Her Mouth// It is sister to disgust,// the turn of a spatula in the gut,// a pulsed blow to the brain,// all this kissing.// It is like exchanging dirty underthings.
Veronica was staying there for the latter end of the season, invited by friends of friends to house sit. She spent her days swimming and reading, flopping from her bed to the pool and back again, her skin turning slowly from city grey to rejuvenated white, as she relaxed, then from white to pink, as the sun’s rays spread into her, warming her to her core. She was feeling better than when she arrived, but still desolate as yet another relationship had fallen apart. The villa allowed her to live naked, a timid Eve in an empty garden devoid of fig and apple trees, or even snakes, for that matter.
It came between cunnilingus and orgasm. Does it matter if he tastes a little wee? Does my partner have to scream? And I just threw up the fader on music - REM, Everybody Hurts - and sagged in a heap in my swivel chair. Was there any chance they’d give me the books programme? The dork who was doing that must be bored by now too. ‘Well, does she have to scream?’ I put the question to our resident sexpert, that is to myself. ‘Well, I am sure we all remember the teenage days of furtive sex, when it was a matter of survival that you wouldn’t be heard. And surely, if anything, it was even more exciting. So, no; she doesn’t have to scream. But why does it bother you? Perhaps that’s the question we should be asking.’ I knew exactly where to take this, on a meandering course through cheap psychology past every embarrassing consideration.
I’ve spent 20 hours of my life on the Greyhound bus, traveling from Washington DC to Columbia, Missouri. The Greyhound is an extreme experience. I passed through more blank land than I’ve ever seen in my life, and I was simultaneously connected to and isolated from other people as a transient panorama of humanity unfolded in front of me.
Two aspiring writers, one the middle-aged and eponymous George, the other Catherine, a beautiful young Cambridge graduate, find their lives crossing at various strange intersections. George loves Winston Churchill and Charlie Chaplin. Catherine likes writing dodgy love poems. They both enjoy a bit of lubricious chastisement, albeit from slightly different perspectives.
We heard about the iGino One, the clever little sex toy that was crowd-funded, and wrote a news piece about it back in February (when it wasn’t quite ready for actual review) because we loved the ideas behind it. Since then, we’ve been lucky enough to get our hands on one: the experience was worth waiting for and we weren’t disappointed.
I love it when she bends over. Her rump presented to me – a ball waiting to be pawed and nosed about the garden. It jiggles slightly, as she pushes herself back up, rippling outwards beneath the worn cotton, stretched so tight across the curve…
In Derek's little bedroom, sex can be kind of boring – but it is also very weird…
The hidden anatomy of a fig… and its eater. New Short Fiction from Danielle Schloss.
Dave McKean might be getting a taste for it. Like his short story from omnibus First Time, Celluloid has no dialogue or narration whatsoever. A silent comic book, his first erotic graphic novel follows a female protagonist through a series of fantasy sexual scenarios triggered by the discovery of a film camera that opens a magic portal on her wall.