Day 11

Martaro

Pleasure comes from the strangest of places. Of course there's the clit or glans, that whole soggy delve or yank, but ye gods, there's a whole world out there under dust sheets for some reason or another of atom-blasting orgasms to be had.

Mostly these moments come from resistance or denial, as any seasoned dominatrix could tell you. Coming in after an exhausting walk, for example, one in which for the last two miles you have been teary-eyed with tiredness as the dog bounds, endlessly joyful and energetic, can become the prelude to the absolute decadence of sitting down, the blood rocketing into the balls of your feet once again. For more pleasure (and conversely more pain), add high heels and rough terrain.

Taking a shit after hours of wanting to, and one final agonising hour of needing to, can be exquisite, the mass that leaves your body practically halving the mass remaining, as undigested nubs of sweetcorn tickle the soft pink purse of your anus.

A firm favourite, though less frequent unless you subscribe to a certain diet not heavily endorsed by doctors, is the feeling after vomiting. Just before, that unpinnable alarm that begins as a hunch and ends with the absolute certainty that something will be leaving your stomach without your express consent in the next five seconds, that's pretty horrible. The sicking-up itself, well that's just hell on legs; all the aching the bitterness, the exorcism itself and the sight as with pneumatic force it emerges. But afterwards, that moment of zen as you sit, crumpled on the linoleum, seemingly purged of any poisons ever ingested, past or present, that and the feeling of never needing to eat, rink or be merry ever again that overtakes you as you flop lightly back into bed, well ahhhh. That's got to be worth a temple or two.

I'm spending a lot of time these days sitting, shitting and vomiting. It keeps the mind under key and out of the kind of mental marshland where you meet the strangers you were always warned about.