He felt violated? But, didn’t he do the penetration? And didn’t he say he liked it? This reminds me of a book I bought in Spain: The Phone by Will Self. It was a regular book by Penguin Press or so I thought. Black and white in its graphic presentation. But, it turned out it was a homosexual tome of brawny soldiers engaged in rough sex and narrated by a neurotic man. Frisk was another one, I read in a bookstore by Dennis Cooper that made me nauseated and to sweat and nearly pass out. But, I bought the book and wrote the author. I was concerned about the affect. Was this the determination of a great book, it’s viserality? This is a thing I argue that makes men who think it’s right to assault a woman justify themselves. After all, aren’t our lives just emotionally empty otherwise? We are enslaved by work? Made impotent by managers telling us to do more and more at minimum wage? I don’t like men. I love the soft underbelly of a woman, the way she looks, the way she stands, her words, her hands. There are these warnings: “Don’t give them money. You are worthy of respect. Run away from the very first sign of aggressive behaviour she shows.” But, my desires are so deep and profound, the wreck of Marilyn Minter’s paintings convince me of beauty. Sex is a mess sometimes. In the case of a man, the turgid tissue of his skin can reach with a blind eye to have it satisfied. Silence or isolation can make one person in an elevator speak his truth to the other person.