A Change of Direction

I spend a lot of time in my head. My curiosity is pretty lazy though. I'm much more interested in possibilities than realities. Every now and then I begin to wonder if I'm starting to go crazy or am I just terribly bored. In any case, wondering is something I do a lot of. A few weeks ago, I found a diary I wrote a few entries in when I was about 14. The thoughts spelled out from my younger self were shocking. Though I've certainly gained more experience, I am no less obsessed with sex than I was when it completely eluded me. And it seems the more I learn, the less I know.

So a good chunk of my thoughts are centered on sex. I've imagined having sex with most of my friends more than once. In school I fantasized about my teachers. All of them. Especially the unattractive ones. I tried to guess who was into the weird shit and what they looked like when they did it. I try to picture strangers on the street naked, try to predict the location and appearance of every fold, dimple, sag. I wonder if older people have better sex, if I only improve with experience or eventually plateau. I wonder if anyone ever imagines my naked imperfections or if they'd enjoy having sex with me.

I put pictures of my genitals on the internet. I feel no attachment to the images themselves, I just like to conjure up stories of the kind of people who would masturbate to them. Photos whose cropping amputated my body until all that is left equates to little more than two-dimensional sex toys. They are always men. Older guys. They always do it in the dark, too. Oscar Wilde once wrote that illusion is the first of all pleasures and these men were living proof. Scenarios would begin to form as they filled in the rest of the pictures. Maybe they touched themselves, hard through their jeans as they imagined sucking on hard nipples or brushing their hand against a bare, hairless vulva. Did they think back to their younger selves, that they could experience a girl demand she be allowed to humour their every fancy?

It's safe.

Exposed without fear of rejection.

Transient connections as intense and artificial as they are brief. I ignore attempts to engage me in conversation. I'm not sure I could express any preference for Bernini over Michelangelo to a person who could recognize my swollen clitoris before even seeing my eyes. This isn't about love. Like a skilled magician, my expertise is little more than smoke and mirrors. One delusion traded for another.

Despite the notion that fucking and all it encompasses will always consume me, I wonder about all sorts of things. Sometimes I disgust myself. I do it on purpose. I imagine the most horrible things possible because I want to know how dark my thoughts can get. I'm not sure why I do it. Perhaps I want to quantify these thoughts, maybe I want to mourn a loss of innocence. Either way it leaves no question as to how I could be so jaded.

Today I change the purpose of my blog. I have decided to write not only what I do, but what I think about, what I imagine. I will make no distinction between them.