February 19, 2006

Whenever my love phones me from the depths of her loneliness, all I do is talk about cock. I’m an asshole like that.

“I don’t know about cock anymore,” I say in a quivery voice. “I’m not sure if I should keep posting it on the internet.”

“Do what you wish. I can’t stop you,” she says.

“It’s not that. I’m just worried that I fail to fully explore the aesthetic possibilities of cock.”

I go on to tell her that I believe in the sheer poetry of cock, the way it can stun our senses. I want my pictures to be raw and grabbing, I want them to break through those boundaries of good taste and civility and leave us standing raw and naked before each other. Cock should be the axe that breaks the sea frozen inside us.

“But all that is so agonizingly hard to convey,” I tell her. “After all, we’re dealing with an entirely different, throbbing aesthetic here, something right on the edge of pornography and irrelevance. And somehow you have to squeeze meaning and feeling in there.”

She just laughs, and later tells me about apparitions more monstrous than cock.