In 1959, the French underground became obsessed with a smutty new novel, passing copies around clandestinely because the text was too hot to handle in bookstores. $15 at Amazon Emmanuelle by Emmanuelle Arsan Nobody had ever touched me there, not even me, I thought -oh God, I’m flying - and then I couldn’t think at all. The nails on those two fingers are much shorter than the others, I remember thinking, before they curved inside me, reaching what must have been the back, the spongy rootbed, of my grilletto, once, again, again. I felt them wet between my legs where she held me, the very pressure spread my lips. And then I watched her slide two fingers into her mouth slowly, saw how slick they got in the light. My body clenched again and I knew she saw. “Good girl,” she said, and I felt her tongue flick hot across me. Who knows -maybe next, you’ll want to try nude modeling. Slow-burning and sensual, The Last Nude will transport you right into Lempicka’s studio. The glittering libertinism of 1920s Paris comes to life here, but as naive Rafaela soon learns, Lempicka’s life isn’t as glamorous as it seems. The Last Nude fictionalizes Lempicka’s life through the eyes of Rafaela, the young American model and muse who becomes her lover. In Lost Generation Paris, Tamara de Lempicka made waves as a painter of highly stylized Art Deco nudes. $17 at Amazon The Last Nude by Ellis Avery And a special shout-out to those whose devotion to literature has not rendered them too stingy to flirt with their readers, to seduce them-in the end, even, to try to turn them on. (Consider this your obligatory reminder that Ulysses, the preeminent anglophone novel of the twentieth century, takes place on a date that commemorates the first handjob James Joyce ever received from his future wife.)Īll credit, then, goes to the following writers, who press forward in spite of the sniggering. Almost, that is, until you remember that prudence, no less than prudery, is the enemy of art. There are so many perils awaiting sex in serious fiction these days that you could almost forgive a writer for playing it safe and sticking to the merely suggestive. But today, what chance does Delta of Venus or Lady Chatterley's Lover stand against the HD pornorama we keep pouched within inches of our groin, the palm-sized box of wonders that would make a shah blush with modesty? Not a few leather-bound classics stood prepared, if we may borrow a metaphor, to offer a doorknob to the lonely, the frustrated, and those in the throes of desperate inexperience. Once upon a time, of course, even bad fictional sex had a rough-and-ready social purpose. Then she re-wet the knob with her tongue and found its place between her lips again, pressing tiny circles against her clit, then just tapping it there, liking how the warm metal began to stick to her skin, to pull at it a little each time." She felt the first wave of something good go through her, and her legs weakened. . . . She parted the lips of her pussy and pressed there, gentle at first, then less so, starting to spin the knob. "She raised one foot onto the sink and held the doorknob to her mouth, warming and wetting it with her breathing. For example, this hackneyed little hymn to domestic ingenuity, from Jonathan Safran Foer's Here I Am, published in 2016: Not for long will he be able to avoid an abrasive encounter with this sort of thing. A similar lesson awaits the young litterateur who insists that a good book should move not only the head and the heart but also the loins. We all recognize that the boy who develops certain notions about the compatibility of sand and skin from the swimsuit issues stacked next to his grandfather's BarcaLounger must soon discover the rough reality of forty-grit lovemaking. In theory, the setup seems the perfect illustration of the Reese's principle: two great tastes that taste great together.īut theory is not practice, and life, friends, is not a peanut-butter cup. On the other hand, there's the novel, an artistic enterprise devoted to making verbal sense of mute experience. On the one hand, there's, well, sex, a source of mystifying pleasure and profundity that for most people rarely elicits any articulation other than a contented grunt, groan, or gasp. Sex in fiction, like sex on a beach, ought to be a no-brainer.
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