I want to write it quickly and with the same sense of movement as the first ones but this story is struggling against me. It is all darkness where the others were light. The only image that comes to me is something by Joel Peter Witkin, something dark and stinking of death. A dog with a truss mounts a man in a mask. I am not sure if they are both alive because he often worked with corpses. It all stinks of death.
I suppose it is my attitude, this struggling with the ideas, struggling to contain something that normally comes to me like breathing. I hold the vibrator to me and force yet another orgasm that gives me little satisfaction. I am irritated, fractious, het up. I watch these things, this bestiality, for the sake of the story and to thank me the story becomes bleak and sexless. It is full of shame. Sex should never be about shame. I am peering into someone else's view of it and it is just not fun over there in his back yard. I fall asleep and the last image that comes to me is of the barrel of a gun put into my mouth, the trigger under some pressure.
Not again. I have outrun this beast but now he has found me again. Incubus creeping up onto my chest which is filled with phlegm anyway. Sex with just a whisker of death. I have been ill. Blame this. I am finding university a chore. Blame this. Some of my events at work have challenged me. Blame this.
If I tell him he will speak about drugs, the need for another perscription, so I try to smile. I try speaking of clothes and food and shopping. But this time smells of endings. I am drowning in nightmares. The touch which is light and sweet and sexy has been denied me and now I must relinquish it. Back to Witkin then. Back to A Little Death.