Today I wanted to fuck someone. Hard. Or for someone to fuck me. Hard. That did not happen. Not a big surprise. I spent the day in my cage here doing jackshit - also not a big surprise - mourning the summer that I was sure I was missing, sad about all the missed people, events, and jobs that I was too lazy, too unmotivated, too lost in this haze of summer to go out and search for.
So, since I was horny and all, I masturbated. Hard. Or, not really - since you can't really masturbate "hard" - the hard quality of uh-uh hottness can only come about with a partner, where aspects of performativity occur - you get into it to turn them on, they do the same to turn you on. Masturbation, by its singular nature, never has that "hard sex" quality. I mean, it can be good, better than good, transcendent, and a great release - but it can never reach that "hard" status. And so, bored and horny, I masturbated on the couch today, knowing that I really had nothing else to do, thinking about this, thinking about nothing, and almost absent-mindedly stroking my cock, trying to make it last forever, melding with the haze, with the heat circulated around our room by our pathatic fan - trying to make it last forever not because it was Heaven, a moment I never wanted to come down from, but because I had nothing to do afterwards and didn't want to have to think about that, did not want to have to think of something to do, did not want to think that I should be doing something, that I was wasting my time, my summer, my life. But eventually, my cock's excitement prevailed over my mind's zombie instincts to sit and masturbate forever, and I came. And well, afterwards, I sat in the hazy heat of our room, fulfilling prophecy, thinking that I had nothing to do, tried to think of something to do, realized, feared, and felt guilty that I was wasting my time, my summer, my life.