Why I Don’t Write Erotica

i’m far too private a person to write erotica here and i feel uncomfortable reading it unless it’s performed by a relative such as my great aunt ethel or my cousin eddie but let’s have none of that hawaiian shirt salesman on ocho islas this morning, alright alright alright? but ethel who, ‘tho seriously dead now, in ’58 received an at-first idle but nonetheless fetching request at a tri-bi-rho sorority hazing that blossomed over overtime into a series of paid erotic reading and performace gigs at the sarah lawrence campus student union when they were both north way south of the city and the college was as yet experimenting with boysgirlsboysgirlsgirlsboys together finally, finally, tho well before anything co-eddy-official & ethel enticed her roomie eunice allison carpenter to be a part of it rub her all eunicey liquidy pumice that’s hot hot lava yum so when wendel the upper east side banker-congressman’s son-with-the-lashes offered ethel that gig well it lasted quite a long time because they shot photos sepia/b&ws/colors and made etchings of wendel’s wondrous willie (& ethel’s nifty nilly) & while there were no mass methods for copying pictures then as  now jpgs.jpgs they etched ‘n sketched and wood-burned ‘n copied into hipster consciousnesses by the tens of thousands a production line and distributed on the streets of lower manhattan to the point where their thumbs and yums got gouged and sure i still have that scar so wendel invited ethel over for what he called eros but she was barely conscious, leading to what could only be called a bohemian evening in a bohemaniacal coffee-house well before i invented greenwich v. & this is how my great aunt ethel and i invented erotica 

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