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.