I’ve spent a lot of time at home over the last few months. In general, I’m pretty good at keeping myself entertained, in between bits and pieces of freelance work, and I’m lucky enough to be fairly solitary by nature – or rather, I’m what you might call an outgoing introvert, who needs regular ‘hits’ of human company, but is happy to exist for the most part in my own little bubble.
Nevertheless, passing entire days in the warm, calm silence of my apartment isn’t always easy. There are mornings where I feel almost paralysed by inertia, as if my brain has been boxed in and can’t form the thoughts necessary to navigate its way out. Other times it’s more the relentless grind of application forms and interview prep that makes me want to throw open the balcony doors and yell at the rooftops opposite.
It isn’t all bad, of course. I have a lovely flat, and on days when the sun shines I find myself stretched out on the sofa with a good book, or pottering around the kitchenette as music fills the room. I’ll often do that naked, taking advantage of the way heat gets trapped up here on the top floor; even when I’m clothed though, there will always come a point during the afternoon when I find my hands wandering over the front of my jeans, or slipping down inside them to find my cock.
