i think the objects of masturbation should be made conscious of their use. conscientious masturbation. it’s the only ethically minded way to do it, short of excising sexual desire entirely.
this is what i wonder when i think about you. i have a hard time imagining you masturbating. maybe i don’t want to. i don’t know you at all, only feel parts of you: an arm, the shadow of a cheek, forehead dressed in sweat, a glimpse of dark waves in the ashy light. maybe it’s not fine. i’m in too deep; or, you’re in too deep. whatever. i threw out love letters with my ex, lost them amongst her affirmative nothings.
“we should do this again,” you murmur, and i grunt in agreement. but sated, we forget you ever said it.
all i can hear now is the rumble of my father talking and my mother’s unsteady chopping in the kitchen, so i put you away. a faint breeze rustles the shades. there is no sweat to speak of.