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Atleast my kids are not at walmart shoplifting hunni
RHOP Season 7 TRAILER! Season 7 premieres October 9th 8/7c
RHOP coming into S7 with 5/6 OGs is amazing! Plus Katie will make guest appearance... These ladies are golden HWs. Period. DOT
Crystal, Kyle, Rinna and Erika are showing their public support for Diana…
DEAR HOUSEWIVES WHO CLAIMED THEY DIDN’T WATCH THE SHOW PRIOR TO JOINING:
Beverly Hills needs a Sonja to liven things up. This show is so darn boring.
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They have all posted Ashers video on their IG stories… goes to show where and who they stand behind…
Crystal definitely doesn’t have the same energy for Diana, the way she had for Sutton… I said what I said…
They never have fun. They argue and fight and pretend they’re friends. I need some serious Turtle Time old timey fun.
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By The Esquire Editors Published: Jul 15, 2022
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An uncensored guide to quality smut.
Sex in fiction, like sex on a beach, ought to be a no-brainer. On the one hand, there's, well, sex, a source of mystifying pleasure and profundity that for most people rarely elicits any articulation other than a contented grunt, groan, or gasp. On the other hand, there's the novel, an artistic enterprise devoted to making verbal sense of mute experience. In theory, the setup seems the perfect illustration of the Reese's principle: two great tastes that taste great together.
But theory is not practice, and life, friends, is not a peanut-butter cup. We all recognize that the boy who develops certain notions about the compatibility of sand and skin from the swimsuit issues stacked next to his grandfather's BarcaLounger must soon discover the rough reality of forty-grit lovemaking. A similar lesson awaits the young litterateur who insists that a good book should move not only the head and the heart but also the loins. Not for long will he be able to avoid an abrasive encounter with this sort of thing. For example, this hackneyed little hymn to domestic ingenuity, from Jonathan Safran Foer's Here I Am, published in 2016:
"She raised one foot onto the sink and held the doorknob to her mouth, warming and wetting it with her breathing. She parted the lips of her pussy and pressed there, gentle at first, then less so, starting to spin the knob. She felt the first wave of something good go through her, and her legs weakened. . . . Then she re-wet the knob with her tongue and found its place between her lips again, pressing tiny circles against her clit, then just tapping it there, liking how the warm metal began to stick to her skin, to pull at it a little each time."
Once upon a time, of course, even bad fictional sex had a rough-and-ready social purpose. Not a few leather-bound classics stood prepared, if we may borrow a metaphor, to offer a doorknob to the lonely, the frustrated, and those in the throes of desperate inexperience. But today, what chance does Delta of Venus or Lady Chatterley's Lover stand against the HD pornorama we keep pouched within inches of our groin, the palm-sized box of wonders that would make a shah blush with modesty?
There are so many perils awaiting sex in serious fiction these days that you could almost forgive a writer for playing it safe and sticking to the merely suggestive. Almost, that is, until you remember that prudence, no less than prudery, is the enemy of art. (Consider this your obligatory reminder that Ulysses, the preeminent anglophone novel of the twentieth century, takes place on a date that commemorates the first handjob James Joyce ever received from his future wife.)
All credit, then, goes to the following writers, who press forward in spite of the sniggering. And a special shout-out to those whose devotion to literature has not rendered them too stingy to flirt with their readers, to seduce them—in the end, even, to try to turn them on.
Call Me By Your Name evokes feelings familiar to anyone who’s ever had a crush, like fantasy, fear, shame, anxiety, and tormenting lust. Set in the luscious Italian countryside, it narrates the vivid interior life of Elio, a teenage piano prodigy who falls hard and fast for Oliver, the American graduate student summering at his family home. Fans of Luca Guadagnino’s film adaptation know the story’s excruciating ending, but still, the novel is well worth a read—in Aciman’s telling, Elio’s psychological torment is downright scorching, and the iconic peach scene is way dirtier, too.
It would never have occurred to him that in placing the apricot in my palm he was giving me his ass to hold or that, in biting the fruit, I was also biting into that part of his body that must have been fairer than the rest because it never apricated — and near it, if I dared to bite that far, his apricock.
In Lost Generation Paris, Tamara de Lempicka made waves as a painter of highly stylized Art Deco nudes. The Last Nude fictionalizes Lempicka’s life through the eyes of Rafaela, the young American model and muse who becomes her lover. The glittering libertinism of 1920s Paris comes to life here, but as naive Rafaela soon learns, Lempicka’s life isn’t as glamorous as it seems. Slow-burning and sensual, The Last Nude will transport you right into Lempicka’s studio. Who knows — maybe next, you’ll want to try nude modeling.
“Good girl,” she said, and I felt her tongue flick hot across me. My body clenched again and I knew she saw. “Very good,” she said. And then I watched her slide two fingers into her mouth slowly, saw how slick they got in the light. I felt them wet between my legs where she held me, the very pressure spread my lips. The nails on those two fingers are much shorter than the others, I remember thinking, before they curved inside me, reaching what must have been the back, the spongy rootbed, of my grilletto, once, again, again. It had a back? I’d never known. Nobody had ever touched me there, not even me, I thought — oh God, I’m flying — and then I couldn’t think at all.
