Category / Sex

by Edward Champion

A Short List of Words That Inexplicably Turn Me On

From today’s edition of TMI Linguistics:

  • librarian
  • sizzle
  • crackle
  • Molly (and yet, strangely enough, I’ve never dated a Molly; likely because I’m terrified that the frequent use of this word in my presence (“Can I get you something, Molly?”) might cause me to move too fast)
  • Almost any word with two Ls, except “Lolita” and “flagellation.”
  • muffle (but not “muffin,” which sounds vaguely pederastic)
  • pink slip (Fortunately, I’ve never been handed one. Or else the prospect of termination would become strangely alluring.)
  • recherche
  • splendiferous
  • lap
  • stipple
  • comfort (in both noun and verb form; it is often confusing when women in particular refer to “comfort food,” as I suspect that these folks may have some interesting fetish that I’d like to find out about)
  • wrinkle (only in verb form and in a highly specific context)

[SIDE NOTE: Would it be too much to ask for them to come up with a sexy word for intricate and orante? “Baroque” sounds like someone has just replaced the washcloth with a Brillo Pad without your knowledge and “rococo” reminds me of a certain cereal I didn’t care for as a child (that had an obnoxious bird mascot nonetheless).]

by Edward Champion

Cronenberg Has Seen “Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life” One Too Many Times

Contact Music: “Eccentric film-maker DAVID CRONENBERG shocked his cast and crew on the set of new movie A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE, by publicly performing sex scenes with his wife. The director hoped his explicit displays of affection with his wife would help stars VIGGO MORTENSEN and MARIA BELLO, who play man and wife in the film, feel more comfortable during their sex scenes together. But, instead, the Cronenbergs just left everyone on the set stunned.” (via Jeff)

by Edward Champion

“Where Are the Litblog Groupies?”

The last time I went to the bookstore, I produced my business card to the sexy and bespectacled young lady behind the counter shortly after informing her that she had the most beautiful tits that I had ever seen. I was, of course, tactful about this. I did not, for example, use the word “beautiful.”

I told her that I was Edward Champion and that I ran one of the greatest literary blogs the Internet had ever seen since September 30, 2005. She asked me what century I thought I was in. I answered, “The 21st.” She then told me that I was a hundred years behind the times, knocked the wind out of me with a hard and painful chop to the jaw, and had several impecunious teenagers (scrawny young men whom she referred to as “co-workers”) using their diminuitive muscles to throw me out of the bookstore. There were five attempts to push me through the door, but all tries proved useless until the last one, when these two gaunt co-workers threw me onto the sidewalk without losing their breath. One whapped me with the latest issue of Marie Claire the entire time to keep me appropriately stunned. His ruse worked. I was then photographed by the young lady and added to a “Megan’s Law”-style database of men who hit upon attractive bookstore clerks.

As any of my readers know, I got into the litblog business for the chicks. My love of literature, if any, was tertiary at best. Like other people, I expected this young lady to allow me to feel her up or offer a Linda Lovelace impression simply because I was entitled to it. Was this really a mistake? I was a litblogger, dammit! Where other people earned their way into bed through an osciallating combination of charisma, caring and alcohol, was not I, as a litblogger, deservedly on the fast track system by default?

Didn’t my obsession with literature entitle to me to complimentary rolls in the hay? Women I didn’t have to pay for? At the very least, she might sell her story to The Sun and find out if litbloggers were, as the rumors suggested, worse in the sack than some of our most shameless septuagenarian whoremongers, who also doubled as men of letters and were eventually published by the Library of America shortly after their penises dessicated into an unusable state and they eventually met their maker.

Say what you like about being a litblogger and a cad, it leads to a wide spectrum of silly things to write about. Now, whenever I write a blog post, however much I might be looking forward to exposing some literary news development, once I see the “Publish” button in my blog software template, all I can think about is the one time I sat at my computer and jerked myself off silly, simply because I was bored and had run out of books to read.

I had apparently spent the night alone: I had apparently stripped down to my socks and sprayed aerosol cheese over the whole of my body. I then called a friend and asked if he knew anyone could lick the cheese off, ideally wearing a Wonder Woman costume. The friend then told me that I was a sick reprobate and refused to speak with me again — even after I sent him complimentary tickets to a ball game, as well as a 312-page letter of apology.

Maybe in America, the litbloggers with sexier names than mine, Gwenda Bond, Mark Sarvas, Maud Newton, are rock’n’ roll enough to spend better evenings than this. They are probably more focused and they have probably never touched aerosol cheese in their lives.

Have I gone too far?

by Edward Champion

The Christian Science Monitor: A History of E****** — First Draft

Some scholars have suggested that it all began with a 1749 novel written by John Cleland. The novel’s title was composed of two words: The first being a slightly naughty term for one’s, uh — how shall we put it? That thing you sit on. The second being more acceptable for the Christian ear: namely, “Hill.” However, this hill must be clearly distinguished from the immoral “thrills” one might find on another “Hill” immortalized in rock and roll music. Or perhaps not. It’s clear that the parallels here are inevitable. I must warn you, dear reader, that should you spend at least five minutes contemplating this issue, you may find yourself spending most of the weekend praying to God for forgiveness.

This book, written by Cleland when he was in debtor’s prison, was the first e***** novel. It depicts a certain young woman’s initiation into things we really can’t talk about in this publication. Let’s just say that Ms. Hill, the eponymous character, wasn’t exactly spending all of her spare time cross-stitching.

One might argue whether these unspeakable actions should even be put to pen. The risk of offending so many people clearly outweighs the value of rationally discussing what some have argued to be an everyday and harmless issue.

And yet, almost cavalierly, the writers couldn’t refrain from writing. There were volumes penned by Frank Harris in which this ineffable subject was broached. D.H. Lawrence, thought to be innocent enough with his classic story “The Rocking Horse Winner,” demonstrated his true colors and ineluctable perversion with “Lady Chatterley’s L****,” causing at least four septuagenarians to have cardiac arrests before they had finished reading the first chapter. And then there was that Henry Miller guy who wrote about what shall henceforth be referred to in this essay as It, banging out descriptive passage after descriptive passage of It It It with all the gusto of a man who hadn’t discovered the advantages of tight breeches…

[Whoops! Did I just write that? Editor, please strike.]

…with all the gusto of a man who hadn’t discovered the advantages of, uh, abstienence.

Soon, e****** became a cottage industry. Together with its less steamier cousin, the H******** romance, everyday readers became drawn to cheaply produced paperbacks that not only featured vivid descriptions of It, but dared to suggest It with muscular, long-haired hunks [Editor: Is that too much?] rescuing ripe beauties clad in diaphonous clothing [Oh come on, Editor, you asked me to write about it!].