As the clock strikes midnight, our insomniac takes matters into his own hands, quite literally. In the hush of the night, he retreats to his boudoir, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air. His hand grips his rigid member, working it with practiced ease. The room echoes with his soft moans, a symphony of solitude and satisfaction. His body tenses, and with a final, shuddering breath, he finds his release, painting the night with his essence.