I feel that ache through my body that spells the exquisite pain of arousal. The ache doesn't just reside in my loins; matter of fact, it's barely there at all. It's a trembling in the arms, a quivering in the chest, a tenseness in the throat and arms, a tendency for my hands to resolve themselves into claws and scratch desperately at the carpet while I wail my despair unto the heavens. I have begun to resemble the unfortunate main character in a Hammer werewolf film.
When it gets to this point, self-pleasuring isn't enough. It seems that just hauling the damn thing out and having at it would almost be an insult to the agonizing quality of my helpless body. It would be like playing Ping-Pong in the Bahamas when I want to be skiing in the High Sierras.
As a matter of fact, in order to dispell this attack of erotic lycanthropy, I must bring myself up the ski lift of lust to a torrid, thundering pinnacle of arousal, hit the slopes doing 45 mph, and slam myself headlong into the stone wall of orgasm. This is not a sport for teenagers.
from "Phone Sex"
Thomas S. Roche, 1996
It's not that bad, really.
I brought Dark Matter, Roche's book of funny, gothic, perverse, short stories, into the bathroom this weekend, and I love that quote. Mark and I did readings of some of Roche's stories at TES meetings, because the mixture of humor and kink amused us, and the silliness delights audiences.
Between apartment-cleaning all day Saturday, going to Homo Hop Massive at Meow Mix (the number of adorable, pocket-sized babydykes in New York City is disconcertingly high, and when two of them with exquisite waist-to-hip ratios, with short camisoles and low-slung pants revealing the exact place where my hands would fit, parked themselves in front of me at the show, I became exceedingly grateful that I had a fan in one hand, and a glass in the other -- though my ice melted amazingly fast after that), and having people over for the first party we've thrown here, I was busy this weekend.
Not, mind you, so busy that I wasn't aware of various bits of sensory data coming in. As a result, I am approaching Beltane feeling as if several layers of insulating flesh have been removed, and I am open to almost anything this summer will bring. I shall start a new journal book tomorrow morning, and have shiny new, extra-fine nibs for my pens (thank you, Levenger; thank you, Sheaffer, for your excellent online ordering, your amazingly swift delivery, and your delightful products). The air is fresh, and full of hope.
(I was going to type "vulnerable," but while there is an element of that in the feeling, it's more complex: I'm open, but I can choose where to be vulnerable, if that makes sense to anyone. And I have chosen several places to be vulnerable, to bare myself to input from others. . . now let's see what happens.)