Morning

Morning limped into my room today, just like it has for the past 40 plus years. Bringing with it the beginning of another indistinguishable day. The moon is on its way out of the brightening sky, and the incessant noise of my alarm clock is making me regret the pint night I partook of last evening. I wish that I could transfer that alarm to my worst enemy, that being the bartender that was 'happy to see me' i.e. pour me pint after pint until I listed like a Spanish galleon homeward.  However, I am sure that barkeep is sound asleep, safe in the knowledge that she successfully got me drunk enough to entertain her again.

Since I am not King, Emperor, or even a Crown Prince (drinking Crown Royal does not, it seems, bestow royalty upon a person), I will have to answer the clarion call of that fucking alarm that is buzzing every 9 minutes. Telling me 'hey playboy its time to get up, and by up I mean out of this warm bed, and get your fat ass to work.' It would appear my alarm is invested with the same time of sense of humour that makes my friends want to punch me on occasion. However, since I am in danger of being crushed by the sunbeam entering my room, I suppose I should toddle off to the shower. Over I roll, and I roll quite well, and to my quite unexpected surprise find that there appears to be another warm body occupying about 60 percent of my nice, warm bed. Not that the other body is that big mind you, it just seems she is a bit of a bed hog.  Well this is both exciting and unexpected, and since I wear contacts, being blind as a bat without them, I squint over in her general direction to attempt to ascertain if I took a stranger home, or maybe it's the bartender that decided to get me shit-housed. Surely it can not be her, after all who would have been minding the bar if she went home with me?

Luckily for me, she is still drooling the drool of remorse into my guest pillow of regret. I ever so gently grope for the glasses that will solve the mystery of her identity, and discover, to my surprise, a whole heap of condoms on the bedside table. I think to myself 'Well those weren't there when I left to go out, so she must be a well prepared girl, god bless her.'  I like a woman that comes to the party prepared, and knowing what she wants, and how to get it.  Unsuccessful in locating my glasses, I decide to risk a closer inspection of my temporary bed mate. After all if what I think happened, did happen then I suspect she has already passed (at least to drunk me) the 'eyeball' test.

In fact, she has clearly, judging by both her, and my lack of clothing passed more than just the eyeball test. Well, I never claimed to be anything other than easy, and I certainly hope that won't be held against me. The alarm has now been told to calm down, and quietly shut down. After all, the fates have blessed me with a nice warm woman in my bed in the morning, I feel obligated to at least start the day out 'right'.  As long as this nice girl is agreeable to that, then this day might not be as much of a clanger that my hangover would suggest.  Since I at least pretend to be a gentlemen (even being a member of a newly formed club for gentlemen), I will not kiss (wink wink) and tell. Nor will I shame my lovely companion by giving away her identity. This is how every night should end, and every day begin.