The other day, I indicated my inability, currently, to write.
I have a big project before me, a professional project that inspires… terror… for all sorts of reasons. Partly, because a previous, related project resulted in nothing short of disaster for me. Partly, for reasons I can’t even begin to tease apart here.
I have Sam. Sam, I wrote a little (a very little) about. Sam and I had three sexual encounters in very rapid succession. They. Were. Awesome. She wrote about them, and gave me permission to post what she wrote, and I haven’t been able to get myself to post it. I have tried to write about our time together (which was, did I say? awesome) and I can’t. I can’t, even knowing that Sam’s mouth might well be available to me, to my cock, if I would be able to – and believe me, I would like that – and I. Just. Can’t.
And there’s all sorts of other writing things I’m not doing. The only thing I’ve been able to write, of late, is what I think of as manic writing: writing that, in and of itself, defends me from/protects me against something I specifically don’t want to feel.
That’s all for now.