Quite a Quote

Sleep now became so importunate that the man had never known such overpowering odds. It flashed into his mind that he was in fact dying. He felt weak, his head ached, and his breathing was labored. There was a dull ringing in his ears, yet he could still hear a thudding, a hammering. It was his heart.
     What might that bode?
     At that very moment the vixen uttered three long-drawn-out warning cries. This was to the east of the man, borne to him on the wind; they struck him like a gust.
     He jerked. Darting his eyes to the left, he glimpsed there a blue shape—it seemed to him a devilish coal-black beast.
     It vanished.
     Dead silence. Not even a heartbeat.
     Was he dead, then?

Sjón. The Blue Fox. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008.

Quite a Quote

     There was a time when my king thought of me before any other, when thinking of me was what hardened that instrument, that bold cock. There was a time when he thought only of taking me from behind as hard and fast as he could, as if by plunging deep enough, long enough, he could fuck his way into my soul. I love him with that painful, yearning kind of love that invades the body from some other place—could it be the soul?—and can only be satisfied by the act of sex. Back then, when he had me under his control, hands on my ass, fingers pressing into my flesh, I felt his love and I was happy. But these days he is distracted by her, by her, and her and her and her—by the great panoply of lovely creatures walking the earth.

Black, Wednesday. How to Train Your Virgin. Brooklyn: Badlands Unlimited, 2015.

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Passenger

For the Intermittent Writer

333sound

Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

The Wink

This Week in Kink

Zoë Tersche

Freelance writer focusing on internet freedoms and surveillance along with sexuality and gender in media and tech.