Sexeteria

It's rare that someone has a real talent for writing about sex. By that I mean, someone who can not just capture the stuff that gets us hot and hard or wet, but who can also make us feel the reality of it all as if you are right in the act with him or her, experiencing the complex web of feelings involved, both positive and sometimes negative. The dizzying pull of desire, the rushing groundswell of victory at the first discovery that, yes, he or she wants me, and he or she is about to..., the anxious persistence of the ticking clock hidden behind the wall of performance anxiety, the moment of "is this the right thing to do?" doubt, the spasm of pleasure that makes you lose all thought for a moment before it all comes flooding back, and it all repeats again and again and again...all the many things that may or may not layer on top of each other in one single moment, or during one single touch.

Anyway, you rarely find something that makes you feel it all. And I came across this short piece by poet and memoirist Nick Flynn in "Nerve," and I have to say, it was one of those rare lit-sex moments where I felt like I was actually in bed with him--not WITH him, as in being the partner in the story, but in his body, behind his eyes and ears and brain and nerve endings. And it felt amazing. Despite the fact that he was supposedly writing about bad sex. (Update: Nerve has switched this story over to premium members only, so if you're not a premium member, you won't be able to read the whole thing. However, I found a little bit more of it excerpted over here at Viviane's Sex Carnival, if you want to get a taste of it.)

If you like it, go check out his website, too. It's here. I hadn't heard of him before but it appears he has a really interesting memoir with a genius title: "Another Bullshit Night in Suck City." Just that alone makes me want to read it. So, go on, support a starving writer.

Another update: I've read "Another Bullshit Night in Suck City" now. It's worth buying.