Sensuous

21 June — Monday

Arnold, I should have had less to drink tonight. I think I stayed sober enough at dinner, or at least sober enough in outward appearance. You must have known I was high. I wonder, though, if you know just how high I was.

I felt at times as though we were carrying on two conversations at once, an audible one and a private one of mind-talk. I want you, your eyes kept saying.

How did my eyes answer, Arnold? I honestly do not know. Because they spoke to you and not to me.

You are not a handsome man but I like the way you look to me. You are not a well-schooled man, you are not well- spoken, but I love your voice in my ears. I have known men who are younger and slimmer and better-dressed and glibber, and I have had their cocks in my hands and mouth and cunt, and their eyes have never talked to me as yours do.

Oh, Arnold, I don’t know what I...

This is silly and I am drunk, extra drinks since I came home and did not need those drinks. Drank with you and failed to show up for a date with a man in Greenwich Village telling myself it was because I was drunk and did not want to meet him drunk but actually it was because I did not want to go, did not want to go at all, wanted only to come home here and have a couple more drinks and go to bed, but instead I am not going to bed, I am sitting here at S C E 110, I am sitting here typing and hitting mostly the wrong keys and God only knows if what I am typing would be readable, not that it matters because it is not for reading, and here I am running on and on like this for no earthly purpose at all and what I really want to do is turn out the fucking lights and go to bed, but if I lie down I will probably vomit and if there’s one thing I hate it’s to vomit, which is probably not that unusual come to think of it because I suspect it’s rather a standard thing for people not to like to vomit because what’s there to like, after all, and I think I will stop writing this right now because I can’t stand it and what I really want is not to be writing this but to turn out the lights and go to bed with Arnold.

I didn’t mean that the fucking typewriter it wrote that all by itself and I did not mean it not a bit.

Or did I?