An impulse session, not only because I want to write to try and get down some of the stuff that I just--

12:15pm

Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuuuuuuuuuuuck!

This, as I started to say, is an impulse session because I haven’t been able to (read: ‘haven’t made the time,’ but really, I haven’t been able to) get to sit down to write for the last…what, three days??? I keep meaning to do it at night, but Burt is sick, and I keep having to spend the night sitting in the room with him so he won't wake up every thirty seconds, which means I either have to write sitting in the bed (as I once did) or not do it, since he seems to be waking up anyway and keeping me company and becoming very interested in whatever is going on on the laptop. So I haven’t been able to get started, and now it turns out that Burt has been puking at daycare, and now they’re sending him home until he is 24 hrs. symptom-free and that means that I am going to have to be taking care of him all by myself for the next day and a half since Persis is going out of town for yet another job interview, and she won’t be back until tomorrow night, late. So all tomorrow I’ll be handling a sick kid, when I haven’t gotten a chance (I hate that locution ‘gotten a chance’…I just haven’t done it, which is not to say that I’m beating myself up for not doing it (though there is an element of that) but just because ‘haven’t gotten a chance’ is this stinking foul cliché that makes me sound simple and helpless and…I just haven’t done it…and that doesn’t mean (as I seem bent upon swearing up and down to say) that I couldn’t (though it does, no it doesn’t, yes it does, no it doesn’t…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! [That’s a scream, not relief.]

Persis was sick last night, and so when I expected her to come home at 6:00 pm and take over or at least help out, instead she came home at 4pm and threw up, so I spent the evening having to take care of both a sick Burt and a sick wife, and I was feeling pretty good about it by the time bedtime came around last night because I felt like I was really getting proficient if not good…I could never be good at it because of how shitty SHITTY I feel about having to do it, and now…

Anyway so no more writing for a day and a half, no more anything except slaving over this dumb stupid vomiting infant who can’t let himself be left alone and why don’t I just dry up into that residue that’s left on the inside of one’s nostrils after a good bout of mucus excretion, that’s what I am, that’s what I feel like I am atrophying and not to mention I had all this stuff that I wanted to say, but now I’m taking up this whole session (because let’s face it, I’m now on borrowed time and I’ll have to stop in the middle anyway to go get Burt from the car since Persis is dropping him off before leaving on her trip, and then hopefully he’ll nap assuming he doesn’t get awakened by the process of having to clean up his soiled reeking articles of pukey clothing and then I can try to sit down again (maybe) and finish this but still it won’t be continuous and as I said there was all this stuff I wanted to say (or add) about the Reinhardt session that I had this morning and about the fact that this is my first session not writing for your eyes but instead for those eyes of everybody else although right now I’m doing a hell of a job being mad enough at god and the world that I’ve conveniently forgotten about all those unpleasant facts like the one that the people (or a few anyway) who are in fact reading this may well be the ones I’m having feelings about and that has got me up in arms with myself for having told anyone ever about this since if only I hadn’t opened my big mouth I might even be able to express myself still, and…what?…now I’ve jinxed it and maybe I’ll have to start--)--

Phone’s ringing, Persis’s here, later…

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Minutes later after having drudged the unconscious (but not long enough) boy upstairs and put his pukey rags in the wash and Persis’s suited up and going to the airport. I have taken my 3pm Neurontin at 12:30 and am ready to take another dose in four hours and maybe even get stoned although I don’t like doing that as you know because of how it makes me feel about Burt, but right now, there isn’t much except Burt stabbing me in the back with a butcher knife that would make me feel worse about him (not that his being sick is his fault, I don’t blame him for being…well let’s just say it’s as if he were to accidentally and unknowingly stab me in the back) right now (looking back to the beginning of the parens) and…what?…than…feel worse about him than…than I do right now. Getting stoned might make me care a little less about everything, and even if it did cause my critic to come crashing down on me, he’s doing that already, so what the fuck difference would it make if I actually opened up the door for him and welcomed him in he never takes himself out on other people like Persis’s does and if he did maybe I’d be a damn sight happier.

