Sunday morning: Somewhere around 0-Dark Hundred, three unrelated factors jar me awake.
The first is the damn dog barking at the back door, something she does when (a) she needs to pee, or (b) a creature of indeterminate origin streaks through the yard and attracts her attention, or (c) she fucking feels like it because she has the cottage cheese brain of, well, a dog.
The second is my dick, which had stiffened to the insistent point of demanding immediate attention. No, dear readers, this is not the traditional piss hard-on, this was lust, desire, needs, Maximus Horniness created by passing out the night before the achievement of Saturday Night Jollies.
And the third is the astonishing arrival of a the season’s first serious cold front, which drives Guido to her usual winter practice of removing every stitch of bedcovers from my naked goose-bumped body to her own, abandoning the husband she vowed to cherish forever to the deadly Arctic chill, and to hell with him.
Shivering like a sufferer of Parkinson’s Disease, I roll out of bed and stumble blindly through the false dawn gloaming, following my hardwood dick into the Florida room to let the canine out. Opening the door, the draft off the frozen tundra howls in and shrivels my splendid purple oak of love to a pale blue splinter. Holy man-tits, Batman. It’s not dawn yet and my Sunday is fucking ruined.
Listen. Two out of three of these pre-dawn adventures are easily , even happily, resolved. The dog will return in a matter of moments, as will my boner. I’m bigger than Guido, and can seize back the covers she ripped off while I vulnerably slept. Sure she’ll whine, but the kitchen knives are rooms away.
But there’s not a damn thing I can do about this shit-licking cold weather which, it seems, everybody else in this brain-dead state of Florida welcomes like it’s the greatest thing to happen since the arrival of their IRS stimulus check. I didn’t move here to endure the chill of a New England springtime in November and December. I came for endless summer: 90 degrees with matching humidity, 12 months a year. I didn’t know. I fucked up.
Guido and I are the only two people I know who actually like Florida weather. Most of the year, everybody else hides from it, cowering in their hermetically sealed air-conditioned houses and cars, moaning about the humidity and searing sun. That’s the very climate that brought us here. Like orchids, we bloom in its glory. Redheaded Guido breaks out in glorious, sensuous, tasty freckles. I blacken like my swarthy Gypsy ancestors. We don’t even have an air conditioner. We sweat day and night and love every wet salty second.
Why don’t the rest of you go the hell home and leave this subtropical paradise to people like us who enjoy it? And take this nipply cold climate with you?
Anyway, the dog trots back in, and I flee back to bed to grab the covers. That wakes up Guido, who rolls over in sleepy protest, pushing her sweet warm flesh up against me, re-igniting the old kickstand, and well, maybe Sunday morning isn’t ruined after all.