In 1959, the French underground became obsessed with a smutty new novel, passing copies around clandestinely because the text was too hot to handle in bookstores. The novel was Emmanuelle , the steamy story of a young expat in Bangkok who moves from the arms of her husband to the erotic charms of his business associates. It’s a sensuous fantasy, but also a provocative meditation on hedonism and polyamory. The novel has since spawned two sequels and a smash hit softcore film, with another adaptation on the way starring Lea Seydoux. Clearly, the aftershocks of Emmanuelle still linger.
She held back her orgasm, effortlessly and without frustration, because she had trained herself since childhood to prolong the pleasure of waiting. Even more than the final spasm itself, she loved that growing sensitivity, that extreme tension of her being, which she knew so well how to give herself when she was alone, and her fingers stroked the trembling stem of her clitoris for hours, with the lightness of a violin bow, refusing to yield to the supplication of her own flesh, until at last the pressure of her sensuality broke through. The explosion was as terrifying as the convulsions of death, but she was always reborn from it immediately, fresher, and more alert than ever.
The editors of this book gathered 27 erotic stories by 27 acclaimed writers—and then removed the authors’ names. As a result, sorting through these tales of obsession, fantasy, and domination is as much a delicious guessing game as it is a stimulating reading experience. From funny sex to bad sex to out of this world sex, there’s something here for every reader.
I remember the sweaty, musty smell of the bed in the morning, after we’d spent the whole night wrecking it, the scrape of your dry knees against my thighs as you parted my legs. The way you bit my collarbone, bit my lip and the tips of all ten fingers. I remember your enormous hands sliding down my back, thinking, Does my back curve like that? How nice to feel so much of me, so much forgotten skin, at once. The way you threw me into fits of laughter by growling at my flesh like the meat. When we fucked, the sweaty hairs between us rustled and merged, our mismatched colors, and I thought you might crack my pelvic bone.
"Instead of pathologizing kink, the stories in this anthology treat it as a complex, psychologically rich act of communication,” Garth Greenwell and R.O. Kwon write in their introduction to this titillating collection. Those words are a manifesto for the fifteen stories herein, each one a captivating portrait of human connection and desire. In one devastating standout by Brandon Taylor, an architecture student pays his bills by summering with married couples looking to spice up their sex lives; in another memorable story by Kwon, a man attempts to fulfill his wife’s desire for pain, even though it makes him uncomfortable. From bondage to exhibitionism to humiliation, these kinky stories honor their subjects while raising heart rates.
The third time, he was anxious, sulky, his narrow mouth drawn like a tightened stitch. He was leaving the next day, he informed her. She did not feed him. She did not give him a glass of water. She told him to lie on the floor and touch himself. She lay on the sofa, where he only had a partial view of her. “Stop,” she said. Then she masturbated to climax, not caring or even thinking about what noises she might be making. Afterward, she could feel him there, shimmering with desire and frustration. His frustration was not a problem for her to fix, though that idea rung familiar, like a song wafting from the window of a passing car. She sat up and looked at him, there on her floor with his cock in his hand. He was the last man she would ever have fucked. He wouldn’t call once he left, she thought. Or maybe he would call incessantly. She didn’t care. Her not caring was voluptuous, sensual. It was a most substantial absence. It filled her like a good meal. She had had enough.
Obviously Portnoy's Complaint is the easy choice here. But Roth connoisseurs know that Sabbath's Theater is where the real action is. The novel opens not long before Mickey Sabbath, a sixty-year-old puppeteer, loses his Yugoslav lover, Drenka Balich, to a pulmonary embolism. The book is Roth's great song of rage: rage at life, rage at death, rage at the mores that get Sabbath fired from his college teaching job after he has phone sex with an undergrad. (A footnoted transcript of the call goes on for twenty-one pages.) Self-aware enough to diagnose itself as "the discredited male polemic's last gasp," Sabbath's Theater is also furious enough to keep up the fight.
"Even dead, Drenka gave him a hard-on; alive or dead, Drenka made him twenty again. Even with temperatures below zero, he would grow hard whenever, from her coffin, she enticed him like this. He had learned to stand with his back to the north so that the icy wind did not blow directly on his dick but still he had to remove one of his gloves to jerk off successfully, and sometimes the gloveless hand would get so cold that he would have to put that glove back on and switch to the other hand. He came on her grave many nights."
Make Degradation Sexy Again—or Bad Behavior, as the cover has it—proves that Gaitskill is still our foremost literary authority on whips, bondage, and sadomasochism. Her landmark collection resists facile sermons and cartoonish kink. Her men are brutal and unredeemable, her women hell-bent on absolution through annihilation. If that setup leaves you craving a walk on the (very) wild side, we hope the dungeon masters and dominatrixes you encounter aren't half as cruel as Gaitskill's.
"I shouldn't be doing this, he thought. She is actually a nice person. For a moment he had an impulse to embrace her. He had a stronger impulse to beat her."
In What Belongs to You, the narrator reminisces about an early sexual encounter: As a youth, he was forced to watch a boy he loved fool around with a girlfriend. The narrator, hurt but aroused, recalls the "combination of exclusion and desire I felt in his room, beneath the pain of exclusion the satisfaction of desire." Sometimes, he says, "I think it's the only thing I've sought." Now teaching in Bulgaria, the young American finds the exclusion and desire he was looking for in Mitko, an endearing hustler he pays for sex. Their relationship ultimately reveals "how helpless desire is outside its little theater of heat."
"There wasn't a lock on the door, we could have been interrupted, and maybe the risk heightened my pleasure as Mitko pressed his whole length against me, placing his feet beside mine and leaning his torso into my
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