Chapter 3

3

   Tom was jerked awake by the sound of someone banging on the front door.  Still bare legged he stood up; a sense of panic not helped by the erection bulging unmistakably beneath his boxers.  He kicked over his half drunk tea and lunged at the TV to turn it off.  He lost his balance, toppled forward and simultaneously banged his head on the TV screen and pulled his calf muscle.  The banging on the door continued.

   Head pressed against the TV and legs floundering in the air, he rolled awkwardly onto his back with a groan.  Tom’s mood was jostled by the spilt tea, which was enjoying an unexpectedly final journey through the fibres of his boxer shorts.  He jumped up quickly and jarred his back in trying to twist round and look at his own bottom.  The banging on the door abruptly stopped.  It was then that he noticed the carpet burn on the tip of his still unexpectedly erect penis.  Mentally shaking himself he walked slowly to the front door, performing several twists, pushes and cool, mental baths as he went. 

   He opened the door.  There was nobody there.

   He gently closed the door with a sigh and absently picked up a random selection of mail that was piled high under the letter box.  His attention was stolen by his monthly edition of Mountain Bike Rider (mbr).  On the cover was an action picture of the new Cannondale frame with Marzocchi bomber suspension forks and, what appeared to be under all the grime, a Hope Pro 2 rear wheel.  Tom wasn’t a fan of the Hope Pro 2.  It looked clunky and cumbersome.  It was good for downhill racing but get it on the normal trails and its weight always made those tight corners harder to navigate.  He decided to leave the magazine by the telephone and flip through it during his breakfast.

   Walking up the stairs he thought now might be a good time to sort the letters into three morbidly distinct piles.  Letters for him, letters for Hazel and letters for both of them.  He would then create sub piles for each of the three main ones – important looking letters, important looking letters which on closer inspection were clearly junk, unimportant looking letters which may well be important, clearly important letters which could be dealt with when whoever sent that one, sent another one, hand-written letters and parcels.  He would then take the neatly stacked piles and with the exception of the parcels, push them into a black bin liner.  Tom didn’t believe in recycling.  If the earth had survived goodness knows how many meteor impacts, it could survive a few thousand years of elaborate and hairless monkeys, no matter what they got up to.  The telephone rang.  The shock caused Tom to drop the letters and fall backwards down the stairs.

   By the time Tom had regained his composure and sorted his stiffened but still working limbs from the pile of letters, the caller deemed the passage of time sufficient enough to assume that Tom would not be answering the phone.  Tom, however, was mere microseconds out of step and sighed a curse as he replaced the receiver.  He spent the next few minutes dialling for the caller’s number, or the answerphone, occasionally leaving an arbitrary length of time in which somebody could reasonably leave an answerphone message, then dialling for the caller’s number again.  Through all this he hoped his extend arousal would dissipate soon.  Its longevity was bordering on the extraordinary, even for a morning.  He then found himself jumping in shock at the face pressed up against the window of his front door.

 

Author's Note

Unedited. Sorry!

Reviews

[MindCage]

freaking stuff man. I don't get why he had to turn off the T.V, but it was funny reading about him waking up. This chapter made me laugh, don't stop.
~ Angelius Much? Hahaha...~