muted frustration

have you ever felt that kind of frustration? the kind when you're alone in an apartment all by yourself, in a city far from where you grew up.

after watching mildly arousing, free pornography for a couple hours, after pleasuring myself for the fourth time, i'm left still craving sex, unsatisfied with my own manipulations, craving more, yet finding my options degrading--i can either browse lewd profiles on gay hookup sites or...well, i really don't have any other choice.

i am left with nothing--nothing but a messy room, a sink occupied by an unwashed plate, an armful of clothes to fold. i have a book i've been trying to read, but its first hundred pages have failed to excite me as effectively as my mind-numbing, month-old crap magazines.

i want the semester to resume so that i might find myself too busy to feel this kind of frustration, so that i might trade it for the kind that is attributed to an excess of deadlines and commitments and insufficient time.

and since nobody's here this frustration is so contained...so muted.

keroppi frog eyes

on the city bus en route back to my dorm i reflected upon a recent realization. well, not so much a realization as "a returning memory...so long abandoned and put out of mind". blankly fixing my eyes on a point on the window across the aisle, absorbing the blurred passing image of shops and pedestrians and oxidizing newspaper dispensers and naked trees and rising sewer steam, i caught myself drooling out of the right corner of my mouth.

suddenly searingly self-conscious i looked around, my eyes not yet accustomed to the shorter distance between me and the people within the bus, only to be shocked by a pair of eyes intently staring at me. i was so taken aback i'm sure i closed my own eyes for a brief moment only to see, upon opening them, the owner of those pervasive marbles that reminded me of my childhood keroppi pencil case. he was a wrinkled capsule of decades of unimportant history, held a countenance of senility, was a poor old black man that may or may not have seen the ingenuous drop of saliva escape from my chapped parted lips.

i smiled nervously--to no reciprocal effect--and looked away.




what a good old man he was, he who brought me to the nostalgia of my beloved pencil case.