This is about a man lying in his bed one morning.
He felt that he wanted to write about something and thought, why not write about how he feels uncomfortable in social settings. Like how even if he knows some of the people gathering for an event that he somehow prefers to be on the periphery, just looking on.
Then, he rolls over in his early morning revery, as he often does, believing that the blood flowing to a different part of his brain will generate different thought patterns.
Now he thinks maybe he might write about eating pussy. Trying to remember his first such encounter he can’t recall who or where but his memory feeds him the best highlights of many times — of the similarity to the enjoyment of a ripe apricot, a little fuzzy on its soft but firm exterior and the exciting potential of all that soft luscious juicy warm aromatic and tasty fruit inside, once past the steel wool surrounding it.
What a divergent choice of topics and then he realizes perhaps they are really part of one over-riding subject — his successes and failures, his social demeanor, his ability and preference for focusing on one person at a time rather than a crowd.
This is not a matter of success or failure he now thinks but one of preference and bearing — he prefers intimacy without an audience. He realizes that he also enjoys the response of an audience — without personal contact.
The dichotomy could cause a decision to forget about the whole thing.
But of course the more personal topic wins out.
He is an artist and a writer nonetheless — of course he prefers to be alone when creating. Of course this, he reflects, is why so many artists and writers turn to drink and other such escapes that drive others away physically or virtually. This too must be why he sees eating pussy as a creative endeavor, an art form — and would explain his reluctance to embrace group activities.
He turns over again and as the morning wood passes he arises alone, walks to his table and begins to write in the dark.