Tempus fugit

There is rioting in the streets of London. The part of town in which I live is, fortunately, unaffected by the chaos. Nevertheless, there is a tenseness in the air. I am wary as I cross the city by bus or tube. Friends are anxious. The day is pleasantly cool. I don’t want to be alone.

Amadeo is traveling this week. Frank, meanwhile, is in Oxford, where he has been for most of the summer. He tells me he will return home this weekend.

I haven’t had a new cock since my vacation. To rectify this oversight, I could pick some guy up at one of my familiar haunts. I could place an ad on Craigslist for a casual encounter or answer one and negotiate a play date with a man who is a stranger to me. Or if I prefer to keep my own company in bed — as I do — I could watch pornography on the laptop while I press a vibrator to my clit. I could call up a friend and, with fingers in my pussy, spin a phone sex fantasy.

The truth is I don’t feel like doing any of these things. Because I have nothing sexy to say, I have been avoiding the blog as well.

Instead of going in to the university, I stay at home during the day and work. I read and write. I meet my friend Mike for an early dinner. He walks me home afterwards, depositing an innocent kiss on my cheek when we arrive at my apartment building. Late at night, I sit with the roommate, drink wine, and talk about small things and big dreams until I go to sleep and dream some more. I do not remember the dreams that visit me in bed. I think none of them are hot.

In the shower, I wash soap suds from my cunt. I prop one foot on the side of the tub. My fingers push against the lips and turn a circle in the flesh. I begin to masturbate, then change my mind, shut off the water stream, and reach for my towel. In my bathrobe, I listen to Radio 3 over breakfast and, after that, am inspired to practice my flute for one hour.

When I sit at the rickety desk in my bedroom, the day spreads out before me as a blank sheet of paper does. Today, as yesterday, I will fill it from top to bottom with crabbed lines and write sideways, illegibly, along the margins to squeeze in a few extra sentences when I run out of space. My hand is crowded. The ink stains my fingers. On occasion a word shines through, but after I have written them, the scribbles are mostly impenetrable even to me and a complete cipher to anyone else. Once I turn the leaf over, I shan’t look back.