There is guilt, there is pleasure. I fear neither. If forced to choose between them, I prefer pleasure as it is much more versatile in today’s world, and I imagine the same held true in the classical world of English literature. The only difference historically is that the traditionalists were quick to dismiss any and all references to adult carnal enjoyment as merely “base” or, in the vernacular of Monty Python, “tinny, woody sausage.” The classicists knew which side of the plate their crumpets were buttered on, and in which unlocked bedrooms their favorite loyal servants slept. And, failure to rise to the occasion or not, there was always the penny dreadful guilt of it all.
But none of this was meant to keep anyone from living life to the fullest. In the time-honored tradition of merry olde Manchester, our boy Morrissey (yes, THAT Morrissey) is an author neither afraid of guilt nor lack of editing, nor of typing away whilst under the influence of a six-pack of Smith-Corona Light. Pleasure? Why not? Purple prose doesn’t get much purpler than this!
“At this, Eliza and Ezra rolled together into the one giggling snowball of full-figured copulation, screaming and shouting as they playfully bit and pulled at each other in a dangerous and clamorous rollercoaster coil of sexually violent rotation with Eliza’s breasts barrel-rolled across Ezra’s howling mouth and the pained frenzy of his bulbous salutation extenuating his excitement as it whacked and smacked its way into every muscle of Eliza’s body except for the otherwise central zone.”
Whacked and smacked. Yes. Words to tickle Tesco Vee’s testicles with the black feather of the bird that almost crowed “No, Nay, Nevermore…” I’m sure young Moz’s mum adverbially washed his mouth with soap one day and, no doubt, he liked the taste. But there’s so much and so many more as the 2015 Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction Awards will attest. Enjoy.