As the pendulum of time measured in weeks slides to equilibrium position, those of us who find ourselves bound with the modern model of Moon's Day through Freya's Day cyclical employment can often find ourselves succumbing to Fatigue. It seems a miracle that in this day of near constant access to unimaginable quantities of (supposed) entertainments that any one of us can with any amount of honesty declare ourselves consumed with lassitude. Yet in many ways, while much of the tepid dross that Web-Editors deign to designate Content has been instigated with the very purpose of relieving said tedium, in actuality nearly the sum totalilty serves only to prolong and enhance said symptoms of lypothymy. Merely consider the miles of shallow, vapid prose detailing fabricated inanities concerning the idealized potential of your abs to verify my claims. In search of respite from this malady, many of the weaker willed amongst us turn to gratitfication of a more immediate and visceral nature, typically in navigation through the ample morass of penetrations and forced moans of pleasure easily obtainable by any with at least one finger and access to a public library(although those seeking exhilaration of a more specific nature can always turn to the binary equivilant of reams of smutty fanatical-fiction featuring the dubiously extrapolated carnal adventures of their most favored imaginary characters). Allow me to rescue you from this undesirable fate with yet another installment of intellectual smut.
Today's excerpt is from the collection Little Birds by the incomparable Anais Nin. Herself a devotee of D.H. Lawrence, Nin was a pioneer in the realm of modern female penned erotica and was herself a prominent figure in mid century artistic circles both american and continental. She is perhaps (unfortunately and unjustly) best known today for her appearance in numerous crossword puzzles and for fucking Henry Miller.
This woman's hair...it was the most sensual hair I have ever seen. Medusa must have had hair like this and with it seduced the men who fell under her spell...But it was not her hair alone. Her skin was erotic, too. She would lie for hours letting me stroke her, lie like an animal, absolutely quiet, languid...I used to like lying against her buttocks and caressing her, to feel the contractions of her muscles, which betrayed her responsiveness.
'Her skin was dry like some dessert[sic] sand. When we first lay in bed it was cool, then it would become warm and feverish. Her eyes-it is impossible to describe her eyes except by saying that they were the eyes of an orgasm. What constantly happened in her eyes was something so feverish, so incendiary, so intense that at times when I looked straight at her and felt my penis rising and palpitating, I also felt as if something were palpitating in her eyes. With her eyes alone she could give this response, this absolutely erotic response, as if febrile waves were trembling there, pools of madness...something devouring that could lick a man all over like a flame, annihilate him, with a pleasure never known before.
Well then.
