Textual pleasuring

I have to learn to avoid self-pleasuring. I must. I must do my work, and yet here I am, as always, writing, writing away in ecstasy. Work, is work, is work. And the pleasure? Why do I always want more? There is a game, it will unveil itself in time, in due time, but it must wait. There are pleasurable texts to unfold, neatly like stiff bed sheets, and white sheets of script. And Barthes speaks directly to me, jumping out of his text, this unsexed thing, I am vexed, because I am his reader, la lectrice c'est moi.

He asks, "Does writing in pleasure guarantee--guarantee me, the writer-- my reader's pleasure? Not at all. I must seek out this reader (must "cruise" him) without knowing where he is. A site of bliss is then created. It is not the reader's "person" that is necessary to me, it is this site: the possibility of a dialectics of desire, of an unpredictability of bliss: the bets are not placed, there can still be a game."