Pornography Is Such a Shame

I.
It must be disappointing to not be able to, by virtue of poor search features, get off. Is this why men are irritable about internet pornography?

II.
Tonight I take advantage of not having masturbated in over a week, maybe two, I can’t keep track, I’ve been traveling and coming home. Coming home took as long as the trip. Coming home was sleepy, delirious, filled. Having a sense of purpose again, this raw clarity bolstered by fuck and cold nights and love too why not, that’s the type A motivation I need to get myself off with porn. The hunt, and wouldn’t that make some historian proud. The terror of discovery: not that I’d be found out, but that I wouldn’t find what I needed before my body gave out.

III.
My wireless connection barely works through my walls. I consider unplugging everything and taking this endeavor to the couch but give up and romance the slow download speed as a sort of teenaged fumbling.

IV.
After I come all I want to do is write.

V.
We’re going back and forth on honesty, and being honest with oneself, and am I writing a manifesto or a chapter outline? Am I going to put on some butch thing and just get naked in the introduction? “You make it safe to say, I’m flailing,” I tell her. “So go where it’s hard,” she says in three new ways.

VI.
The teacher video makes me realise I no longer want to fuck my teachers. This is how I finally give way, flood my own hand, and can rest: I’m different than when I began this, time has worked itself on this body and this is my body and my body is my field research, and this time there’s no shame in wanting to have all of this. It’s going to be hard and that’s why I want.

VII.
The shock that nothing will make it stop, then that stops, too.