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I love it when authors put things I think into better words than I could verbalize myself. Thus:
On 69: Why do two half-good jobs concurrently instead of two marvelous deeds separately, one after the other? One must prioritize. Yes! Thank you for saying it for me. I've never really been fond of 69 - I'm always so distracted, I never feel as if I'm doing a decent job.
I'm reading one of the few books that managed to slip through the cracks of Dad's packing whirlwind. Kris gave it to me for my birthday: Nerve: Literate Smut. It's a collection of essays about sex, from Nerve.com. A peek into the sexual consciousness of our nation, or at least, the more outspoken section. It's fascinating. I mean, hey, I'm a slasher to begin with, so my obsession with sex seems to follow naturally.
Well, maybe not. Reading about sex started well before I came into the world of slash. I remember quite clearly, sneaking into my parent's room and taking the Joy of Sex from its hiding place at the very end of the bookshelf, just behind the curve of the wood. I hid it underneath my mattress for months at a time. For a number of years I was a very well-informed virgin.
Now I'm switching between the site, the book and here. Nerve's got a section on celebrities relating their first times. Greg Louganis' is kind of funny. He and a girl went through a book of 101 sexual positions, and got up to about 90 before getting bored. Heh.
What I remember most about losing my virginity is socks. White athletic socks. I should perhaps remember the slight terror from his parents being just upstairs and asleep, while we should have been out in the living room watching movies (and making out) instead of locked in his bedroom. Or perhaps one of the other scattershot of images that my brain's trying to pull up: the giant, unopened box of condoms that he produced from his dresser, the both of us, awkward, fumbling with clothes and desperately trying to get over our intellects already and get rid of our lingering virginities... But no. It's the socks that he didn't take off at first, not until I stopped him mid-caress and made him take them off. If I was getting naked, he, by God, was going to be completely naked too. I still laugh, and it's been ten years. White socks. <snicker>
One last quote for the night before I let Ali's new project suck up the evening:
"I see God in my asshole in the flashbulb of orgasm." --William Burroughs
On 69: Why do two half-good jobs concurrently instead of two marvelous deeds separately, one after the other? One must prioritize. Yes! Thank you for saying it for me. I've never really been fond of 69 - I'm always so distracted, I never feel as if I'm doing a decent job.
I'm reading one of the few books that managed to slip through the cracks of Dad's packing whirlwind. Kris gave it to me for my birthday: Nerve: Literate Smut. It's a collection of essays about sex, from Nerve.com. A peek into the sexual consciousness of our nation, or at least, the more outspoken section. It's fascinating. I mean, hey, I'm a slasher to begin with, so my obsession with sex seems to follow naturally.
Well, maybe not. Reading about sex started well before I came into the world of slash. I remember quite clearly, sneaking into my parent's room and taking the Joy of Sex from its hiding place at the very end of the bookshelf, just behind the curve of the wood. I hid it underneath my mattress for months at a time. For a number of years I was a very well-informed virgin.
Now I'm switching between the site, the book and here. Nerve's got a section on celebrities relating their first times. Greg Louganis' is kind of funny. He and a girl went through a book of 101 sexual positions, and got up to about 90 before getting bored. Heh.
What I remember most about losing my virginity is socks. White athletic socks. I should perhaps remember the slight terror from his parents being just upstairs and asleep, while we should have been out in the living room watching movies (and making out) instead of locked in his bedroom. Or perhaps one of the other scattershot of images that my brain's trying to pull up: the giant, unopened box of condoms that he produced from his dresser, the both of us, awkward, fumbling with clothes and desperately trying to get over our intellects already and get rid of our lingering virginities... But no. It's the socks that he didn't take off at first, not until I stopped him mid-caress and made him take them off. If I was getting naked, he, by God, was going to be completely naked too. I still laugh, and it's been ten years. White socks. <snicker>
One last quote for the night before I let Ali's new project suck up the evening:
"I see God in my asshole in the flashbulb of orgasm." --William Burroughs
