My last orgasm was six days ago. Tomorrow will be a full week. Is it silly to make it a goal of going a whole week without coming? It’s silly – I don’t need to prove anything. I have the date with Phuong tonight; I could be super optimistic and plan on ejaculating then, but that’s a lot of unnecessary pressure and expectation. No, it’s probably best to go into that unburdened. And that is how my semen feels now: burdensome. It clouds my mind, makes me more anxious. I’ve got to expel it. It’s the healthy, prudent thing to do. It’s morning. It’s hot out. I have the apartment to myself and nowhere I have to be or go. Suddenly I’m full of excitement.

            It doesn’t occur to me to use just my imagination. All these girls on my mind and I just want to see new ones, naked. I open up my laptop, open a private tab and type my search words into PornHub. I look for just the right clip, ignoring all the junk in the way – most porn is rubbish, let’s face it – everyone else’s tastes are so irrelevant. I sift through the countless images, click on thumbnails that fail to live up to their promise; eventually I find what I want and turn myself on with it. Is it possible I forgot how much I love having an erection?

            Stroking myself while looking at my laptop – it’s odd, this self-gratification so fulfilling and yet so terribly banal, tinged somehow with a sense of sin. I guess it’s odd to experience sexual release in such a tech-centric way, and to watch porn at someone else’s place. I look at the people in the video clips, wonder about them, look around myself, consider my form, my position, the windows, the volume, the sightline in case someone walked in. I manage to consider all of this while not overly dividing my attention. There’s an added layer of self-awareness, of shame perhaps, of transgression – the commercial acts of real bodies for my consumption, and my consumption of it, so ritualistic. It’s odd, being an animal so conscious.  

            I become hyper-aware of my desire, chemicals in my mind coalescing into a lust for something so specific. I want sex and I want it just so, this certain kind of girl in a certain context, dressed in a certain outfit, these sex acts in these exact positions. The things we lust for… And it’s quite remarkable that my fantasies have such visual representations, so easy to find online, my hunger for imagery so attainable. What a time to be alive. I enjoy it.

            It’s a good orgasm. The semen shoots out and there’s a lot of it. I breathe heavily, don’t worry about keeping quiet or anything. I feel better. This mess I’ve made is a testament to it. I’ve taken precautions like a responsible person and the cleanup is easy. I flush the tissue and then attend to the rest of my body, expel more fluids from within me: mucus, urine, feces, perspiration. This living organism takes so much maintenance. Humans are a bit gross, I guess, with all this stuff. I think my body is a good one, at least, quite in order, everything properly working. I bathe, preen, take care of myself, put myself together for the day and feel settled.

            The rest of the day passes without much interest. It’s a hot Wednesday, nothing much worth noting. I get another massage. My solitary sexual escapade is the standout event. Is that funny?