I'm Tarzan in an old movie. Someone in the city took a contract out on Jane and me. As the scene opens, we're fleeing a big fierce woman played by a muscle man in a dress. But in the end, it's three other men who capture us, and take us along a path through the woods to a clearing on the east side of an outcrop. They plan to kill us here.

Jane starts flirting with one of them, rubs her breasts against him. He drops his guard enough to start fondling her. He kisses Jane, and she slides a knife deep into his back. As he falls, his friends turn to him and to attack her, and I have an opening, and hit one of them hard--killing him on the spot. Only one left. Tables have turned, he's our prisoner now.

I take it for granted we have to kill him, it's basic self-defense. He's a hit man with a contract on us, so we won't be safe till he's dead. I hesitate, plan various ways to do it, try to pick one that's painless. Finally I shrink him to a flattish thing about two feet long and shaped like two sandals tied end to end. Put him face down, and stand on him till he suffocates in less than a minute. He shakes and struggles, even so, and I feel terrible, but don't relent.

As soon as he's dead, I regret it, have second thoughts. He wasn't as bad as the others; unlikely to be much danger in the future. A skinny black guy in his thirties, a dancer in his spare time. Wish I hadn't done it--I think he'd have sworn an oath to stay away from us if released. We could have sent him back with a message.

There's something wrong with me. In the name of self-defense I force myself into deeds I shouldn't do. It wasn't self-defense; I was punishing him for trying to kill us. It may not have been murder exactly, but it was cold-blooded.

When I acknowledge that I didn't want to stifle him, everything changes.

Suddenly I'm not Tarzan. I'm me. And I'm in bed with a girl I like, kissing and petting.

We start to fuck. Feels wonderful.

As I come, it's very clear in my mind that this is a direct reward for learning to distinguish self-defense from cold-blooded punitive suppression.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• Baffling fight: on TV, a pro wrestling match. A short-skirted girl in the crowd leapt into the ring! Distracted a fighter in a Tarzan loincloth, so he gets kicked in the balls. Then a muscleman in a dress runs down the aisle. Tarzan flees the ring, pursued by Drag Dude. The announcer calls Dragboy "she". I changed the channel.
• Tarzan = me on the run from women, because of sex-negative feminist upbringing? Or because I need to be alone in nature a lot?
• So are these horny mobsters my sexuality? Uh-oh! Do my sexual feelings have to kidnap me to get my attention?
• Stifle the third guy = suppressing ALL my sexuality, not just the parental brainwashing I feel hostage to.
• ACTION: Quit suppressing all my urges habitually. Some are healthy, some not. Distinguish! Differentiate! And quit stomping!

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