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In my early teens, I heard about Naked Lunch and its mutating typewriters and talking cockroaches. While I would hardly classify its dystopic vision as erotica now, at the time, Naked Lunch was my first foray into consuming smut. It was because of Burroughs that I knew about the particular musk that blooms when a rectum is penetrated, and that death-by-hanging produces spontaneous trouser tents. The first Burroughs I read was Naked Lunch, but I buried myself in a few of his stories, and thus the arc of my recollection is just as non-linear as his narrative. ↗
His hold is tight, our fingers are laced, and he’s occasionally rubbing circles on the top of my hand with his thumb. These small gestures definitely make handholding seem more like an art. ↗
It is conceivable that a party might gain the majority in parliament and claims the government for itself. ↗