Sunday, March 16  

Pleasure

Vic has a distant, but amicable relationship with pleasure. She likes it, thinks pleasure is a nice person, but doesn't want to get too friendly with it.

pleasure: noun 1. a feeling of extreme gratification aroused by something. 2. unrestricted freedom to choose.

It has always made Vic a bit ashamed the way she can feel sad or sick or blank and still masturbate. There's no joy propelling her fingers, no fantasy, no actual arousal involved. But she can still get herself off. It's kind of shallow she thinks. Even the eventual orgasm is fast and cold-blooded.

She remembers once after ending some casual dating scenario that had gotten onto an uncomfortably less-casual path, lying in her bathtub watching the rain pelt against the dripping sunroof. She looked down at her body and felt a shudder of disgust. What good is it having a body when you can't decide what to do with it? When the heart it houses is behaving badly, rather like a naughty 3 year old crying for candy and then rubbing it into the carpet when you're not looking?

She looked down at her skin, rippling under the water and saw nothing but a waste. Even so, her fingers felt just as good as they ever did. It's all a bit cheap how pleasure still exists when you clearly don't deserve it.

She dried herself off feeling distant and like telling herself she had a great time, love to stay over but early meeting in the morning and all that. Sorry to rush off.