An Indecisive Fantasy

Thought about writing but decided to masturbate instead. And why the comparison anyway? Does anyone ever say: this is not history, this is not cooking -- this is just masturbating. Best of all, is masturbating surrounded by pictures of Jesus and Mary, the quiet surveillance of their all-seeing, all-knowing, often visible hearts, approvingly aflame.           My vibrator drones on endlessly in the other room of my fantasy. A story I overheard when I was young about a neighbor’s son accosted by bullies on a bus. They rolled his pants up over the knee, his socks down. Made him wear lipstick. I guess I identify with him. It excites me to think of someone forcing me to be a girl even though I already am one. I also like, momentarily, to be the bully, rouge-in-hand. And I guess there is something appealing about simply being a spectator, so it is really a win-win situation, whatever the point of view.           Was thinking, too, about Paul Carroll, drunk at a party, quoting Joyce calling masturbation “a honeymoon in the hand.” And a woman on a quiz show who knew that “frottage” is what you call it when a stranger rubs against you intentionally -- an artist’s term, originally, for a kind of stenciling as when people do rubbings of gravestones.           Earlier I had been reading this article in The New Yorker about Hans Christian Anderson, but put it down halfway through. Maybe that’s why now, against my will, Danny Kaye’s face keeps appearing, and I find I’m getting bored and think maybe I’d rather be writing after all.