting a Horlicks and I floated back to the kitchen, letting my dressing gown flap open again and feeling the cool breeze from the fridge caress my thighs (and all between them). I paused for a while, fighting back an aftershock; realising perhaps a little too late that immediately following orgasm was probably not the best time to engage in conversation and drink-making, I pressed on with the Horlicks. Taking it back to my mother and being told that it was too watery and I needed to make it again, I barely seethed once. I wasn't going to let anything get me down.

The intensity of the orgasm was so much so that by the time I'd sorted out her drink, mine, and my toast, I still wasn't too steady on my feet. But I was well aware that I should be back at my computer by that point, so composing myself, pulling my dressing gown closed for the umpteenth time, and holding my hot chocolate and toast as steadily as I could in one hand, I walked as gracefully as I could back upstairs, leaving my mother behind, hopefully oblivious to the whole thing.