Ladies are these well-kept women. “Oh, she’s such a well-kept woman!”, they say.  As if being well-kept represents something of great value.

They never slouch, they step elegantly on their high heels, they don’t laugh loudly and don’t kiss in public. They are serious about what they do, they put a mysterious smile on their faces, just half a smile will do, actually. They notice men’s glances but pretend not to, they answer with a smile when they are offended and carefully treat every little part of their bodies with a beauty product.

* “The more effort they put into these little details, the more uptight they seem. [...]

Well-kept women get their hair, nails, lips, feet, faces, skin and hands done. Colored, lenghtened, painted, peeled, plucked, shaved, and lotioned.

They know how much work has gone into everything and they want it to last as long as possible.

Those type of women would never let themselves get all messy fucking.”

Which kind of means they never actually get to know what fucking is like.

* Charlotte Roche – Wetlands

“I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways.”

“I wish you would smack me or flog me even. Not in play, dear, in earnest and on my naked flesh…. I would love to be whipped by you, Nora love!…to hear you call me into your room and then to find you sitting in an armchair with your fat thighs apart and your face deep red with anger and a cane in your hand. I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt…I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.”

“Fuck me, darling, in as many ways as your lusts will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy…. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings or only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind…. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, with your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half slipping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me, if you can, squatting in the closet, with your clothes up, grunting like a young sow doing her dung and a big fat dirty snaking thing coming slowly out of your backside. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-made fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand in his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.”

Din scrisorile lui James Joyce către Nora Barnacle, mama celor doi copii ai lui.

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Stephen Joyce, nepotul lui, a făcut tot posibilul ca lumea să nu afle cum îi plăcea bunicii lui să fie futută în cur de către bunicul lui, aşa că a distrus documente, a refuzat publicarea scrisorilor, a mers prin tribunale, a ars hârtii, s-a dat cu capul de pereţi şi i s-au umflat venele de la tâmple. Toate astea ca să nu aflăm noi că James Joyce e încă şi mai minunat decât îl ştiam.

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It’s seven o’clock, the birds are singing. You’re wide awake whilst I’m still fast asleep.The sun was bright and the air was cool and as you stood there listening, the cat on the wardrobe started saying these words.

“Take her now. Don’t be scared, it’s alright. Oh, come on, touch her inside. It’s a crime against nature – she’s been waiting all night. Come on, hold her and kiss her and tell her you care. If you wait ’til tomorrow she’ll no longer be there. Come on and give it to her. You know it’s now or never.”

Yeah, the cat on the wardrobe has started saying these words.Your father had told you about the birds and the bees, but never about talking cats. So you ran away as fast as you could. I woke up and looked around with sleepy eyes. And the cat said: “I tried.”

I wish I was punished correctly. Profesionally. Ruthlessly, with elegance and no mistakes. With bonds that I could never untie. With a gag that would never let a scream escape.

Not to be able to move. Not a bit. Not an inch. Not at all. No matter how much I struggle.

With muddy cheeks pressed against the cold, wet pavement. The more I would try to move, the deeper the ropes would cut into flesh.

The buttocks would startle as if they had a life of their own, each time they would feel the sharp pain.

I wish all my skin was flushed and bruised and I was choking with my own spit. And my neck was clutched by two firm hands, which had earlier clutched my hair wildly.

Dirt and sweat would cover my naked body, as I wouldn’t be able to oppose the invasion. The assault. The desecration.

Then I would feel a little damn better, I guess. I could be able to enjoy the summer breeze brushing against my ripped skin and see the full fucking half of the fucking glass.

Cum stai dumneata,

Chiar în fața mea.

Ochii de la mine

Nu ți-i poți lua.

Ți-aș lega mâinile la spate,

Cu cătușe delicate,

Ți-aș șopti cuvinte

Mult prea deocheate,

Ți-aș face lucruri ciudate,

Printre dansuri deșucheate,

Ți-aș da sărutări forțate

Și te-aș mușca pe săturate.

Apoi ne-am ridica

Și am pleca,

Fiecare

La treaba sa.