I am in a large bathroom, glossy and beige the way rich people like them, granite countertops, fake mineral veins in the tile, lit dimly for the mood is 7:30 p.m. She tells me she’s going out and undresses till she is wearing only a spray tan. I wrap an arm around her and worm a finger between her legs to a damp core. She has quite blonde, straight hair on her head and a tattoo on her lower back reading “Equipped” in aggressive cursive. I wake up from this dream remembering I don’t fully know the variousness of my tastes. But I thought I was over my small, rich blonde phase shortly after high school. Wrong, shortly after college. Lie, I never thought I was over it, merely thought it worth mentioning that I ought to be over it.

When I see the word equipped I think of the passage in 2 Timothy: “…so that the man of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.” What equips the man of God to do good work is of course that scripture is God-breathed. This being realized, the inspired man goes forth, proselytizes, spreads the Word, the Holy Word that was there from the beginning and requires capitalization. What equips me to do good work is that I masturbate 1.5 times a day. It’s not a large number, but enough to keep distracting thoughts out. I rarely enter my restroom (a sinky is what I affectionately call this session) bent upon orgasm in an attitude I would call sinful. What I seek is only expedient relief from lust so I can go back to doing God’s work. This attitude has bled over into my sex life. I want to satisfy both partners (both meaning me and the other, that is—I’ve not yet had the good fortune to participate in an unholy trinity) as sufficiently as possible so I can spend the rest of my day analyzing scripture or some other text lust-free.

Maybe most of my time will be spent in a chair reading, thinking about pleasure and how none of it satisfies me.

Today I barely crack the surface of this passage in Timothy, for I awoke in a vicious November chill. The hard-on I was equipped with at sunrise shriveled to a fleshy scarf while I made coffee. No sinky necessary, although it appears I need both distraction and release to increase reading comprehension.

It’s important to rid oneself of desire before sitting down with a text, unless what you’re reading elicits desire, then by all means, ride out the morning or evening in a state of perpetual pre-climax. However, I find this intolerable after an hour or more. Give me release already. This is perhaps why I can’t imagine heaven in my feeble mind: How is it I can feel the best ever forever? Will I not grow supremely bored? Maybe I have the wrong idea of heaven and the wrong idea of pleasure. Maybe even in the afterlife there will be elongated and truncated pleasures, each lasting as long as they ought—and maybe most of my time will be spent in a chair reading, thinking about pleasure and how none of it satisfies me. That seems to be what I’m intellectually equipped for.