strange pace

This is a strange pace bouncing between the fiction which I would like to stick with, and then the essay. There is the reading too which is slow and varied but which does not contain any fiction. I have Nicholson Baker burning a whole in my ipad and I cannot get to him. All this changes what I do. It changes my relationship to sex.

I do not watch pornography on the internet for pleasure now. It has become research. I deconstruct it in the same way as I read The Porn Report. Sometimes masturbation is for research as well. Perhaps this is why the fiction is so slow. I wrote 2000 words today and fell in a heap with it, my head thumping, all vision stolen from one of my eyes. The only way to lift the haze was to run a hot bath and soak in it, my hands straying to my vagina, wondering, even as I touched myself if it should be called cunt or snatch or hole. What words to use for this when I can only see out of one eye. What words to use for the act when it is an act of medical expedience. Three neurophen and an orgasm, prescribed and once administered, I find this has indeed been a temporary cure.

I come to the safe vanilla images that have been furthest from my research. I come with the idea of a kiss, the idea of a penis inside me (yes, I must use medical terminology for this cure) a penis made of nothing but the idea of itself being squeezed by the muscles of my vagina as I find my pleasure. This vanilla sex, penis in vagina, the machinations of an orgasm, the tightening of my nipples in an imaginary mouth. These things are the catalyst and the vision floods back into my eye, the world becomes whole with a little light missionary position sex.