Apparently, I wrote 1,822 words of gay sex last night under the influence of 50 mg of diphenhydramine. I vaguely remember typing most of it with my eyes closed, and once waking up halfway through a complicated metaphor that involved going over a bridge like a red, red pony. Sadly, I will never know where I was going with that because it isn't there anymore and I obviously deleted it during my next fugue. Probably for the best. Galloping red ponies are likely best avoided during buttsex.
Yes, I read over this Sominex-fueled opus, and it is some of the filthiest arm-twisting, pillow-biting sex I have ever written. Tearing britches, gritting teeth, piercings, verbal domination, and all.
Apparently, there's a trick to getting the conscious mind to shut the fuck up and get out of the way, and I've obviously found it. And to tell you the truth, I'm a little unnerved.
Did the sleeping pill help me get to bed on time? No. But it gifted the world with almost 2,000 words of pants-ripping buttsex. We'll call it an even trade, because if two boys fucking each other until the furniture cracks isn't restful, I don't know what the fuck is.