I am surrounded by the books. They spill out over the lounge which is covered in a velvety fabric. I like to lie naked on this lounge in summer. Lying naked on it surrounded by fiction is a very different experience to this, here now. The big heavy volumes of the Encyclopedia of Erotic literature spill open to random pages (Cohen, Leonard in one, and Noel, Bernard in the other). A History of Perversion lies splay-legged as a gymnast on the back of the couch, Rosewarne's Part Time Perverts is jabbing me in the back like an irrepressible errection. I no longer notice the paleolithic image on the front of Sinners and Citizens, the huge Gumby-like figure of the 'man' giving it to an airborne Pokey suspended as he is on Gumby's elongated prick.
I have to get this fucking document about fucking done. That is the flaccid and erect of it. I have to get it done now, immediately, right here on this goddamn velvet couch. No languid naked rolling in tactile ecstasy, no diversions of dish-washing or masturbation. I must tie myself to this couch like a bottom, flay myself repeatedly like a top. Get it done! Get it done! Get the fucking document done!