A friend is writing a book and I am angling for a spot on the "Acknowledgements" page, somewhere above the line that begins "And to my cat, Fluffy, my gratitude for continual keyboarding interruptions without which this ponderous tome would have been completed on time anbd I wouldn’t have had to return the publisher’s advances." Speaking of advances, I ran across this review of Doctor Alex Comfort’s 1972 hetero-didactic volume, "The Joy of Sex."
Here’s an excerpt…
But are we avoiding intimacy with all this Twister-like, ‘place one hand behind his neck and the other on your big toe?’
Sex
is absolute contact - or it can be. It is a private language and more
like Braille than print. You read your lover’s body and you write it
too. Sex is a fiction as well as a documentary - it invents the lover
and it describes the lover. It is imaginative act.
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