It is a strange space, where masturbation suddenly feels like disloyalty. I am not disloyal so I have given it up. Consequently, my sleep patterns have been violently disturbed. For years, ever since I was about thirteen, masturbation has been a friend, a way not to drive out the devils that live deep within but something to soothe and calm, to wear me out. I think I saw on a French film once – was it called Le Boucher? Anyway – I saw a woman masturbate through her Edwardian clothing and I understood the director. The scene had nothing to do with a need for sexual fulfilment. It was about winding down, putting the body to rest.
Perhaps I have given it up because my lover does not seem to enjoy touching me has himself given up exploring and holding me. Sexual activity feels almost taboo because of its fleeting nature and now, it has transferred itself to me. Like eating chopped steak on Good Friday, blatantly refusing hypocrisy, I am taboo.
I am not sure why I have acquired this new title, this new label but I have. At first, it consumed me. It drove me into the Dead Sea and there I would float, helpless against the density of salt. Then it came and went. I would find salt crystals under my nails and in the crack at the back of my left knee.
Now, I am on the way to being laid in a box like some large hand-made salami, waiting for its moment in a London delicatessen.
I miss masturbation; I miss the gentleness of knowing each part of me. I love the way I hold my breath sometimes, encouraging the intensity of violent reaction. However, I cannot be disloyal and yet, it has disturbed my sleep patterns. |
