Snatch is an ugly word,” I say. “Like it’s going to rip my dick off. Yeah—that is an ugly motherfucking word. But pussy? It just sounds soft. Cuddly. It sounds wonderful. Pussy. I love that word.

I didn’t know you were such a light-weight. I would have cut you off, Love Lump.”I make a face, digging the bottle from the couch cushions. “Light-weight? This motherfucker is gone. Light-weight. Come lay on me. I’ll slap your sweet pussy swollen.

What did they want from it? Lechery, smut, confirmation of their worst suspicions. But perhaps some of them wanted, despite themselves, to be seduced. Perhaps they were looking for passion; perhaps they delved into this book as into a mysterious parcel - a gift box at the bottom of which, hidden in layers of rustling tissue paper, lay something they'd always longed for but couldn't ever grasp.

They had not yet learned to draw the significant but often very fine distinction between smut and pure science.

Since Betty was on the pill or took precautions of her own which Graham did not choose to enquire into, the marital bed was untrammelled by tedious prophylaxis so that what Graham had been expecting to find an onerous and even distasteful duty unexpectedly partook of a freedom and absence of restraint that he found exhilerating.

Even if I only wrote erotica, I wouldn’t care what you have to say. I make people happy! Blake and I provide readers with fun and entertainment and an escape from their lives, which is a damn good thing because life is hard and really sucks sometimes. Life isn’t a fairy-tale and not everyone in gets a happily-ever-after, but in our book world they do.

...apparently "London" gave out my address! that's what they're saying...not just London, though! Brazzaville, too!...and said that I'm a dirty pornographer...a letch besides being the most despicable traitor of the century!...I'd make a urinal blush! that what we need is to cleanse France and the French language of this smut-writing, demoralizing, grammaclast who's sullying our sacred homeland and its literary heritage!

Me, shooting smut in the back of a speeding van with two white girls--bald cunts, panties around their ankles--is a game of "Pin the Felony on the Negro" waiting to happen.

That’s what all art is for. Your creations can become anything to anyone. I’ve realized there’s nothing wrong with letting people escape for a few hours. Plus you should hear about all the sex lives I’m saving.

Who is she? Who is this girl who would allow me to do this, here, now? And how am I allowed to have her?