First of all, it's Harold Robbins. It's Nancy Friday. It's "My Secret Life" and "Make Me" by Sonja Kindley. It's the "Readers Fantasy Forum" in Playgirl Magazine.
It's wet dreams. Rubbing off. Vibrators, body parts, lost souls, breaking hearts, dildos.
It's The Lover by Marguerite Duras. It's Georges Bataille, Anias Nin, and Anne Rice.
It's Fanny Hill, Fear of Flying, Goblin Market, and Lolita.
It's John Preston, Sera Gamble, Susie Bright, Richard Labonte, and Shanna Germain.
Imagine running naked through your neighborhood. It’s joy. Rebellion.
It's a buzz, coming out of the closet, a morning after kind of truth. It's spilling the milk, missing a step. It's not academic. It's cocks and cunts.
It's this age-old argument about art.
It's deciding whether or not to use a pseudonym.
It's prejudice. It's telling your son the truth anyway.
It's in the face of paranoia: it's a risk.
Friends say, you leave your car unlocked, your windows open?
Sex is the window to the soul.
Picture this: you're five years old
And trust somebody then he molests you.
Imagine every time you open your mouth your father beats you.
It's the Creation Story. It’s irrational, hopeful, painful.
Thanks to Alana of After the Pole for this prompt and image.
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