**Hello, this is my first time posting, but I’ve been writing for a while. Feedback is more than welcome. More to come, if you all like it. The more explicit things will be at the end. Is the pace too slow? Thank you for reading!**
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Human beings have a particular penchant for self-torture–masturbation, as it was termed once upon a time. I was engaged in this peculiarity of the human condition in multiple ways, hand between thighs, searching as if I’d find something entirely new in sensations I’d already mapped, overworked cartographer on long, lonely nights. And he was there, in my hand, on me, as he’d always been, this amorphous, unknown entity that I conjured every time I took my hand to self-flagellation, to the curse of the primal. I never pictured him fully, formed his face, crook of his nose, nape, navel–he was just an idea, intangible and unbuilt, unfinished home in which I’d spent years living, promising myself I’d one day finish painting the walls, hanging my art. And yet he kept coming, in moments on the bus, eyes meeting with a stranger, lips parting, I could feel him there, hand on my own, stroking lightly at my thigh. He had always been a mystery, one I didn’t dare to untangle for fear the fantasy would crumble. He was the one to push me against walls, bend me over tables, desks, counters, savagery and sensuality, he was my fantasy, embodied.