By Larry Tritten
Where pornography ends and literary merit begins is a question that has long vexed scholars of literary erotica. It can be answered graphically with several pages from The Notebooks of Gatling Wessex, the work of a self-avowed pornographer who has written about sex with an intensity and poetry that would rank him as a great writer in any other field. Wessex' career has been distinguished by an extraordinary level of craftsmanship. From the ambitious searching of early novels such as A Legend in His Own Pants and Knee-Deep in Nectar through the mature perversity of middle-period novels such as Blondes in Brass Brassieres, Pig-Iron Panties and Galvanized Garter Belts and Slaves of the House of Pancakes to the experimental boldness of Post-Holocaust Proctologist and Corgi and Bess, his work has always illuminated sexuality with literary deftness. Here, for the scholar of eroticism -- or the merely horny reader-is a selection from his recently published notebooks.
"Ouch!" he gasped.
"Relax," she whispered. Her tongue made its debut below his waist. It seemed as if a mouthful of hummingbirds had been released upon his shaft. fie watched wide-eyed, then narrow-eyed, and then with his eyes squeezed shut but his mind's eye resuming the view as her tongue whirled, swirled, skipped, skittered and flickered across the pulsing catwalk of his cock. As the sensation sweetened, the nerves in his cock began a tactile tinkling, like wind chimes in a sirocco. His buttocks oscillated. Her nostrils flared. She suckled him with vivid passion and, as lie watched, her mouth became a churning vortex into which lie feared he might be drawn and vanish, cock first. In the meantime, time froze solid, then a few aeons thawed slowly, one at a time; and the next thing he knew, he was climaxing with a series of sensations like high hurdles leaped against a driving wind, and she was making a sound like a somnolent turkey backed into a table fan.
"I say that man is innately sensual," Colander said, unzipping his pants and waggling his fingers with comical vulgarity at his hostess across the crowded room as he spoke, "that as long as he has an appendage, he'll look for vacancies to fill; and as long as he has access to an orifice, he'll look to its tenancy. After all, nature abhors a vacuum..." He left the sentence resonating in our minds and, as if to demonstrate his point, drew a throbbing erection into view and soared off in its wake toward the nearest blonde.
During the 60th second of their lovemaking and with the 120th stroke of his phallus (each one embellished by a stylish sideways twist on the backstroke), Karen had an orgasm so powerful that she felt totally subsidiary to it, which meant, she supposed, that the orgasm had really had her -- she was its, its clearly subservient and spectacularly sentient servant; and then, all at once, the neural whirlpool into which her senses spun her became more chaotic as another and continuing orgasm jerked and jolted her this way and that, reminding her of the clunky banging of an unruly washing machine's rotator near the end of a spin-dry cycle. Yet she herself was no more dry than monsoon earth -- she was in a briny sweat, and all of her vulvar musculature was vividly wet with interior leakage, like the inside of a pink submarine whose seams are beginning to burst inward from skillful depthcharging.
"Say it," she said.
"I want you," he gurgled.
"On your knees, litter brain," she cannonaded. He was there at once, and she extended one leg, the sole of her leather boot directly at his lips. She had been to the theater, and the bottom of the boot was brindled with dried cola syrup, a single jujube bonded to its surface, the ruby candy crushed and blackened from her walk through the slums.
As his affenpinscher might, he tugged at the candy with his teeth and would have had it, too, if a sudden Charley horse hadn't seized her, spasming her leg and throwing her to the floor, where she went through a series of thrashing convulsions, massaging and hammering at her leg frantically until the pain slowly dissipated.
"Time out," she whimpered, and he knew the mood had been lost.
"Who's your favorite analyst?" she asked.
"Rank," lie said, smiling. "Otto Rank. Who's yours?"
"Horney," she said, returning his smile. "Karen Horney."
"Rank," he mused.
"And Horney," she grinned.
They gave each other a nosebleed in their rush to fuck.
