With the current state of things and the regular trajectory of Mathilde, it would be easy for me to marry both for this week’s Masturbation Monday. But I am not going to do that.
There was once a comment about Anais Nin that she was living through WWII, and there was no mention of it in her journal. She was being criticized for not speaking of the war in her journals.
es·cap·ism
/əˈskāpˌizəm/
noun
the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities, especially by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy.
Maybe Anais’ diary was a refuge from what she was living day to day—it is not fair to judge her for that. I certainly do not, and I have always understood escapism—now more than ever. So this week, I will escape into my own fiction and for those of you who can appreciate that or desire it this is especially for you…
Mathilde got off on her stop.
Literally.
The rocking of the metro, and the thoughts in her head made her feel such a heaviness between her legs that the quick movement to exit the train made her feel the release that was needed there.
She was ashamed, as she placed her hand over her mouth.
She had been thinking of him.
The man who had made her into what she was, who had made her never want to be vulnerable. Heavy eyes along with the heaviness between her legs, and she remembered how she had ached for him.
How she wanted anything that he would do to her.
Anything.
When he was rough, when he was super tender with her she wanted it all. She wanted it when he did not want it sometimes, and she couldn’t help herself. Surrounding him like a venomous snake so that he had to surrender to her, Mathilde would wrap her arms and legs about him and kiss his neck.
He would fuck her hard then, and that was what she wanted. But she did not realize that it was a give her what the fuck she wants fuck so she will leave you alone. It was years before she realized it was not that she was too much for him, but that he did not love her the way she loved him. A man who loved her would not have had the same experience with her, and maybe she wouldn’t have felt so desperate with another man.
Deep inside she probably knew that she was fighting a losing game like the Amy Winehouse song with him. But the way he made her feel had been sublime, and she had craved it.
She still craved it sometimes.
When she walked down the street, she thought she was hallucinating. Here in Paris?
Him…
More Masturbation Monday here:
I am ALWAYS here for your brand of escapism. And also, I’m loving her introspection.