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.
When I was a slip of a lass, a whisper of ‘NORWICH’ in my inner ear was sufficient to dissolve me in panty-drenching hilarity. This was not, I should stress, due to anti-Norvölkisch prejudice on my part, but because a fellow school-chum had taken upon herself my education in WWII postal acronyms. ‘Nickers-Off-Ready-When-I-Come-Home’, we sniggered together; ‘Be-Undressed-Ready-My-Angel’.
‘I wish I could subdue the flesh that sadly troubles me…’ So the wonderful and not altogether regretfully still randy John Betjeman in his poem 'Senex'. The autumnal tone manages to combine all the burgeoning and moist and ripe stuff with misty wistfulness. So it is with the ageing process.
A scruffy buzzard perches on the ‘welcome’ sign in the small Highland town of Grantown on Spey, its head angled down and sideways. Its one visible eye peers into my own, a bright pulse of contact as I drive by, and as a result of this I feel expected. I have made a reservation in the same hotel where our family holidayed each summer, although it is decades since I was last here. I have no idea what I will find, and am relieved to discover that the hotel is almost unchanged. The croquet lawn at the back has gone, and new houses fill its place; the gravel drive now forms an ordered car park. But there is still a glass case on the writing desk in the lobby where a – perhaps diminished - variety of hand tied fishing flies bristle, iridescent, over their hooks.