Five Scenes From the Bedroom of Jill Boyd


She stumbles into the room. Not drunk. Not high. Just exhausted.

As she dives under the safe, warm covers of her bed, she dreams.

Of dalliances in a backstreet café in Paris…

with a man named Jean.


She is restless. Aroused by the least spark of memories of things that haven’t happened yet.

She fantasizes about being pleasurably trapped between faceless people.

And as the vibrating pink piece of work slides in and out of her wet cunt…

she gasps and falls down to earth.


She sleeps. Dead to the world.

No sound but the sound of her own breathing.

And the silence, magnified a million times.

She’s scared.


Oh, she wishes she was not alone.

That another body was there to keep her warm.

But for now, she makes do with what’s given.

And relishes the company of a plastic fireman.


As the sun rises, she turns and twists beneath her sheets.

The trademark noises of her street rouse her from her less -than-peaceful sleep.

She considers her options. She wants to be alone with her hand.

But she gets up. And growls into the new day.


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