Saturday Morning Fever

Hangover, headache and dehydration, Dr Jekyll's usual 'Saturday Morning Fever' permeated his body. He had enjoyed the perceived admiration and attention of the previous evening. After all he had been typically charming, taking great care to hide the private, moody, agressive persona that lurked beneath the public masque. Last night he had kept his emotions in check and alcohol had done the rest. This morning however, the narcissistic rage, that uncontrollable and unexpected anger that occured when his self-esteem was threatened, welled up inside him.
He shifted uneasily as he remembered everything he had said and everything he had done. Of course it hadn't been his fault. He had convinced himself of that. But what about his friends? They had all grinned and nudged him when he left. Jekyll knew exactly what the conversation would turn to next Friday evening when they met up again.
He shoved his hands into his jeans and decided that, as usual, he would not tell the truth about what had happened. Instead he would tell them exactly what they wanted to hear. How his warm, tender lips had teased hers with a sensual gentleness that made her want to melt against him. How, as he tilted his head slightly, then brushed her lower lip with his tongue she had instantly parted for him as he claimed her—passionately. No-one needed to know how miserably he had failed to even begin to fulfil his own private fantasies let alone hers.
He looked at himself in the mirror and gave himself a smile full of male confidence.