My tongue is restless.
All this talk of Kaff and David's no-masturbation-sexual-interaction bet and I'm sitting out here in Paris with my heart and sexual urges still grounded on another continent and I'm wondering "how hard could that bet be?"
Appartment hunting was the sort of disaster that tears the layers of determined-bouncy-happinness away one by one and leaves the faintest heart of tearful onion-y skin exposed.
I came home footsore, more annoyed that half the metros were closed in places than worried that the bomb-scares they were closed for were real.
Hell, if they were real I'd have a place to stay now, right? All over the 10e arrondissement to be exact.
Funny how desensitized I am to the word "bomb". From elementary school afternoon bomb scares to hearing the telltale whistle overhead one summer in Israel and wondering more idly than worrisomely where they (not it, they) would land.
In any case, I actually got home before dark last night, two of the appartments already taken when I arrived, and the third beautiful and expensive and delightfully furnished BUT... Two ass-grabs on the way there and a guy following me all the way to the Gare Du Nord on the way back, begging for a cigarette or a grope in the alley...
Nunh-unh. I can't believe that in a city where the demand for lodgings exceeds the available appartments by thousands, I can't believe I turned it down and neither did the agent showing it off to me.
But I couldn't, I'd rather spend six months in a hotel than be terrified every time I walk home.
And in the bathtub, I finished a book, downed two glasses of wine (should have just gulped from the bottle) shivered in the steam and lavender bubbles and wondered if I could bring myself to masturbate.
The bathtub, of course, being the ideal place for such dreamy-steamy fantasies, and yet reaching for the showerhead last night, I turned it round and round in my hands and massaged my sore feet with it instead.
No urge. Whether it's the stress or the broken-heartedness, or simply the extra smog in the air, but while my fingers and tongue ache for skin, bare, smooth, hard skin, my mind aches for the next novel in the series.