Youji unsteadily propped himself up against the wall, working the lock on his door with both hands. After struggling with the infernal key every which way, it finally slid into the lock, and clicked. Closing and locking it back behind him with more effort than he really wanted to spare, he leaned back tiredly against the door.
He was drunk, but that was nothing new.
However, usually drunk led to getting laid, and there had been none of that this evening, much to Youji's utter frustration. He'd been flirting with a pretty young thing, just barely legal, until it got past the point for meaningless small talk. She'd said he 'wasn't her type'.
He'd smiled and asked her what 'was' her type, then.
"Anyone but you," were the biting words, along with a pretty, condescending smile.
Was he losing it? No, it was just a bad night. And fuck all, it HAD to be tonight, didn't it? He'd really wanted to get totally smashed and laid and just let his mind go to hell, but it didn't seem like that small request was going to be filled.
Dr. Youji's patented fix all or fuck all cure: One bottle of something hard and alcoholic, one willing body (of the remotely female persuasion). Mix well. Take two aspirin and don't call me in the morning.
God, who the fuck was he kidding? He hadn't been laid in so long it was laughable. He just couldn't *do* it anymore. He'd go out, delude himself into thinking he was going to find someone, and simply end up getting drunk and coming home and jacking off while counting ceiling tiles.
Not those pretty, sweet girls. No, he couldn't touch them. He couldn't ruin them. Even whores were too good for him, not that he would have gone that route anyway.
Stumbling out of his tight pants and shirt reeking of cigarette smoke and alcohol, he tossed them on the floor, nearly falling onto his bed. Breathing heavily, mind in a thick, liquored haze, he settled down with Mr. Right to relieve his aching erection.
It was routine now, almost work. Hardly any pleasure in it, and entirely mechanical, from the exact pressure in which he gripped himself, to the exact angle he stroked, to the exact moment his thumb brushed over and under the head to finish the job.
Over and done with in a minute flat.
He counted ceiling tiles, one each second, until he was finished. He never got past sixty.
He came, quietly, no one's name on his lips, no name in mind to cry out, no passion to cry for, and lay silently in bed, still staring up at the ceiling. At least the ache was gone, and he could possibly manage sleep.
Finally he sighed, and rolled over, avoiding the now-wet-spot on his bed, laughing bitterly. The last thing he did before falling asleep was wonder why the hell he ever bothered washing his sheets.