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240 pages, Paperback
First published May 14, 2014

"Curating this collection forced me to examine what I think "good writing" means, as well as answer the impossible question: "what is sexy?" I'm delighted with the kaleidoscope I've found."She walks us through her introduction to erotic literature as she came of age. Her story is both touching and humorous.
"I owe a debt of gratitude to the written word, both for my sex education and my career path. I'm glad for the many times as a young woman I went to bed with the right book instead of the wrong boy. (That said, sometimes "the wrong boy"was fun, too.)"
"Oh, baby, that's it," she moaned, her voice soft and urgent. "You must have really liked Sappho."
"I'd end up going to bed with a mind filled with sexual imagery and the keen awareness of unfulfilled desire, sexually uberawakened only to fall asleep sans the postcoital bliss.
"There is something about lying in darkness, your skin alert with expectation, waiting for someone or something to touch you. When you have no sight, no taste, and only silence, your skin pulses from experience, to live in anything except a tomb which turns every inch of you so wretchedly alive."
"The rhythm of our sex was constant, and it changed with our moods or the wind or the weather-sometimes slow and languid, sometimes rough and messy, sometimes funny, never foreign, often complicated. But it was always vast, and deep, and generous-more ocean than earth; it was less the land and more the water."
"At only twenty-eight, he'd decided to chuck anything to do with technology and become something of a steampunk luddite"
"I want to be an exhibit in a zoo on Tralfamadore."A story about Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five! A story of mourning; the loss of a child to a married couple (so it goes). Told from the husband's perspective one morning in the midst of their suffering. It hits at the place where many readers hide - the escapism of fiction, but also the oppressive nature of being absorbed into a fictional work which mirrors our own troubled mind.
"The book was on her nightstand, Pete noticed. He stifled a frustrated sigh. It was open, lying pages down on the wooden surface, teasing its spine to crack over and over. Pete hated cracked spines but Aoife did not. Aoife loved them; all her books had cracked spines and dog-ears and coffee stains like so many hickeys on a lover's skin."
"We are no longer gods; our apple barely tasted, we have been chased from Paradise. Because was started as adultery, even if it felt like planetary sway, like the most natural of all natural things, must end in guilt, because he had finally done it, destroyed himself, because he's made her pregnant, before we had the chance to run away, to find our cave."
"She had become increasingly fixated, not just with owning books, or being surrounded by them, but with the need to be in perpetual contact with them. To hold them, envelop them, feel their touch against her skin…"
"I like old books. There's something about a limited edition, the one-of-a-kind book that stays current even years down the line." "Not me. I like my pages bright and clean. I want to be the first one to crack it open, the first one to close it satisfied or wanting more," she throws back. She wonders if he's a virgin."
"You were my first contract come, Anaïs. And you'll always be the best, even now that I've got a stable full of talent to trot out every night. Your words still echo in my brain, with perverse pleasures and portraits of ladies of the night. I still hope that one day you will indulge me, the way you allowed your characters to indulge their lovers in garrets and boudoirs across Paris, but even if you find me vile and debased, we are always entertained on the page. I own a piece of you now, and it fits perfectly on the shelf like any other trophy."
"We talked in whispers like this for five weeks without kissing each other's lips or ever seeing each other off campus - The ultimate torturous and wondrous foreplay"
"They were the glorious college days of intellectual discussion, late morning cuddling, and scrutinizing meaning in the lyrics off an album jacket."
"But what a book. The prose was brilliant. Even the torrid pages of Velour had not prepared me for the ferocious intensity of sexual congress as described by a writer of the talent of Pierre Lacroix. In his sure hands the sexually charged congress of two windswept and animally magnetic artists was stunning. I couldn't believe my fortune. This book was worth its weight in gold. It was, as Greg Palumbo and I for once agreed, true smut."
"I'm fascinated by people who have interesting relationships with their books. After all, anybody can just read a book, right" She laughed. "True. So… have you had any good relationships with books lately?"
"The first time I witnessed the Thrillhammer Orgasmatron in action was at Petal Snow's Third Annual Masturbate-a-thon. Seeing as I had just taught my own class on masturbation and now considered myself a masturbation instructor, I thought I should go out and see what others in the neighborhood were doing with the medium."
"I certainly never expected I would one day be attending a sex party with my boyfriend. Up until now, the closest I'd gotten to the elicit thrill of possibly getting caught in the act was when we did it in our parents' homes, in rooms that had no locks. Which, to be honest, was more stressful than thrilling."
"It was a stack of pages that had once been a book. The binding was completely gone, disintegrated, nonexistent. I saw it as a small miracle that I still managed to finish (and reread) it in this state; the pages were always together and in order. I cherished that book not only because I loved what it held in its pages, but because of its brokenness. Because of the miraculous staying power it had. I kept it carefully together with a rubber band, which I gingerly undid every time I wanted to open it. That was exactly how his copy of Frankenstein was: a stack of pages that had once been a book. And he was a stack of crazy that had once been a man."
"He gave me the shaft man!"
"We should all be so lucky."
"Don't you ever think about anything except taking it up the ass, Reynolds?" I stared out the window of my cubbyhole office at the air shaft that separated the two dilapidated wings of the crumbling building. "Yes. Sometimes I think about giving it up the ass." I swung around in my squeaky swivel. "When my mouth isn't full that is."
"Arturo, tapping at the page of his copy of Lolita, a well-worn, dog-eared paperback copy, brought her back to the room, leaving her wanton. They were discussing rhythm and sound in prose. There was certainly a lot of rhythm in that particular passage, like hands, and arms, and legs and bodies all over one another, like the kind of sex she had before she got pregnant.
"Her love was like a hickey on my heart. Even now, as I think about the time I have spent with her, I wince in a simultaneous pain and pleasure, blood coursing through my veins. Our love was painful, dangerous, but thrilling. She almost destroyed me. But she's fading now - fading into just a bruise, hopefully not a scar. I almost feel like I don't have to cover her up anymore."
"…as she turned both of their bodies away, he caught a glimpse of this own signature, faint and in reverse, over a white thigh. Best of all luck."
"You bring out the beast in me," guys say at school in the hallway. But wolves become human when they want and have. Or at least my dear, sweet Wolf does. Not for everyone, but just for me, when I tell him stories. This is how it goes. First the snout recedes, all the better to kiss me. Then his pointy ears change to shells that are perfect for my tongue."