i love the authorial voice: friendly, confiding, half thinking out loud. best pieces are on philip k. dick, macron, the dice man. i did not know he wrote so much on sex -- here's a long excerpt from the eighth of the pieces he wrote for an italian magazine:
I thought back to my previous columns and said to myself that for someone who’d been hired on the basis of his reputation as an amiable pornographer, I’d been remarkably chaste up to now. Flirts with no tomorrow, lame blind dates, ruminations about the fear of commitment; lucky that in the meantime I’d fallen in love or, to be more precise, fallen back in love with the woman I left six months ago. She loves not only to make love but also to talk about it, two things that conventional wisdom deems contradictory (the more you talk about it, the less you do it), but on this point as on many others I distrust conventional wisdom. On the contrary, I believe that sex and talking go exceedingly well together. I like it when a woman tells me about her sex life, the ways she desired the men she desired, what she did to them, what they did to her, what their cocks were like. You can say an element of homosexuality is in all of that, I won’t take offense: I agree completely. As the time for writing this article was approaching, I consulted my lover: a thousand words, give or take a few, with a little sex thrown in. Any ideas? She had several, enough to fill a couple of columns. Here’s one:
“I was at a disco once, with some friends. There were a lot of people, it was dark, the place was packed. I’d been dancing for a long time and had come back to talk with a friend at the bar—well, talk: I mean form words with my mouth that the music and noise prevented her from hearing—and laugh with her because we couldn’t understand a thing. I’d drunk a bit, I was wearing a skirt and standing sideways at the bar, other bodies pressed up against mine but it didn’t last long, just in passing. Then something that must have been a hand settled on my butt and stayed there. I moved, shifted my weight a little, but the hand kept up its pressure. I analyzed the situation: a guy’s got his hand on my ass. Even without any whole-hog feminism it’s a gesture you associate with a lousy come-on, one that merits a rebuff or even a slap in the face. Normally you send a guy who puts his hand on your ass packing without much further ado. But this hand had—how to put it?—something friendly about it. It was firm but not clumsy, insistent but not indiscreet. It was warm; in fact I was happy it stayed put and wasn’t discouraged by my faked twitches of annoyance. I was also happy not to know who it belonged to. I continued to talk, and the hand that I had done nothing to discourage felt encouraged, the fingers slipped under my skirt from the waist, first the fingers, then the whole palm. Sure, everyone was squeezed together, still I wondered if anyone could see what was going on: a hand had slipped inside my skirt and now was rubbing against my panties. I moved to ease its way, and in any case from where it was the hand couldn’t fail to grasp that I was excited. It started caressing me—very well—and the whole time I kept talking to my friend, wondering if you could see on my face that an unknown hand was making me come. The funniest thing is that since she was standing in front of me, she must have seen the man or woman behind me who was fingering me so well.”