Penises are redundant. I’ve arrived at this glorious conclusion after spending a weekend alone – no men, no lovers, no horny exes… just me and good old Thomas Hardy. (And I would never have slept with Hardy – give me William Butler Yeats any day). OOoohhh. It’s not Yeats’ penis that interests me as much as his mind. But I digress. Last weekend, I switched off my cellphone, curled up in bed and pleasured myself. It was me and my rabbit, with the strains of Amadeus Mozart’s Symphony No. 29 wafting from my cheap laptop speakers.
And I came and came and came – even Leda would have been envious.
But at night, after two bottles of wine, I needed a hug, and there was no one to give me one. Somehow, I can satiate myself, but I can’t comfort myself.
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