Clenching my fists futilely
I've never come across myself in a work of fiction*—but I just came close! This is from Philip K. Dick's early story "James P. Crow":
Ed Parks got up from the table and moved into the living room of his modest five-room dwelling unit, located in the section of the city set aside for humans. He didn't feel like eating. "Robots." He clenched his fists futilely. "I'd like to get hold of one of them. Just once. Get my hands into their guts. Rip out handfuls of wire and parts. Just once before I die."
*not counting ones I've penned myself:
"Do you think you could put us in touch with some other Ed Parks who might be film critics?"
It was a strange request. "I don't know of other Ed Parks. Rather, I know there are others, but I don't know that any of them work in my field, such as it is. I’ve heard of an Ed Perk and an Ed Parr, both journalists, but I don’t think they’re film reviewers. Perhaps your wife is thinking of one of them?"
"No, no," Lex said. "Terribly sorry. But here's the thing. Are you now or were you ever Edward Parks?"
"Parks with an -s?"
"Of course not. How could I be?"