Something about a recent batch of porn that I watched has me, somewhat comically, imagining everyday women I encounter doing the sort of moves seen on the cams, on the Usenet, on the .porn TLD (if there even is one).

Woman handing me a bag containing my daily scrambled eggs and sausage links, what if instead of just handing it off to me she took the plastic knife from the bag and slowly caressed it, teased it with the tips of her fingers, gently slipped into into her mouth and caressed it with her tongue…  this little tease performed before dropping the knife back into the bag. Wouldn’t that be something? If all the world was porn.

And by the way, who really needs a plastic knife to eat scrambled eggs and sausage links? Not I.

After that little fantasy I was, honestly, perplexed and distracted by a woman’s breasts. They were good sized for her small frame but it wasn’t that which drew my eyes to them with what felt like a thud. I was so drawn it felt like she had to feel the weight of my eyes upon her.

It wasn’t just the size it was the flesh-colored shirt that made me think, for an instant, that she was topless and nippleless.

Yes, I had a dirty mind, not just sometimes but not quite all the time either. Give me something to do and most of these wasteful thoughts recede.

…

Something was off with this morning. No air condition or air flow on the subway. I switched cars thinking there would be air flow on the next car up but there was none. There seems to be none here, either, at the office where I choose this particular seat because it seems to be directly under an air conditioning vent. Oh wow, just as I typed those words the air conditioning blasted on. When that happens it makes a broad shuddering type of sound that I invariably imagine is what the planes smashing into the towers sounded like from the floors just above and below the points of impact.

I feel off today. I felt perfect at first. Where did things go wrong? I think it started with that subway car and the no-flowing air. After I moved up to the next car I sat between two people, a middle aged black man and a young Asian child. The child pegged me, it seemed, with a demon’s eye. He saw me. But with his parent present he did nothing.

The dude next to me had me on edge. Reacting in any way, it seemed, would make the tension spill, or erupt. But the moment I sat down he conspicuously put his hand on the seat and, I think, edged just a little closer to me, summoning memories of an incident on the LIRR when an Asian man slowly but surely inched closer toward me, finally, lifting my backpack out of the way so he could, I guess, give me a handjob.

I ejected out of that situation, and have successfully done so on other occasions. Today’s incident I think was entirely in my anxiety-fueled head. Just a weird morning, a weird storm in my head.

…

I’d contemplated the shatterment. I dropped and shattered the next to last gimlet glass given to me years ago by a woman who knew me better than most. She saw me. The gimlet glasses were not an outright gift. They were giveaways from one of her many apartment moves. But she set them aside for me, teasing me into my then-nascent gimlet weakness. A simple concoction of vodka and lime, nowadays reduced simply to vodka.

I swept up most of the shattered glass, which landed in front of the toilet. But I deliberately left some of it tucked away in the crooks and nannies of the bathroom floor, abutting the base of the sink where I let my toes touch the shards.

This glass is not terribly sharp. It’s not that type of glass. I don’t know one kind of glass material from another but this is not the nigger-knife type of material one might use in street warfare. You’d be laughed off the field of combat if you showed up to fight with one of these shattered glasses.

This shattered glass was soft, like the woman who gave them to be in their pre-shattered state. She was soft all over but capable of self-destruction. We talked of softness. She described me as twisted inside, like an inscrutable HTTP 500 internal server error with error_logs disabled or deliberately deleted. Our sex was hard. Neither could deny that. But, puzzlingly, she insisted on calling my cock soft when it was hard as could be. The skin, she meant. As I divulged to a familiar stranger last week, she the gimlet glass woman called it “soft and handsome.” I think her assessment came from having felt threatened by mens’ cocks in the past. She would say strange things, like “There were too many of them” or “They kept coming,” even though she assured me she’d never been gang raped nor had she willingly submitted to anything of that kind. I suspect she did round-the-room cocksucking but didn’t want to articulate this for fear of scaring me off.

She did scare me off. Too much coke, too much disaster. We only had sex a few times and it was, with God as my witness, the most beautiful encounter of my adult life. I remember that shocked look on her face, sa if saying Are you fucking me? Are you really, really fucking me?

That feux shock turned to puffy-mouthed passion, my eyes never moving from those lips except to kiss them. No woman had ever made me so hard but the fucking could not have been softer. She was tight and I filled her to the back. I had never felt so transformed, being one with this woman I’d fantasized about for years, finding my desires insatiable for that lost weekend we spent together before she got married.

It ended, and never returned. I never saw her again except online. The marriage lasted a few weeks but I took that as no signal to reconnect. I still remember that feeling inside her, the tight sweetness, the look of passion across her face.

Today her gimlet glass lies in pieces on my bathroom floor. I shall keep the shards there for a time. Not forever. Too much to explain the visitors. Those shards are like pieces of her. They are pieces of her.

…

In other morning maroonments I find my connection to this job finally starting to break. Frustration at the limitations of this service, annoyances with the scheduling, disappointment at finding basically nobody here that I connect with on a mental level. I am not the most sociable person to begin with but I tried, especially at first, to make some connections.

I had some prospects for romance but they evaporated as quickly as they formed. When I started here I was not seeing anyone exclusively but I was fucking around. Somehow that ability to be interesting to women never made it into these offices. Probably just as well but I do believe that if there was some reason to come to work besides doing the job I’d have a vastly different attitude about it. I’m no slave to anything. I hear seasonal hiring is about to start.

On the other hand I believe there is a statement to be made by lasting one full year at a job. It proves you have ethic, which I unquestionably do. I get here early, though perhaps my earliness is a selfish conceit, since I am here to write these morning mental strambles.

But how selfish is that, anyway? I don’t use any company resources except the seat and desk space. I read the morning email, which I think almost everyone else ignores.

I’m a good worker but don’t feel like it matters. It’s almost like working from home.

I know where I’d like to be. The dudes who mange props for the studios look like they have fun. Physically active, too. I  think I gained 6 or 7 pounds already sitting here all day.

I’d also like to do document scanning and imaging. That’s a viscerally satisfying task.

Surprised to find the doctor renewed my Lorazapam less than one month before filling it. He’s more liberal about those meds than the previous PCP, who I’ve really come to resent. Right now I feel like scratching my face, causing self-harm. I feel like a child at times like this. I don’t know why now, why this day, but everything seems confused and sad. I feel cornered, like a woman is about to rape me again.