Sensuous

5 May — Wednesday

Maybe it’s my imagination but I have the feeling that this is becoming less and less of a sex diary. At the beginning I seem to recall writing down everything sexual that happened to me.

And so very little did happen to me at the beginning. It was always on my mind but hardly anything ever happened. I was so afraid of it.

Now I’m not afraid of it, and three or four times a week I see someone, and I don’t often write about it. I was thinking about this today at work, thinking about last night’s entry when I mentioned Jeff and Claudine and realized I hadn’t mentioned them before. And after all of that I didn’t say anything about what they are like or what it was like with them.

As a matter of fact, I have the feeling this is becoming less and less of a diary all across the board. I have to drag myself to the typewriter most of the time and just type out enough sentences so that I won’t feel guilty about not having an entry for the day.

I’d like to read over what I’ve done so far, but it’s more than my promise to myself that is stopping me. I’m literally scared to see what I’ve written. As though I am afraid to come face to face with the person who wrote it all.

And yet it all seems so futile. This typing, this communion with Smith-Corona Electra 110. What is the point of it, after all? To write about my clothes, and my fantasies, and my fucking, and my philodendron? Literary exhibitionism of the strangest sort, as I am unable to go whole hog and actually exhibit it to anybody, myself included.

Maybe that’s the point. Keep the diary so that you evolve to the point where you don’t need to keep it any more. Like eating so that you won’t be hungry so that you can stop eating until you’re hungry again.

No Chinese meal, this diary. I have the feeling I won’t really be hungry to write more of this for longer than twenty minutes.

More like twenty years.