Sinful Sunday: Domestic Bliss

On Saturday afternoons, I play hockey. On Sunday mornings, I recover.

I play hockey pretty much every Saturday from mid-September through till the beginning of April: it’s one of the few constants in my generally chaotic life. I play on freezing cold December mornings, when your fingers tingle every time you hit the ball and your breath follows you like a jet trail as you hurtle around at 100mph. I play on leaf-strewn pitches in late October, the blustery chill in the air carrying the smell of bonfires from the gardens and allotments of whichever town we’re visiting. I play in March, when Spring feels like both a beginning and an end, giving us all renewed vigour and a sense of joy, just as the season is winding down.

I play in sunshine, snow, wind, rain, sleet, hail, and everything in between. And I love it.

At this time of year though, fat and lazy after a summer of relative inactivity, playing hockey hurts. It hurts on the pitch, when I ask the umpire how long it is until half-time, and his answer almost makes me throw up at the thought of pushing my body through that much further punishment. It really hurts a few hours later, in the pub or slumped on my sofa, weak as a kitten and starting to stiffen up in all the wrong places. Most of all though, it hurts the following morning: a dull, delicious ache in my calves and hamstrings, my thighs and arse. It’s like the morning after a particularly vigorous anal fuck: pain to gladden human hearts.

On those sore, stiff Sunday mornings, I like to stay in bed. In September, when it’s still warm and sunny outside, I open the window and let the breeze drift across my naked body. The sunlight is a balm for weary muscles, and sometimes I’ll doze like that, on and off, till it’s time to get up and go for lunch. If I can drag myself out of bed and into clothes for long enough, I’ll go and buy a newspaper, then settle back down with a cup of tea and whatever food I can get my hands on.

Whether I’m alone or not, I’m always horny on those lazy Sundays. It’s partly the last of the endorphins from hockey, I think, combined with a sort of simple contentment at having done something active and healthy: my body feels like it’s earned a period of total indulgence. It wants to be pampered, but slowly, and without urgency. I find my hands just wandering down towards my soft, sleepy cock and resting there, savouring the knowledge that I have all the time I could want or need: there’s no need to rush.

Maybe none of that sounds especially sinful. I’ve been awake now for three hours, after all, and that bottle of lube in the photo hasn’t even been opened yet. Still, to allow the sunlight to stream through my tall, wide windows, I had to open the curtains. I can hear the cars and buses trundling along Upper Street, and the Sunday morning shoppers chattering away outside cafes and boutiques. They can’t hear me, and they certainly can’t see me, but the people in the flats opposite…I wonder what they can see right now…