Intellectual Masturbation.

INTELLECTUAL MASTURBATION.


By D. Jonas Laurence



Sometimes the writer will look back on some of the things that he has written and it will be like intellectual masturbation for him.


THE END.


The writer clutched his notebook and meandered over the words. He read them all in one, slowly, like turning the pages of a dirty magazine, scanning, noticing the things that stood out and cataloguing them for later perusal.
Like the word ‘Sometimes’.
For the writer this word invoked images of anytime, or past time, present time, future time, no time, non-existent time, imagined time.
To the writer this one word conjured up so many images that his intellect could not help but be aroused.
The writer chewed on the connotations of the word ‘Sometimes’ for quite sometime; moving it back and forward across the length of his intellect, softly, gently, erotically.
Next he drifted onto the word ‘the’.
For the writer this word was almost invisible. It’s over use had rendered it transparent; yet, paradoxically, the picture would be incomplete without it. The word was like a gratuitous shot of breast in a teenager-targeted movie. It would only be noticed by its absence. It was the missing segment of a 10,000-piece jigsaw puzzle.
He moved onto the word ‘writer’ and his pulse rate quickened. This was one of those magic entities. One of those words that caused the intellect to shudder with pleasure.
But he did not want to dwell – not yet, no, he wanted this to last. He wanted the maximum pleasure. So he moved, reluctantly, onto the word ‘will’.
‘will’ was a strange one. To the writer this word was a word of mystery, of the unknown, a verb for all persons; yet for the future. This opened up a million coulds. A million scenarios that got his creative juices boiling. Will it? Or won’t it? He did not know. But he loved to fantasise.
And what fantasy would be complete without ‘look’? For that was what he was doing. ‘Looking’ was what he craved. ‘Looking’ back on his work, his beautiful, sensual, work. Filling his intellect with a feast of ‘looking’.
‘back’ spoke of things in the past, of experiences, of situations, of delicious intellectual stimuli. It spoke in an echo that ran through the corridors of the library of himself; ran like a naked college student through the corridors, soft and feminine, bouncy and bountiful with lust.
He dragged his eyes from ‘back’ and rested them on ‘on’. This was but a cheeky glance across a crowded restaurant, a sideways peek ‘on’ the beach of his intellect. He turned the page to ‘some’.
‘some’ spoke of the process of choice. Of choosing. Of selecting his favourite work and dwelling on it. Savouring it. Devouring it like a peach with juice dripping down the chin of time. Oh the glory of ‘some’ of his words, the masterpiece of connection!
‘of’ was like ‘the’ yet totally different. ‘of’ joined things together like mating dragonflies ‘of’ a past memory, wet thighs in a time ‘of’ youth, sunny days laying in green grass becoming part ‘of’ the Earth. Melting and ebbing with a tide ‘of’ subtle vibrations.
‘things’ meant anything and everything and nothing and something. It caused the intellect to expand and devour, opening corridors for penetration, unbuttoning blouses for inspection, unzipping flies for release.
His intellect was fully erect now, the skin of it tight and sensitive.
It pushed against the fabric of his mind, searching for openings, for outpourings.
‘that’ unexpectedly excited his intellect. Its multiple meanings caused him to pause, but by now he wanted more than ‘that’ could give.
So he moved to ‘he’. ‘He’ liked what ‘he’ saw. ‘He’ saw it so often that ‘he’ was glad that ‘he’ could still be turned on by it’s simplicity.
‘has’ again spoke of the past and the movement of his intellect from future to present to past felt delicious. It felt like young boys nude in hay barns. It felt like young girls nude with shower nozzles. It felt divine.
‘written’ was the past tense of ‘write’ and meant that he had indeed ‘written’ something. That he had ‘written’ a lot. And it was somehow naughty, taboo, secret fondlings in the school cupboard of time, for what was ‘written’ and what was ‘wrote’?.
‘and’ was the end of one section of the magazine ‘and’ the start of another, it was the middle page, a slight breather, a lengthener, an enlongator of pleasure, ‘and’ it signalled the home stretch, the finish in sight, ‘and’ that alone gave ‘and’ a sultry dirtiness.
‘it’ ‘will’ ‘be’ three words connected to form a total greater than the sum of their parts. A threesome. An orgy. A chance encounter at a party in a mansion, a moment before a happening, and ‘it’ ‘will’ ‘be’ something to remember. To savour. Something to rub the intellect against like an itch.
‘like’ was ‘like’ something else. An instinctual memory of a time of total intellectual release. A magical, ancient time, where all needs and wants were met. It was a rolled up ball of similarity and familiarity. It was itself, yet it was ‘like’ something else. The combination was heavenly.
‘intellectual masturbation’ was extra stimulating. Like holding a mirror to certain actions. It made real of the unreal, made impossible angles obtainable, it was an addictive action of pure pleasure.
He read the last two words… ‘to’ and ‘him’ but this was overkill, unnecessary, like an extra photograph of a moment already captured.
So he flicked back through the pages of the magazine of his intellect; quickly, with fumbling hands of the overeager.
And the writer’s intellect writhed and moved with the rhythm of his artist outpourings.
His intellect grew, even larger, feeding on itself, enlarging and engorging, straining, huge and rock hard, and the writer gripped his sanity for stability, careful not to cross the forbidden thresholds of imagination, and his rhythms grew quick, and his breath erratic…
And then he passed the point of no return.
And his intellect shot forth a bubbling stream of unbridled idea…
And it was probably a shit idea.
But the writer curled up in his bed, his intellect spent.
And he went to sleep and slept like a baby.
Satisfied.
Sated.
Happy for his raging intellectualism.


THE END.