I go out to write at cafes. It is too easy to waste your time with pornography when you are home alone. There is that bottom drawer with the toys and the Internet. I try to write but I am forever distracted. They have given me an office and I sometimes work in there. There is no internal lock which is important, but something happens when I write and my skin becomes electric and leaning on the table, brushing up against the paper-bin, feeling the slight breeze from the half open window behind the row of metal bars brings me back into myself. Sometimes I push a chair in front of the door and do it quickly, excited by the idea that someone might just barge in and find me with my hand down my skirt. Mostly I put myself in public where I can be trusted to remain chaste. Distracted by the crowds and the chatter. Saved from myself by everybody else.
I wonder if everyone is like this, trying to place distractions in the way of masturbation, filling their lives with high tea and breakfast with friends and walks down the park to stop themselves from becoming permanently hunched over their excitement, frigging till their sore.
It eats into my time like acid and now that he is away there is no one to distract me from myself, no one to check that I have not shut tight the blind eyes of my apartment, turned the volume of the computer to it's lowest point. The neighbours hear the buzz of my vibrator, climbing quickly through it's limited range. I imagine that they think it is a some kitchen implement. I am blending sauces. Lots of sauces. Sauce after sauce after sauce.
With my husband gone I have become a saucier.
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