10 October 2010


The truth is that I live alone, solitary, and some of you might envy my freedom to please no-one but myself.  Freedom to bury my head uninterrupted in a book, or to leave the bathroom door open when I pee and walk around the house in whatever state of undress I feel like, to leave clothes lying where I drop them.  Freedom to please myself whenever I want to, and yes I am talking about masturbation, you might envy that. 

I do feel wistful for the long familiarity of years spent together and imagine the comforting but alien feeling of having a prolonged interest in your partner and vice versa, like a warm blanket on the sofa where I would have only cushions. 

People expect me to want the blanket, to feel incomplete without it and jealous of people with it, and I do sometimes, like when my borrowed blanket goes back to it's family home, leaving me vasoconstricted with the hairs raised up from my skin.

I want it sometimes, I am attracted to it like a shiny new plaything, a glinting CD released from it's packet or a pretty new ring, I guess there are moments when I do feel envy but then I go bury my head in a book, my fingers in... well, I do find solace, solitude.

1 of 7 Deadly Sins

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