Huhhhhhhhhhhh……deep breath………





I can’t stop myself thinking about Onyx, my friend whom I referred to above who has been reading my posts and apparently…I’m nervous about characterizing her response since she may be reading…but I’ll say likes them or at least is moved to tell me that she…what?…experiences them in a light or way that I consider desirable…what a verbal workaround that was…anyway, I am a little too focused on her responses, so I think I’m going to have to ask her to both keep reading (though what am I going to do if she doesn’t) and also not to respond to me about the entries, because her responses end up becoming part of the fantasies that are involved in my writing them. It’s interesting how I’m now trying to turn my friends into my therapists where this is concerned. But I really am just getting the hang of this, figuring out how to present it as an idea to people I know, how to tell them that I would love for them to read, and might welcome an initial response if they’re so moved, but that the more they interact with me about it (or about anything, really) the more likely they’re going to be to turn up in it. Maybe some people might like that, but I can promise you that given my head (everyone’s really; I’m sort of I guess experiencing the projecting my bourgeois shock at the [asserted] universality of Freud’s assertions ideas) people aren’t going to want to interact with me all that much and so see themselves enmeshed in one of my sexual or violent fantasies that they can be reasonably sure other friends of mine (whom perhaps they know) are also reading. Perhaps if I just seal myself up in my room, only interacting with those people whose feelings I don’t care about, this blog would be a little purer. I certainly have (in principle) written myself into a corner where I must withdraw from my friends in order to keep this blog sanct, but then again, as I’ve mentioned before I think, I’ve withdrawn from them anyway, so what’s the harm?

I really got into my mastur…no, that’s not really accurate…I was going to say my masturbatory fantasies today with Reinhardt, and though that’s true, that’s not the thing that most turned me on. What did was something I’ve told you about, something that I articulated in the session today to a passionate ‘t’, almost getting myself (imagining that I was arousing Reinhardt too) aroused as I described the mechanism of my cerebral voyeurism which I find so irresistibly exciting, and which I hate to reproduce here since I just did it in her office this morning, but it’s had the effect of making me…and it also occurs to me that in case I don’t get it all in the allotted time that I can just continue writing, although I think in principle that the time limit is a good principle since it keeps me on the edge and from thinking too much about how I’m saying what I say. Anyway, so today with Reinhardt, I had a really exciting/fantasy/idea that arose from these…

Okay, you remember that time during one of the last sessions I had with you in your office, when I articulated what it’s like for me to talk with someone, especially a woman, and especially attractive women, but most importantly women that I am at all inclined to fantasize about…which is pretty much most women I would ever talk about sex with…anyway this mechanism where… Let’s say I’m having a conversation about sex with this fantasy woman, and in the course of this I say the word ‘vagina,’ or ‘clitoris’…‘clitoris’ is a good one, because it’s one of those practical unmentionables in polite society…in the society that I am generally talking about sex in…which is not to say that truly ‘polite’ society is open to frank sex convos, but there’s polite and there’s polite, and I mean the…not polite, but…mature, adult. Not sultry or…what’s the supreme court rule…lascivious, prurient… So when I say that word – ‘clitoris’ – I am excited by the fact that I imagine, simultaneously, that the woman to whom I have articulated ‘clitoris’, or ‘orgasm,’ must – must – simultaneously picture – picture – her own clitoris, her own orgasm – I’m a little disappointed here because I am not saying as well as I did off the cuff in ‘class’ today but rather it is dribbling out clumsily as I try to recapture what has already been said – that’s the problem with consciously trying…or not trying, but consciously reproducing something: it’s that you’re forced to trying to match it. Anyway. So I imagine my interlocutrix picturing her clitoris, her own orgasm, and by knowing that – because human beings don’t in my experience think in text, but in images – knowing that she has a picture in her mind of her clitoris, or herself having an orgasm (and by which I mean a solitary orgasm, not with a partner, or maybe with a partner, but she is only experiencing, picturing her orgasm, and not the presence of her partner), knowing that, I can read her mind, can also see her clitoris, can imagine what it would feel like, taste like, the moist, silky texture of it beneath my tongue – perhaps I should take a break here, because this is becoming a little self indulgent, and by break I mean…ha ha, anyway so she is picturing that, picturing herself having an orgasm, and so I am at the same time, both beknownst and unbeknownst to her – because whenever I am in these situations (not that it happens that often) whenever I am in these situations, I see upon mention of ‘clitoris’ or ‘vagina’ or ‘orgasm,’ [I see] in most women the merest withdrawal, the merest tensing up, as if closing the legs of the thought, so as not to let me see what it is she is seeing. But she cannot keep me out, because the word has been spoken, and you cannot unspeak it, cannot unpicture it, and because of that, I both get to make love to her to pleasure her to witness her pleasure both…with her permission, because she is there after all, talking to me – and I don’t just walk up to women and say ‘clitoris’…remember that thing about ‘polite’ – she is there talking to me about sex, but at the same time hiding from me, keeping what I desire from her out of the conversation (that is, she doesn’t say to me, “I am picturing my orgasm,” or “Here is what these words conjure in my mind.”), keeping me from her, and yet at the same time helplessly yielding to me – though I am very conscious of the implication of this last consideration, and want to emphasize that it is not the violence, the lack of will that excites me about it…it is not that I am seizing from her something that she does not wish to give me…it is that whether she wants to or not…well, I should refine that, because although the violence (implied) of the experience is not exciting to me…what is exciting…

(thinking)

…is the voluntariness of the fantasized act. That is, when I picture what I imagine she pictures, it is an act of will: her clitoris is there not as a result of force, but willingly, and her orgasm is desired. Though the imagined my experience of those images, the proxy presence of my presence-by-proxy to the act or experience, is not willed, it is neither unwilled. It simply is. And that is how I get, or imagine, some of my most exciting fantasies: by the mere mention of words to women who then cannot help picturing (by the very nature of understanding what I am saying they picture it) what I am saying, and because I know they are picturing it, I am present to their orgasm at the same moment they are and so, with the sole mere exception of the actual act, I am watching these women, that woman, masturbate and have…experience a delicious orgasm…with our eyes open and gazing into each other’s eyes – and that part is always real.

