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I fight through the needles stabbing into my brain. The pain slowly subsides as I adjust. Soon, I’m able to look around the room again with normal vision.
Maybe that’s the trick.
With renewed focus, I grab my terrycloth towel and start aggressively rubbing it across my naked body. Clothes have been too much to wear. That makes this excruciating. The rough texture grabs at every hair and bump, so it feels like my skin is being torn off. It’s sandpaper against my hands.
Hot tears sting my cheeks as I work the towel over my body. But, after a few minutes, the pain lessens. The brutal texture fades back to the softened cloth I remember.
Clothes feel normal again. I never knew how good it would be to get dressed.
The thought of having to take care of the animals at the vet clinic naked was at first funny, but quickly shifted to terrifying when it seemed I actually wouldn’t be able to wear clothes.
This is the strangest illness. If Sam has something similar—
Picturing him has me gripping the towel and dropping my hands to my knees, my belly shaking as an orgasm rockets through me again.
No way. This won’t work.
On wobbly legs, I totter back to the bedroom and lay down.
Purposefully, I think about Sam. His jaw, his smell, how his ass moves in his jeans. My body tightens and wave after wave of release rolls through me. How he looked riding in on his horse. Another orgasm. Him spraying me down. Oh, my god, rolling waves course through my body, my hips spasming of their own accord. Remembering the heat of his body so close to mine has my walls clenching and releasing over and over.
Eventually, I can picture him touching me, embracing me, even kissing me without the pleasurable tremble of climax rocking through me.
It only takes hours.
At this rate, I’ll be fit to be in public again in, oh, ten years. I’m just glad my stomach seems to have settled. The overall pain has somewhat faded, also.
By the next evening I’m feeling, almost, normal again. More like a hangover, less like I’m dying. I just can’t believe it’s taken me this long to feel like I can even function. I’m glad it’s Sunday so I don’t have to work.
Sam: Feeling better?
Me: Much, thank you. I don’t think it was food poisoning. Jenny was sick, too.
Sam: Huh. Crazy flu? Weirdest flu ever…
Weirdest flu ever. I’d agree with that. I still wonder if he had the same symptoms as me? Heat moves up my cheeks when I think about him coming in the shower like I did.
I may not instantly seize up in an orgasm when I think of him, but he still makes my insides jiggly.
Me: Did you get the “lights are too bright, sounds are too loud” thing?
Sam: Yep. Sucked. Getting better though. Glad it wasn’t the Chinese food.
My stomach rumbles at the thought of the garlic chicken. I haven’t eaten much today; every bite tasted off. Being so sensitive to the flavors brought out all the hidden things I never knew existed, and now they make it unpalatable.
Feeling almost queasy, I think I’ll brown some chicken and pasta. It’s easy and filling, and the closest thing I have in my apartment that resembles the garlic chicken we had.
That mongolian beef would be good, too. Only if Sam was here to tongue it into his mouth again.
Ugh, my panties soak at the memory. It takes a few deep breaths to simmer my pulse down enough to focus on food.
Skipping the “thaw the chicken” step, I toss the frozen chicken straight into the pan with a little garlic and olive oil, and start a pot of water boiling for the pasta.
The noodles smell stale. I didn’t know noodles could go stale? Weird, the expiration date isn’t for two years.
Rice works as a side, too. Except I can smell traces of mouse poop. Seriously?
Back to stale noodles.