2 December 1909, 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin.

My darling

I ought to begin by begging your pardon, perhaps, for the extraordinary letter I wrote you last night. While I was writing it your letter was lying in front of me and my eyes were fixed, as they are even now, on a certain word of it. There is something obscene and lecherous in the very look of the letters. The sound of it too is like the act itself, brief, brutal, irresistible and devilish.

Darling, do not be offended at what I wrote. You thank me for the beautiful name I gave you. Yes, dear, it is a nice name ‘My beautiful wild flower of the hedges! My dark-blue, rain-drenched flower!’. You see I am a little of the poet still. I am giving you a lovely book for a present too: and it is a poet’s present for the woman he loves. But, side by side and inside this spiritual love I have for you there is also a wild beast-like craving for every inch of your body, for every secret and shameful part of it, for every odour and act of it. My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or to fling you down under me on that soft belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the open shame of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you as you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.

You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.

Nora, my faithful darling, my sweet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! my little fucking whore!) you are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark-blue rain-drenched flower.

JIM

James Joyce
Letter to twenty-five-year-old Nora Barnacle
Selected Letters of James Joyce
edited by Richard Ellman

male fantasies

June 30, 2019

Hey, I see this 30 Million-Year-Old Praying Mantis preserved in a pristine piece of Amber. It reminds me of male fantasies – male fantasies about themselves and women and everything else. Fuck, the whole world is run on male fantasies: every man wants a nymphomaniac virgin who thinks of nothing but satisfying others and fucks like a Maschinenmensch; they want a Goddess to set-up on a pedestal, or force down on her knees. A pornographic priestess who fucks the whole night through. And women have to be able to take whatever is dished out to them – they even have to pretend they aren’t catering to male fantasy,  which in itself is a fucking male fantasy! Women are reduced by male fantasy to gynoids that serve. Like Wonder Woman giving head on demand,  and pretending she has a life of her own outside of male fantasy. But it’s not true. She doesn’t, because she submits to male fantasies, accepts them, partakes in them, becomes a disembodied voyeur watching herself in a starring role centred in – male fantasies.

always voracious

February 23, 2019

The low-maintenance woman, the ideal woman, has no appetite. This is not to say that she refuses food, sex, romance, emotional effort; to refuse is petulant, which is ironically more demanding. The woman without appetite politely finishes what’s on her plate, and declines seconds. She is satisfied and satisfiable.

A man’s appetite can be hearty, but a woman with an appetite is always voracious: her hunger always overreaches, because it is not supposed to exist. If she wants food, she is a glutton. If she wants sex, she is a slut. If she wants emotional care-taking, she is a high-maintenance bitch or, worse, an “attention whore”: an amalgam of sex-hunger and care-hunger, greedy not only to be fucked and paid but, most unforgivably of all, to be noticed.

Jess Zimmerman
Hunger Makes Me

bite you hard

August 5, 2018

I want to tie you down and blindfold you, then run my teeth over every inch of your body and mark it, bite you hard. I want to talk dirty to you, call you a dirty little whore, remind you how filthy and needy and easy you are until you’re hard and whining for me to touch you. I want to pound you into the mattress as I stroke your cock, fucking you hard and relentlessly until you’re crying for me to let you cum. God, I want to hear you beg for it, beg like a little slut to cum.

Gray Wolf

April 9, 2014

peggy