[ week 18 | 33 ]
Hot girls and glittering clits.
Thursday, 18.39
(Is it problematic, he wonders auctorially, to name what are essentially at the moment or at the very least growing to be the Hugos [Silver and Gold] of internet prose erotica after a region of erogenous geography pertaining solely to the female? —Remembering that the male and female equipment is topologically identical [much as a chicken and an egg, or a coffee cup and a donut], and allowing as how “the Golden Glans,” though it has alliteration to its credit, does not have euphony, not by a long shot [to say nothing of Silver Glans; ick], to say nothing of the general if generally unacknowledged worship of the Phallus that plagues our culture to an overwhelming degree (though that is admittedly different)—I would have to say, Not really, but I am perhaps in the minority insofar as keeping firmly in mind said similitude [imagining for a moment all those nerve endings compacted into a much smaller space, volume-wise—put on a hick’s voice: “Dayum. That shore must pack a wallop”], and redress never plays like the original, and anyway there’s always unforseen ancillary effects to consider: the Female is still the Other, the Animal, the Somatic, the Body, the Sexual, the Clit; the Male—but what of him? [He watches, of course. Reads. Consumes. Winds it up and sets it loose. Yeah, baby.])
Critical reaction up till now regarding the ninth installment of Cuyahoga had been (and I quote its entirety): “DAMN them girls is hot.” (It was from a source whose critical overtones can—trust me—be taken for granted.)
Now, it seems, it’s been nominated for April’s Silver Clitoris. Vote for it if you like, and check out the current field of nominees, and go find something else and vote for it, too. You can nominate as much as you want as often as you want, after all. Until noon on the seventh of May.
So go on out there and find some good smut. (Girls, boys—who gives a fuck?)
[ # ]
A suitable epitaph.
Tuesday, 19.09
Should you ever need one, here’s the catalog of index listings for Flaubert, Gustave from Geoffrey Wall’s biography of that famous parrot-owner:
“Æsthetic mysticism; alleged sadism; artistic intransigence; attitude to marriage; castration complex; celebrity and influence; chevalier de la Légion d’honneur; death; debts; dogs; fatness; hallucinations; interest in history; masturbation; modernity; pleasure taken in books; pleasure taken in travelling; realism; recitations; romanticism; sexual abstinence; sexual initiation; sexual passion; syphilis; use of prostitutes; views on book illustrations.”
I commend it to your attention as an admirable map of a life well-lived. (With the possible exception of the Legion of Honor bit, but I’m sure you can find your own suitable alternatives.)
