Am writing the next chapter of the Jason-Cinderella fic. Really I am. I just got distracted with my shiny new fandom, Kirk/Spock. I’ve spent the past few weeks obsessively looking through all the fan fiction I could find because I have an obsessive personality. Not stalker obsessive, but calling every Burger King in my area until I found all four Star Trek glasses obsessive.
But first… I have a new icon.
Last week I went to the fetish party again. It was all right, I like dressing up and stuff, but I can’t say I’m a fetishist cause I’m not. I even met a guy and we, funny enough, had a long conversation about literature. It’s funny cause we’re sitting in fetish gear discussing Hemingway and Vonnegut. So here I am in some sinful place, and sex is not on my brain at all.
A thought occurred to me on the way home. Since I read homoerotica exclusively, have I stopped thinking of myself as a sexual being? I’m completely out of the equation. I am not the star of my own fantasies.
I don’t have a problem with this. Or at least, I’m not going to make any effort to change that means giving up my gay porn. My friends have noticed. They think it’s weird, but thankfully they don’t really make a mention of it so I’ve been coasting by not really analysing the situation.
Part of me misses the sex. Part of me is glad not to have that complicating my life. Most of the time I’m ambivalent.
Hmmm… oh, well.