It was 7AM on Christmas morning, and I was up already, watching the last 3 minutes of the ebay auction for an authentic "Sympathy for the Devil" 45. All was silent, except the mouse click on my iBook must have been pretty loud -- it woke you up after I clicked the "Reload" button in Safari for the 12th time in a minute. I heard you carefully stumble down off the loft bed we built in the summer -- before we broke up and got back together again. You're still wearing nothing but my white belt and your red socks from last night-- your "Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky" shirt got soaked in Yuengling when the cab driver made a sudden stop on the Billy'sburg bridge.

You snuck up behind me and put your hands over my eyes -- they still smelled like the lavender hand lotion you sampled at L'Occitane when we were looking for gifts for your mom. You made me lose the auction in the last minute, which really pissed me off, till I saw that you had gotten me the new Gang of Four box set for Christmas.

I laid you down on my Twister Mat-come-rug. My tongue ring clicked quietly against your titty ring.