In the genre of sad erotica, main
characters are tired and smell bad.
They feel too fat or too thin, too old,too young or too middling. They touch
their bodies like they handle a heap of laundry.
They're hungry but too tired from work
to cook. Could be no one's there
to cook for them. Or someone's there
but mutual indifference grinds
the ambience like a glacier.
Oh, a bath would feel great but only after
booze or weed. Food delivered?
Microwave launched, cans slashed open?
Leftovers devoured like a dog's breakfast?
They sleep in front of a screen and wake
up confused, then vacant. So where's the
erotica? Well, maybe as bath or shower
stimulates flab and muscle, they think about
sex! They think about what sex might
bring. Oblivion of lust, the feeling
of being someone (well, something,
anyway) someone wants to touch. Alas,
in sad erotica, grotesquely realistic,
people get out of the shower and dry
themselves and put on cotton, linen,
or wool. Likely worn several nights
in a row. They walk slowly to a bed
or couch and fall, exhaling like beasts.
In sleep, maybe dreams of purple
romance, sizzling mystery, and molten
sex will riot. Finally, some action.
