An Indecisive Fantasy
Thought about writing but decided to masturbate instead. And why the
comparison anyway? Does anyone ever say: this is not history, this is not
cooking -- this is just masturbating. Best of all, is masturbating surrounded by
pictures of Jesus and Mary, the quiet surveillance of their all-seeing, all-knowing,
often visible hearts, approvingly aflame.
My vibrator drones on endlessly in the other room of my fantasy. A story
I overheard when I was young about a neighbor’s son accosted by bullies on a
bus. They rolled his pants up over the knee, his socks down. Made him wear
lipstick. I guess I identify with him. It excites me to think of someone forcing me
to be a girl even though I already am one. I also like, momentarily, to be the
bully, rouge-in-hand. And I guess there is something appealing about simply
being a spectator, so it is really a win-win situation, whatever the point of view.
Was thinking, too, about Paul Carroll, drunk at a party, quoting Joyce
calling masturbation “a honeymoon in the hand.” And a woman on a quiz show
who knew that “frottage” is what you call it when a stranger rubs against you
intentionally -- an artist’s term, originally, for a kind of stenciling as when people
do rubbings of gravestones.
Earlier I had been reading this article in The New Yorker about Hans
Christian Anderson, but put it down halfway through. Maybe that’s why now,
against my will, Danny Kaye’s face keeps appearing, and I find I’m getting bored
and think maybe I’d rather be writing after all.