Today’s saltless eggs are a radical departure from the previous breakfast experiences. Indoor seating. Decent lighting. Same prices, as far as I can tell. It’s a BIG DEAL for me, OK?
…
There is a period of sleep where I know the alarm is about to go off. I don’t see a need to beat the alarm, though it happens. But there is a point at which I know I’m asleep, I can’t decide if it’s more or less peaceful to be there or awake, showeing and masturbing, conforming my movements to the framework of time that is having a full time job.
My movements feel like sands through an hourglass, their seemingly spastic jerks and gyrations really just abatements of serenity. No one moves more quickly or slowly through time. I sometimes feel like time is an ocean, both drowning me from all around and forcibly vomiting itself from my innards. Other times time takes care of me.
Today’s sleepish awaitment snapped awake when I opened a freezer and a paper bag screamed at me. There was no bag but the freezer was familiar. I don’t know where that dream came from. There has not been a paper bag in my life for some time now.
It was a stupid way to preëmpt the alarm, which tinkled moments later. It’s just that sleep becomes boring after a while, and my mind can’t accept it.
At some point I woke up with my head on the table next to the bed. That is a first, as far as I can remembe r. Sleep has definitely been like a kungfu session. If I had time and motivation I’d make a time lapse but I’ve tried all that and it’s a lot of bother for a fascination that evaporates pretty quickly.
Speaking of fascination holy shit, yesterday in the elevator a woman I’ve been friendly with for most of the time I’ve worked gave me a hot, hot stare. There was no mistaking this. In the past I’ve thought I imagineered these flashes of interest from her. My flashes of flesh interest were certainly never artificial but I kept them where I thought they belonged. I’ll wait for the weekend. I might have something going with another dating app connection but it seems tenuous. Geteting involved with this workplace connection could have its risks, but I’m not exactly a stakeholder here.
I wouldn’t say I’ve kept an eye on her since starting here but I have kinda taken note of her evolution. She was one of the first people I spoke to directly. She came in a straight shooter, dress-code strict, never a minute late. She remains a good worker but her appearance has become more and more flamboyants. She frizzed the fuck out of her hair to where I didn’t recognize her. THen she colored it with yellow highlights. Then she started wearing nightclub style dresses and shoulder-bard one-piece outfits. I think she also got new glasses, though I might be off about that.
Anyway, it was quite a look she flashed me in the elevator. Damn.
…
When I talk about the “Morning Mas” I remember the documentary I wanted to make, and which I got pretty far into development. I could easily revisit/revive, and it might be worth something if only to justify the time expense.
It would be called “WASTE”, a diary of a masturbator. I’d say it’s been a part of my life since I was 13 but it was no doubt a part of my life before that. It was different after a day. One day. One moment. One minute that turned into a day that disappeared. I was 13 years old, sitting on the floor watching television, when for the first time ever my balls started talking to me. They wanted attention. I did not know what was happening but I kumped up from that spot on the floor, ran upstairs, and took off my pants. I stood in the bedroom, giving my newly rediscovered cock and balls some room to breathe.
It was an intense moment. I spent the rest of the summer discovering, evolving, exploring. With no sex ed whatsoever I somehow knew girls wanted cock, and my fantasies all started with that. I didn’t understand fucking at first but that came clear to me on the school bus, when I would regularly see a woman in a Camaro, driving to work (I guess) in shorts so short I could practically taste her pubes, this while not even knowing what was under those shorts. All I knew was that whatever was under there, I wanted it.
I’ve since known women whose experiences were similar. They started earlier, knowing from 8 years of age that men had cocks and they wanted it. They just knew.
Then I think about sex ed in my life. I can recall two classes in high school. In one it was a priest explaining why coitus interruptus was not a reliable means of birth control. I remember this among the remaining 45 minutes of that class, in which I could feel the sense of disbelief among the students that a celibate priest was educating us on sex. THis was supposed to be a credible source of wisdom?
Another class (just one) came from a worldly man of all seasons who seemed to know a little too well what some of us were doing with the girls. He was funny but kind of coarse.
But sex ed, such as used to be considered a rite of passage, I never really got that. The act of cunnilingus is something I arrived at purelyl by instainct. Intercourse was more or less explained to me, not directly, by some kid in the schoolyard. He made it sound like a mess, as if ejaculation would be unlikely to occur inside the vagina. At our ages perhaps that was accurate conventional wisdom.
My first sexual encounters were awkward, and honestly kinda gross. My first kiss came from a woman who’d been working the room, thrusting her tongue down the throat of every boy in the room. This was her ritual. It made me feel dirty.
Good sex didn’t really happen for me until college,a and even there it was sparse. I was a late bloomer but never felt deprived or like some kind of loser because of it. Losing my virginity on Riverside Drive in 1991 was perfectly fine with me in terms of life’s arc of time. It does surprise me, though, to remember how all the women I knew in college did not want intercourse. Period. It was said that our was the most prudish generation in recent memory. True or not I went to college to study more than fuck around. I guess.
