I Am Curious (Thirty)

March 3

I am still recovering from the other night with Arnold. What a strange effect it’s been having.

I find myself looking at people differently, and almost blushing for the thoughts I’ve been having. All sorts of thoughts. Sexual, of course.

I will see two men deep in conversation, and in my mind they become a pair of faggots who do all sorts of unspeakable things to each other. And then I find myself enlarging on this and imagining things. Myself with them. Doing what?

Everything.

Or with a girl. I saw a girl on the street this morning. Dark haired and slender, much the same physical type as I, although I rarely see that sort of similarity in others. And I honestly didn’t have any sexual desires for her, not as far as I can tell, but I found myself, oh, thinking.

What do girls do with each other? Primarily eat each other, I think, although I suppose they could have dozens of other things that they do and that I have never thought of.

Being eaten is nice. If you can just give yourself up to it. If you can make yourself completely passive and just take a bath in feelings.

Howard never liked to do it. He did it, but he didn’t like to. He did it, I think, out of a sense of duty, and not well. He did it until I got sufficiently passionate to be an interesting fuck, and then he would stop eating me and climb aboard, which usually was the last thing I wanted him to do. And I suppose he made it obvious that he didn’t like to do it, just as I suppose I made it obvious I didn’t care much about returning the favor, and neither of us did it very well, and so we didn’t do it very often, or want it one from the other very often.

What a stinking shitty marriage. What an absolute complete farce of a marriage.

Incredibly, I don’t miss him at all. Sometimes I wonder where he is, what he is doing, if he has found someone, if he has moved permanently to the city. As you might wonder about some old friend you hadn’t seen in years. But as far as caring about him or what he is doing, I don’t.

At least I don’t think I do.

Would it be different to be eaten by a girl? How?

Could one just have that or would one be expected to return the favor? It would seem that there ought to be girls who would prefer to eat, while others like oneself would instead prefer to be eaten. Is there a whole body of rules of etiquette for this sort of thing?

And why do I care?

Do I?

I don’t think I do. This is silly. I’m not a lesbian, I don’t want any girl or woman touching me, I don’t want any of that.

Or do I?

Sometimes it seems as though I just don’t know anything anymore. As though all I really get in my travels through whatever it precisely is through which I’m traveling is more confused than ever.

If I have reached the point where I can write sentences like that last one I think it is time to stop.