Ten possible ‘inappropriate’ uses of the morning after pill from which Boots might wish to disincentivize you with its high prices: 1. Deliberately not having safe sex before you go to a house party, so you can take your cheaper MAP and pretend it’s a fun party drug.
Those who know, know. The sudden panic as someone – usually a parent or person equally unsuitable, always less well versed in the subtleties of tech-iquette – begins rapidly scrolling through your camera roll.
Nothing was to go wrong at this San Francisco Pride event, part of a weekend celebration that is a statement of assertion, defiance and sex.
Brexit hit some of us pretty hard down at the Old Doom Bar. Our Aussie landlord and his wife returned to Oz and the mood wasn’t the same. No-one suggested it was because of differing ideas about Europe, but we knew it was.
But here in Brittany things are much cheerier. From our quarters in the Cafe des Matelots we can watch the ferries coming in and out of Roscoff with their cargoes of trucks and tourists. The French still seem glad to see us – even slightly warmer than usual if the amused, puzzled and slightly pitying look in their eyes is anything to judge by.
The scientific study of kissing is called 'philematology' (philos in ancient Greek = earthly love). During a kiss, couples exchange 9 mg of water, 0.7 mg of protein, 0.18 mg of organic compounds, 0.71 mg of fats, and 0.45 mg of sodium chloride, along with 10 million to 1 billion bacteria according to one estimate. Kisses use as little as two muscles, burning only 2 to 3 calories, while passionate kissing involves up to 34 facial muscles along with 112 postural muscles and burns around 26 calories per minute.
GAME OVER: On Sunday afternoon, July 12, soon after he’d been released from the hospital, I met Attanasio at the Half King, Table 16. He was wearing an ordinary white shirt, the same kind he’d often worn in college, decorated with a safety pin. As we drank beer and ate fried calamari, he motioned for me to lean across the table. I did so. He reached down, pulled up his pants leg, and, pointing to a lump on his calf, said, “Touch my tumor.”
“I don’t want to touch your tumor. Listen to me: A friend of mine had breast cancer a few years ago and she’s completely recovered. She’s an artist, too—has a studio in Long Island City, as a matter of fact. I told her about you and she said to tell you two things: Get a second opinion and look into alternative treatments.”
He repeated what I said. Then we left the Half King and took the E train to Long Island City.
It was summer 1991, I think, when sharing a joint on a brick fire escape after a night of acid-tapped cartoon lunacy, my friend Steve exhaled smoke into the Manchester morning and casually asked if I’d heard of a writer called William Burroughs. I hadn’t, but that moment has stayed with me as the dawn of what was to become a deep and unremitting love for the man J.G. Ballard called 'True genius and first mythographer of the mid-twentieth century'. Steve passed the joint and disappeared indoors – momentarily leaving me staring, rabbit-eyed, into the headlights of reality – before returning with a tatty, nicotine-thumbed paperback. “Read this,” he said, thrusting the book at me. “You’ll love it.”
Naked Lunch: odd title, I thought, flipping the book from cover to blurb to cover again. What is this, some kind of naturists’ cookbook? I turned to the introduction and read...
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The hospital administrator’s door was open, I knocked anyway.
“Come in, sit down,” she said.
Marion hired me as a junior radiologist at Atlanta General Hospital almost twelve years ago. She'd been a guest at my wedding. About once a week, when the hospital cafeteria was too crowded, we walked across the street to the Fresh' n' Crisp and traded gossip from the hospital grapevine.
I sat down and waited. When she looked up from her computer she wasn't smiling.
David didn’t really want to fuck him. Not that he wasn’t hot—one would go so far as to call him objectively and conventionally attractive. He seemed nice enough, polite if not charming. He’d opened the conversation with a friendly though tired one-liner, and had yet to send an unsolicited dick pic. And, if Grindr was to be trusted, he was only a ten minute walk away...
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Abigail Ekue’s Bare Men is showing for the first time outside of her native New York. We take a second look at her work. Why? Because we love it and we just can't get enough of it…
Bare Men continues to challenge hegemonic notions of masculinity in a way that is both assertive yet nurturing, capturing the beauty of the male body but also the strength, playfulness, and tenderness of spirit. The result is at times touching, at others, highly erotic. It is always thought provoking.
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'What can MRI scans of brains in orgasm tell us? Past editrice of the Erotic Review Rowan Pelling reveals how the science of la petite mort might might hold the key to abolishing pain. This debate is brought to you by the Institute of Art and Ideas, home to cutting-edge philosophy and ideas from the world’s leading thinkers."
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DESIRE: FROSTRUP & EROTIC REVIEW
100 of literature’s sexiest stories, chosen by Mariella Frostrup and the Erotic Review.
Strict mistresses, naughty maids, handsome gardeners and disarming strangers; literature is awash with love, sex and desire. This collection brings together 100 of the best examples, hand-picked by Mariella Frostrup and the Erotic Review.
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