It had been a week since my last orgasm, but felt like two. When you've brought yourself off every day for ten years, give or take a few, it's as much a compulsion as it is a release of sexual tension. Sense of triumph every day without, the need to ignore the niggleniggleniggle sensation of inevitability. Hormone surge and tender breasts, redoubled desire. Redoubled efforts to deny the self.
And then a nap this afternoon. A dream. Of all people and places, zack galifianakis on a bus on its way to summer camp, making a move. In the dream, his eyes were liquid, his lips too red. He kissed my neck with an eager tongue, stroked me.
I woke up perplexed. And horny.
Tried to get off without thinking about anything. To feel pleasure without lust. It's difficult. Almost a meditation. Few stray thoughts stole into my head, had to beat them back.
I can almost convince myself it's not a sin if I keep it 'clean' mentally.
Church tomorrow night and I would have felt less shitty, less fake, less insincere, if I could've just held out. Disappointing.
"I just dabble in cheese volcanoes."
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