In the nineties while the sex wars were raging, those of us on the pro-sex side tried our hand at writing erotica.
a hand reached for the frayed crotch. it was a gnarled hand. rough. it met soft denim faded and weakened so often had hands and faces rubbed there. it was an experienced hand. forefingers slid down behind the buttons of the fly and using the powerful square thumb as a guide parted the cloth brushed knuckles against the curls. no underwear. cock still trapped in the jeans. heat rising. the hand was steady sure and in no hurry to tackle the belt buckle.
yanking gently but firmly his pubes twisting and coiling them round his fingers he moved to ensnare more. his eyes rose to meet the fluttering eyelids and the lips slightly tensed of the man he held entwined. the tugging stopped. the eyes opened more fully. a recognition and a beckoning.
This reads like Andy Warhol (Blow Job) meets Samuel R. Delany (Neveryóna, or: The Tale of Signs and Cities). But that might be wishful thinking given that I have crossed a 1964 film with a 1983 novel around the kernel an email timestamped Sat, 12 Mar 1994. As the title of this blog entry reproduces the subject line of the email, there may be more, but this is all the archive yields. cont’d elsewhere. teasing like Warhol and like Delany, detourné.
And so for day 1445