In the Cimmerian darkness, he would have to find her by the scent alone, that was the game; and in a 40-room chateau, it would not necessarily be easy -- yet the moment it began, his olfactory nerves were tingling with the distant bouquet of her sex, that ineffable fragrance of burnt sugar, shellfish buffets and storm-flagellated dahlias when the winds bore away and a pale gilding of sunlight brightened them. The molecules of smell seeming to sparkle in his nose like the effervescent bubbles of a carbonated drink, he was virtually drawn along by his nose, and he found her finally on the second floor in a bedroom, supine and ready, the hot magnet of her redolence pulling his face into the palpy shoals of her cloven vulva with a soft adhesive bunting of lips and chin; and it was in that glorious moment that he sprained his tongue yearning for her cervix, for his tongue was, alas, somewhat shorter than any other part of himself with which he had also failed to touch the gossamer bottom, the ultimate oyster with its apocalyptic pearl just beyond reach in the sodden abyss of the cozy chasm.
"Oh, wow," she gasped in the aftermath, her face ashen, cunt rumpled, her eyes bluer by a shade. "Where'd you learn to give head like that?"
He grinned. "Took lessons," he said. "From a lesbian yogi. She could tumble a hassock with her tongue. Why? Ya like it?" But he was already talking to a corpse.
Novella had a penchant for duplex sex (as she called it): taking one penis into her mouth while another impaled her vaginally or anally. She'd come a long way, she thought, since those virginal days when her sex had been like a studio apartment visited only by a familiar thumb or forefinger, which loved the ambience and stayed for hours on end.
During timeless nights, she taught him all she had learned from the Incarnadine Countess and her Carnelian Acolytes. Where once he had startled her by buffing his penis on a razor strop while readying for a set-to, now the tricks she could show him made that seem like a trivial novelty: Her cloister had become a veritable machinery of agile musculature whose soft wheels, resilient rollers and subterranean gizmos commenced a turbulent pulsating and clutching that astonished him with its precision-it was like a gilding of the very lily of sentience, and in its throes it seemed as if his penis were a celestial cud being worked and reworked by the mouth of some divine bovine; he felt as if the neutons all along its sultry length were being irradiated and marinated in a sort of effervescent salt brine. She belabored him with her cunt: Her mobile vulva chewed him over methodically, like a loving dog with soft electric teeth, and when she had achieved her own orgasm, which he recognized by a gaudy cry like that of a peacock flushed from cover by a Fauvist gamesman, she brought him off as well with a sudden series of muscular tugs and primpings analogous to those of a mother urging her son onto a public school stage for a holiday performance.
She came for the first time not with a bang but with a whimper. But by the end of their honeymoon, she would bring psychic luggage for each orgasmic journey, monogrammed and covered with travel stickers from Xanadu, Shangri La, Valhalla and, of course, Baton Rouge.
Concussion! Convulsion! Haroldine undulated with orgasm, coming in great whopping spasms, coming, coming, coming, coming, coming, coming, coming and coming again (after all, the sign on the door had suggested it!), and as the roaring waves of release carried her onto the hot beach of fulfillment, she felt more erotically pleased than she had ever felt before, as if she had just stepped from a solitary confinement cell, been ushered into a lilac Rolls-Royce and driven along a jungle highway where all the trees dripped sperm in the aftermath of an extraordinary storm that would have every bird and animal staring skyward for days to come.
It was in her nighttime dreams that her daydreams came true. There, freed from the cold bondage of her priggish upbringing, her hothouse fantasies blossomed in candy colors: She crawled through an orgy in a pitch-dark room, tasting everything she touched until the flavors made her brain ring like a holiday bell; she performed a fantastic cartwheel through a constellation of stars and blue moons onto a cosmic buffet table where she lay amid the viands and desserts, dappled with sauce, prinked with flecks of celestial mayonnaise and meringue and sweet adhesive gravies, herself the pièce de résistance for the gods and goddesses who began to jostle one another in competition to taste her hot and savory corpus; she drank ginger beer from the black-leather boot of a countess while the lovely lady's toe tickled sparks of orgasm from the tender tinder of her clit; and she swung on a braided golden rope across a huge ballroom where a host of naked lords and ladies played a roistering parlor game on all fours, dropping herself carefully and with unerring accuracy onto an uptilted erection that her plush sex encapsulated as smoothly as a velvet glove did a well-manicured hand.
Without women, Grayson learned, men do strange things. In the twilit yard, he came upon a heavy-set man from Prague who had tricked up his penis in a little dirndl and sketched a likeness of a female face on his glans. He was engaged in the act of trying to bob his mouth down low enough to- kiss the minuscule face-and that with a bad back, as Ivan would later point out in the infirmary.