Measured Extravagance

12 January 2002 - 5:56 p.m.

If you aren't in the mood for raunch, skip this entry. I'm going to be spending the next couple of hours writing out a bunch of lovelorn madrigal lyrics, so this one's all about sex.

I'll post my Blogger Code to provide of bit of breathing space:














(Plus, leatheregg lad seems to be a lively one from Boston, which means I just might keep him bookmarked... Thanks, Natalieeeee...)

Exhibits A and B: Two quotes from Anatole Broyard's Kafka Was the Rage: A Greenwich Village Memoir (last night's bedtime and this morning's lolling-in-bed reading):

If it hadn't been for books, we'd have been completely at the mercy of sex. There was hardly anything else powerful enough to distract or deflect us; we'd have been crawling after sex, writhing over it all the time. Books enabled us to see ourselves as characters - yes, we were characters! - and this gave us a bit of control.


...I thought there was something about the way New York intellectuals danced their attitudes. There was not much syncopation in their writing. They stayed too close to the bone and they had turned themselves into wallflowers.

I liked it better when writers danced. Even Hemingway, another clumsy man, knew how to dance. I can imagine even Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas dancing. Writer used to get more out of simply being. Even Edmund Wilson was always dancing. I remember a scene in one of his journals in which he went dancing alone. He couldn't find any of his friends, so he went to a dance hall on Fourteenth Street and danced with a hostess. And while there's something odd about that, it seemed to me that it was necessary to him to keep going, to throw an arm around life and move with it.

Exhibit C:

The funniest sentence I've read so far today: "Think of the clit like a tumor in a pile of ear lobes." From the surprisingly mostly sensible The Vice Guide to Eating Pussy, found via a link over at Mulher's lair.

My only major quibble with the Pussy Guide is with item #2 ("Don't Say Hi to Dry") - the author clearly hasn't encountered the fact that for some women (particularly as they get older), their capacity to feel arousal unfortunately outpaces their bodies' ability to self-lubricate - and that's where partner-provided lubrication comes in, my dears, whether it's Astroglide on the fingers or a good dose of saliva on the tongue.

Especially the saliva, actually, which brings us to Mechaieh's correction of #2: "If She's Dry, Find Out Why." If it is in fact you being a clumsy mutt, she should be telling you whether you're going too fast and/or what she likes instead (and if she doesn't trust you enough to tell you that, she shouldn't be going that far with you in the first place). If it's her, don't make a big deal out of it - chances are she's probably already somewhat embarassed about the fact that she isn't as conveniently and tellingly hot and damp like your average romance-novel heroine. Just take her at her word (or her gasps and her moans) that she's ready to go, and help her out, whether it's through judicious use of your mouth and fingers between her legs or through the contents of the bedstand drawer or whatever happens to be in the pantry (just remember that olive oil and latex don't mix).

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