Me and sex.
The pleasure is in the reading.
The disappointment is in the seeing.
She tells me that I must reduce my self-deprecating comments by 25% and yet I have the mirror of the world to remind me. I venture towards the promise of clothing on sale and find that even clothed I am no better than I was.
He drags himself to my bed because of his kindness and I am aware that it is an effort. He is a good man. "I am not as sexual as you", an excuse that does not fool me but I am glad of his lie. I want nothing but lies. I want 'I lust after you' and 'you are beautiful' and 'I can't keep my eyes off you' and I don't care that it is all out of pity. I am happy to suspend my disbelief for the duration of a beautiful lie.
I am beautiful at times too. I am beautiful in the dark where the light cannot touch my skin with form and colour. In the lonely space of an afternoon by myself, under water, protected by blindfolds, hidden behind my writing.
So I am looking around for someone to stand in for me when they take the author photograph. In the meantime I am rushing through the the self-deprecation, gorging myself on it. Next week, when I am on display, meeting and greeting, I will be all confidence and smiles and glamor, but today I am gnomic and hurt and desperate to believe the lies.