A variation

I had developed a routine. It had been two weeks since my last lover. This was a some kind of record. My skin had tightened around me, calsifying into some kind of shell. I thought of science fiction monsters, creatures from lagoons. When I sat beside someone on the bus I pulled as far away from them as possible. When the bus jolted me towards them I would flinch. I went out, spoke to no one, came back home, mumbled to myself, flicked the heater on and mumbled to myself. I had started to paint again and the worn boards of the floor were speckled a vivid blue.

I had fallen into a pattern, odd little meals magicked out of unidentifiable packets from the Asian supermarket. Pots of green tea sipped alongside shots of vodka. I listened to the same music over and over and no one complained. I would pause in the middle of things, painting, writing, eating, dressing, and pull out the faded pornographic magazines from under the bed. I chewed through batteries like lychee jelly cups.

I found myself predictable, I bored of my own company. I was particularly concerned about the pornography. Uninventive, servicable, ordinary. Girl on girl, girl on boy, boys on girl. I caught myself drifting off whilst masturbating, wondering about the dried shrimp and how I should rehydrate them.

I knew a boy who became excited about rocks. He was studying geology. He spoke about rocks as if they were pornography. He kept pictures of core samples in a pile beside his bed.

I wouldn't be boring if I could become excited by rocks. That would interest me.

Unusual passions. I pulled books randomly from my shelf and read them, pants abandoned, vibrator purring. Could I get excited about satellites, the history of the ABC, a complete history of madness, mutants in sideshows, a girl stepping through a looking glass?

True, it takes a little longer, and a travel guide to Slovenia quite challenging, but eventually it is indeed possible to orgasm to almost any tune you play.