Huhhhhhhhhh…………………deep breath.

See, many times when I am writing like this, I want to get up and go masturbate because I find (like when I am working on my screenplay) it is distracting me from being able to see the characters and what they would do in a rational, true way; that instead, everyone becomes incredibly sexual and sexualized and all of their actions proceed primarily from my masturbatory fantasies instead of truth.

So then I get up and masturbate (I HATE THAT WORD! SO UGLY! Some other thoughts that I had in session today were about the association of my associations to that word (mechanical, metal, pounding, germanic, ugly)) to clear my head and in order to enable me to write better, to write more clearly from what the characters want instead of what I want.

But I find that here, in this context and in the context of this discussion in session, I don’t desire to clear my head, I don’t even desire to masturbate, but rather I desire simply to keep writing without end, and that to masturbate would be to short-circuit the process and expel involuntarily the feeling that I could otherwise put down on paper like an ant in amber.

(Onyx likes the way I end my paragraphs sometimes, and so it is difficult to keep from trying to end them with a pop, which in the very trying of which I shall, being human and subject to human fallibility when it comes to aesthetics, fail to do so. Just wanted to get that out.)

So no I don’t want to clear my head, nor to stop in five minutes (which as I said I may not do)…rather I want to keep going until I want to stop, until my conceptual wad has been shot, rather than my physical one, a much more predictable and fleeting experience.

So I had this idea as I was driving home, both aroused and not aroused, horny in a…what way?…not intellectual, maybe psychological, conceptual…having the desire to fantasize but not realize the fantasy (for reasons that I also got into in the session…fantasies being always (almost) perfect…and the experiences that result from fantasies almost never perfect and always by definition mundane and of the world…redundant…I’ll stick with of the world.)

So my thought is this.

I will put out a personal ad. In the Ecksville Weekly maybe. And it’s sort of based on this article that I read that someone turned me on to in Salon…here is the link…although perhaps when I go over this kind of thing from now on I will forego the presentation of the link and instead simply hypertext the word… like ‘article’. Here’s the link, anyway:

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(I leave blank while I’m writing…hmmm, conundrum…must go back and find out, so why not just hypertext). Anyway.

[Well, after all that, it turns out that the article is not free. It’s entitled, “What’s Up, Doc?” and it ran in the August 15, 2005, edition of the New York Observer. You can buy a peep here, by searching under the author’s name, Nina Roberts. Entirely worth the price of admission, IMHO.]

And this article…well, I don’t want to give it away, but let me say from the outset that I was inspired by it. And my ad says something like this. It is in the ‘For Women’ column…



Thinking… I feel like I cannot do this off the cuff. If I do, it will not have the requisite suaveness, so imagine that’s there and be kind to me in your thoughts…

“Ever imagined that someone is watching you? Ever wanted someone to watch you. Just to watch you and nothing else. I…

(There’s the bell…)

Ooh, now I’m embarrassed, not only am I spitting out without the requisite thought something whose tone I want to calibrate very carefully, but I am also doing it on my own time. I must really be desperate.

‘I will come to you, watch you pleasure yourself, I will remain clothed and will not touch you. I will follow your instructions about speaking. But I will offer this service – $50/hr – and I will hold it in the strictest confidence. I am interested in your fantasy, not mine…”

Well, let’s fuck the ad, and just get to how I imagine it unfolding…

A woman has contacted me, perhaps by email or snail mail first, and I have responded in kind, following her lead. We have a conversation over the phone before meeting, and once we do meet, it is in a place of her choice. Public or private. And she pays me up front. This is a service; no tit-for-tat here. And we talk for an hour perhaps. And I am cagey, but I am upfront about this. I want her to fantasize about who I might be, while not feeling the pressure or the hesitancy about what might happen if she were to touch me, or who I actually am. And of course I would want her to feel as comfortable as she would like to with who I am, that I am sincere in my not touching, in my remaining respectful, in wanting to follow her lead. And then, say in the next session, or later in that first one, we would go to her bedroom, and I would watch her masturbate. And I would tell her honestly (as much as she would like me to) how sexy she is, and how exciting it was to watch her, even as I stand firmly by my (but gently, warmly) by my intention to remain separate.

Is that really unfeasible? Take a gander at that article. What a way to augment the coffers, eh?