Being wrong is never right, and I think that is wrong. Of course being wrong is wrong. but getting something wrong is right if it opens a path to getting it right. So true especially when getting it right was never predicted, anticipated, or expected. A righteous mistake.
I’ve lost long-time friends over creative thinking gone wrong, except that I don’t think creative thinking ever fully goes wrong unless it is wasted. Bad ideas, those sorry lumps of coal in Charlie Brown’s Halloween bag, must be flushed out to prime the path for gold.
My apartment of late feels like my mind. I guess that’s an inevitable analogy. Your physical space is arranged to emulate your mental furniture. My present analogy relates to how I cleared a lot of space, moved a bunch of objects closer to the walls, threw away bathtub-sized amounts of junk and joy.
But most impressively to me and to the lungs of my mind is the open air created by tucking some of that stuff away from my walking space and into the spaces by the walls.
But this already is changing. A plastic filing cabinet, safely stuffed into an old TV stand for I don’t know how many years, has emerged, emptied of its contents, which I opened for inspection and evaluation. Most of it should be dispatched to trash. But the decision making process, the ad hoc and nature of the time spent making these piece-by-piece assessments, this time will be illustrated by the presence of these file cabinet finds on the floor where I walk, where I wheel the office chair as I sit upon it. My walking space is getting cluttered in a way analogous to how my mind’s breathing space is encroached upon by mental snot and snortle.
Alright, then. That blast of thought is out, masturbatory as hell, I know, and I’m fine with that. I’m fine with masturbation as a thing, truth be told. Metaphorically I find much of life is masturbation, be it mental, professional, educational. All a kind of waste.
But to focus on the most common association with the word I’ll defer to my quarantine-induced cleansing of the stigma. Id’ been edging (heh) toward this thinking for years but now I’m firmly (double-heh) in a place where I think it is all-natural, safe, harmless, and maybe even healthy , or men, at least. Supposedly the bad gunk that would accumulate and cause prostate problems gets evacuated with the ejaculata, reducing risks of prostate cancer. I don’t know, it’s an unresearched tidbit that washes up on low-level newsies and message boards every once in a while.
My lingering stigmæ are largely religious, but also mental. Something called monophobia, I think, where one is afraid to be alone, afraid to be single. It is some element of that which inhabits most people’s preemptive shunning of the mere topic should it turn up in discussion. No one masturbates and talks about it.
I’m not talking about it. I’m not injecting my daily Morning Mas into anyone’s conversation. I don’t provide details of the type of pornography that gets me hard as can be, or the ways I pretend my hands are a woman’s vagina or mouth. I don’t explain why I video record myself at every shower documenting every time I piss onto myself and masturbate with the pee as a lube. The water from the shower head makes my balls feel alive, and sends a thrill shock from there to the tip of the cock, and on ward to the busy maelstrom of my mind. I don’t articulate my thoughtstream when consuming pornography. I don’t talk about how I think “Oooh, she’s playing with the dildo today” or “Damn, that a beautiful mouth” or “Wish she showed the rest of her feet.” I don’t explain how sometimes the cunt gets so close to the camera I can taste it, how it makes my mouth water with memories of the real thing, and how many hours I’ve spent with tongue on twat, cock in hand, feeling the soft joy of her legs rest and writing on my back, kissing her up in ways she never expects.
Yes, I’d rather have the flesh and not a porn but I feel no shame in knowing that my memories are not fantasies. I could retire from pursuit of the flesh why? it has, to evoke the language of the confessional, been 8 weeks since my last taste. I think it’s been 8 weeks. Something like that. We thought we had something big but on sloppy seconds we knew otherwise. At first she was like a licking machine, slobbering all across me the way I instinctively have done since college, without anyone ever explaining to me what cunnilingus was or why anyone would want to do it.
But on that sloppy second round she wasn’t there, I wasn’t there, nothing was there. So I returned to daily 3xMas. In anticipation of our encounters I was down just 2x. Don’t ask why, I don’t even know.
The ghosting was mutual. She did help get me out to Staten Island, though, for what turned out to be a useful journey for me.
I am at the desk, contemplating rank and seniority. There is one dude I saw outside. I didn’t recognize him instantly, so I looked away, then looked back to see that he had already looked away, his interpretation of my looking away being that I didn’t want any contact. Not an unreasonable assumption but also not accurate. In the throes of assembling my breakfast remains for trash and maneuvering myself toward the receptacle at William and John I simply did not take his presence, his passing me by, into proper consideration. I made no friendly gesture of hello, only a purposeful motion of having something more important to do. I had to dispose of my breakfast remains. No time for chit chat or pleasantries. I must dispose.
He’s a boss. Two lever up from me. Career. Lifer. Coasting to retirement. I may have never lost my discomfort with this kind of arrangement. Fear of authority. Disdain for anyone who thinks they have me by my balls, when hey maybe that’s exactly where I want you to have me.
This dude’s a nice guy, though. Others here are not but I don’t care. It’s just interesting to think of how some people here talk among themselves, while the lowest level scrubs can only dream of these interactions with authority, with those whose smiles could turn to blood in an instant as they wield their ultimate power to fire your ass.
If it’s not rank it’s seniority. I see new faces here seemingly every day. That makes me senior on some level. I remember this from working McDonald’s one summer in high school. I’d been there a week when a new hire came on board, making me feel like a survivor, a senior person, an Important Person.
