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Matthew F. X. Fitzgerald’s morning erection hovered over the sink as he leaned against the vanity. A pair of brown eyes stared blankly back at him from the mirror. Blink. He popped the toothbrush into the brass holder and wandered down the hallway, trying to tuck his stiff joint back into the fly of his pajamas. Damn annoyance, he thought, a waste of good wood.

He wondered what his wife had gotten into so early on a Sunday. This was the one day of the week he could sleep late. Yet, somewhere in his slumber, he must have missed the warm body that normally snuggled against him. Upon awakening in his present condition, he liked to press against her bottom, draw back her hair, and kiss the sensitive little place behind her ear. When skillfully executed, this maneuver could win him that rarest of prizes: morning sex.

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