Work. Must work. Must get up. Must get dressed. Must work.
I’m supine inside the darkness of my bedroom before the daybreak, trying to hang onto those fast moments before my muscles move and I perform the perfunctory task of another day in capitalism. I’m pretty sure that if I savor this for fifteen more seconds, I can make those fifteen seconds stretch out for about eight more hours, and then I can spend the rest of the day camped in my memories of being exactly where I want to be. Here. I want to be here. I want to lie under the covers and drown myself in my nasty little perverted sexual fantasies. Oh, fuck. This happens every morning: do I have time to masturbate before I get up? Or am I really too lazy to masturbate right now. I’m more of a middle of the day masturbator – masturbating in the early morning usually makes me fall back asleep, and then I wind up getting out of bed at noon, but I can’t do that because I have work today. Fuck. I toss and turn a little bit. Resist. I am resisting. This is my personal revolt against a system that creates an internal conflict over my masturbation schedule. Goddammit! I mean, sure, I could just put a pin in it and make a mental note to masturbate as soon as I get home from work, but there’s something about hiding from the world under my blankets for a few minutes that makes me feel incredibly horny. (Note to self: Google if this is a kink thing or not.) There’s something about coming home after a long day of work that makes me feel defeated, as in: I have already succumbed to the demoralization of drifting through this society in pursuit of survival, and it’s just not incredibly erotic to me. Alas.
Of course, by the time I finish churning through this thought process, I realize I should have gotten out of bed like fifteen minutes ago! Definitely no time to masturbate now! Goddammit.