I don’t set alarms to help me wake up any more. This causes a few problems at times, though in general I’m quite good at waking up with enough time to shower before I need to leave my flat. I do it now and again, of course, like when I’m catching a plane at 5am. Recently, though, the only times I have set an alarm in the morning is when I’ve spent the night with someone. And even that doesn’t always end well.
An explanation for the lack of alarms
Currently, I hate being woken up by a phone chirping a jaunty tune to pull me from sleep. This comes down mostly to my mental illness, I think. In the last months I’ve had to fight so hard for any sleep, let alone the deep restful nights I needed most, waking up when I finally won was gutting. It links to those mornings when I couldn’t force myself to get up when my alarm went off. I tried, I honestly tried, but I couldn’t do it. I stopped setting my alarm, because I couldn’t bear the feeling of failure when I tried to get up and couldn’t succeed.
I’m getting better now, of course, and it is easier. I still don’t set alarms, but I usually manage to get up and make it to my morning lectures on time. Some days it’s easy, some days it’s a struggle, but I no longer dread waking up as much as I did. I don’t lie in bed at night, wondering how many hours have passed of me not sleeping, and so how long I have left to get enough sleep in. I occasionally allow myself a few extra hours in bed when I need it. I think abandoning the simple task of setting an alarm helps.
The systematic error with this system
I try to check my phone when I wake up, to check the time and reorientate myself to reality after the haze of dreams. It gives me an idea of how much sleep I’ve had, which I weigh against how I feel. Sometimes I do make mistakes, like when I look at the time, decide I’ve got ages and snuggle back down into my pile of blankets. Most often, though, it’s because I see something slightly arousing when I’m checking my phone.
When Twitter shows you something hot, when a friend has messaged you something designed to turn you on, or when you remember the post/story/article I found last night but was too sleepy to read, it would be rude to turn over and go back to sleep, wouldn’t it? So naturally I investigate, and more often than not I end up with a desire to – in the absence of a willing human subject – sleepily hump one of my pillows.
Unfortunately pillow humping turns into touching my clit, and thinking about something which turns me on leads me to build deeper imaginings that will have a similar effect. When you’re masturbating it isn’t especially easy to process coherent thoughts like ‘you have to be at uni in thirty-nine minutes’, or at least not without it being followed by a thought along the lines of ‘what would it be like to fuck the girl who sits in front of me in my nine o’clock lecture on the lecturer’s desk after everyone has gone?’
There is no alarm to jerk me out of my jerking off, which is really a problem I should have anticipated.
The human error
On one occasion since I began my no-alarm routine, a guy stayed over at my flat. We’d planned everything in advance, from the lube I bought in preparation to the time he needed to leave my flat by in order to catch the required train. As the whole plan rested on him catching that train, I was sensible enough to set an alarm when we reached the finale of the evening of shagging: him shooting spunk over my arse as I begged him to make me filthy.
We woke up when my alarm went off… but we didn’t get up. Sleepily grinding against him until a wonderfully hard morning erection was pressing against the crack of my arse, he obliged my unspoken wishes and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me tight against him so he could hump against me.
It was glorious. And it would have been fine if we’d just left it at that and resigned ourselves to the fact that we hadn’t calculated in time to fuck in the morning as well. But how often is it that you have a delightfully horny boy in your bed and the chance to fulfil one of the fantasies he has confessed he thinks of most often.
I made him squirm beneath me. And when, sticky and grinning, I reached for my phone later I found that we would have to have left my flat five minutes ago to make it to the station in time for his train. If we’d skipped a shower we might just have made it, but we didn’t try.
Being late because you want morning sex is understandable. Being late because you are having a shit mental health day is reasonable, but being late because you want to stay in bed and wank is not. Though occasionally the latter helps with the former.