Alarm Clock Blues

An image of a digital alarm clock with red numbers showing the time as 21.48

I turn my head to look at the alarm clock and sigh when I see the red numbers announcing the time.

It’s been an hour already. An hour since we have given each other a goodnight kiss. As always, he’s fallen asleep in seconds. Men!

Irritation surge through my body, but it isn’t because he’s sleeping. It’s because I already know this is going to be one of those nights. A restless, close to sleepless one.

Fucking menopause!

Stupid wine!

My heart beats in my ears.

Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!

It beats loud and fast, and the faster it beats, the warmer I feel. I throw the covers off my sweaty body and welcome the cold air of the room. Concentrating, I force myself to breathe calmly, to let the irritation go.

I wake with a start, my body cold, and pulled the covers over me. Glancing at the red numbers, only half an hour has passed.

For a few moments I stare at the ceiling, then turn over on my left side — the side I prefer to sleep on — hoping I can fall asleep again, and this time sleep until morning. My thoughts travel to the wine I have drunk that evening. Why is it that the one time it makes me sleep, and the next it seems to keep me up?

Maybe it’s not the wine?

It must be the stupid hormones, shoots through my mind, and I feel the irritation again, especially hearing the gentle breathing of my husband.

I have to stop this. Have to force myself to think of other things.

At first, my mind locks on things I need to do. That only enforces my restless feelings.

I turn over and once more glance at the alarm clock. Gosh, this night is going to be endless! Only ten minutes have passed since I have last glanced at those red numbers.

Sighing, feeling hot, I throw the covers off me again. I run my hands over my body, feeling the film of sweat covering it. I rest my hands on my thighs, turn my head and look at my husband. He has his back to me. I strain my ears, trying to hear the rhythm of his breathing. He rewards me with a gentle snore, and I know he’s asleep.

An orgasm will help me sleep, I decide.

I gently spread my labia with the fingers of one hand, while the other reaches for my clitoris. I’m not in the least bit excited, but trust my ability to get myself off.

Slowly, I circle my clitoris. It feels nice, but needs a lot more work to get that little button to rise to the occasion. I push my fingers into my cunt, which is wet, but I know that has everything to do with my body fighting the menopausal hormone attack, and nothing with being excited.

If only I could watch a porn clip. That always helps to get me off. I try to think of clips I’ve seen. Or of any kind of sexy things we have done. Anything to get my body and mind to relax and enjoy; to get off and go to sleep.

mmm, I think, that sexy massage I had. The way he massaged my labia. Fingered my cunt. Slipped his finger in my arse. And my husband watching, taking photos. The way I lost it, that powerful orgasm.

All the while, my fingers tease my tender bits.

A spanking, how I would love to be spanked again. Spanked until my bottom is bruised and I can’t stop my tears.

I push three fingers inside, then rub my clitoris again, a bit harder than before.

The alarm clock tells me I’ve been trying for twenty minutes when I finally give up. My body isn’t ready for sex. Not even sexy thoughts can lure it into giving me an orgasm.

I return to making to-do lists in my mind. If I can’t sleep, I can just as well use the time constructively. Two hours later, I wake up, still making lists. Somehow, I have drifted into a light sleep, but my mind has continued to work.

I’m wide awake as I throw the covers off me and get up to go to the bathroom. When I get back into bed, the alarm clock tells me two and a half hours remain of the night. I turn on my side, facing my husband and close my eyes.

Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!

I breathe in deep.

He runs his hands down my shoulders and cups my breasts, where his fingers find my nipples. He squeezes, gently at first, but then with a hard twist, making me gasp. It ignites the fire between my legs, making me beg for his touch.

When I wake up, the sun is up and my husband is not next to me anymore. I glance at the alarm clock and see it’s still early. I can sleep for at least two hours more. Half an hour later, I surrender and get up.

“Fucking menopause,” I mumble as I dress myself, desperately in need of coffee, and already looking forward to bedtime that evening.

© Rebel’s Notes
Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay


8 thoughts on “Alarm Clock Blues

  1. Damn those hormones! I haven’t reached menopause yet, but have hormonal fluctuations that cause all sorts of neat thing (sarcasm at its finest). Great show, don’t tell Marie.

  2. Unfortunately, I can very much relate to this. You have definitely captured the way this feels and brought it to life with your description. I felt the frustration just reading! Missy x

Share your thoughts...

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: