Saturday, March 7, 2009

Reading my Manuscript

Reading my manuscript like this, examining it closely, every parting of the flesh, every thrust, every breast exposed and touched and sucked between lips. This pornographic slide-show of my life with everything removed except sex. I read it and I shift uncomfortably on my seat, in the library, at my kitchen table, upstairs in the office at work. I can't seem to keep my hands off myself. Today, I say, I will not touch myself. Today is about the work, a diligent abstinence and yet I can think of little else. I break my vow again, and then again. No more today, but there is always more, an endless well of more and I drink from it and it is sweet and sticky and with the salt tang of the ocean.

And now I must remove myself from the home-alone distraction of the delicate breeze on my skin. I must remove myself from the little play of memories, one after another, an escalation that is no more than a distraction. I will go and work in a cafe where I am safe from myself and this heightened judder of nerve-endings. Reading sex. Editing sex. Safely in a public place. A necessary self-denial.

No comments: