Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightconductor) wrote2009-11-16 08:25 am
lightconductor) wrote2009-11-16 08:25 am
Entry tags:
Last of the porn. Probably.
I have finished the Victorian porn. It was... well, it was a fascinating read. It was enlightening, and hilarious, and sometimes pretty goddamn hot. So, all in all, worth buying. I regret nothing. I fear no shame.
Fun fact: because of the way I sort my books, it ends up on the same shelf as Doyle.
The last part of the book is dedicated to porny letters to the editor, and a column called "Dear Doctor Jonathan," a sexual advice column spliced with a side of Dear Penthouse. Basically, a small porny story followed by questions about people's sexual worries. Which Dr Jonathan then answers.
Apparently, the Oyster maintained during its run that all letters printed in its magazine were from genuine readers.
My favourite of these, a letter entitled "Let's Be Friends" (From Georgina Cambridge, c/o Rotherwick Lodge, Luton, Bedfordshire, dated May 1890) involves a young woman who tells this story of how, when at a party, she had a sexual encounter with another woman, and then a young man. Her question to Dr Jonathan has two parts.
1. Am I a lesbian?
2. Was I "wrong to let young Adam stick his prick up my bum?"
Dr. Jonathan replies that no, one sexual experience with someone of the same sex does not make you a lesbian. And there's nothing wrong with buttsex.
So do not worry simply because you enjoyed a sexual experience away from the established mainstream. I have always maintained that the whole experience of sex is greater than the sum of its parts, though every part has its pleasure and every pleasure its part. In normal love play, anything can happen -- and usually does sooner or later.
That's... actually good advice.
However, this pales in comparison with the other thing that catches my eye about this.
The author of our letter, and her female friend, sneak away from the crowded dancing of the party down to the stream in the beginning of the letter, and there is this scene.
I can't even offer commentary. It breaks my brain on too many levels. So I'll just give it to you, because I like to share.
The stream runs through a rather deep bank and as we clambered down we heard some rather exciting sounds emanating from behind a bush. Who should we discover there but Mr Oscar Wilde buggering a pretty young man who was in Lord Bourne's service.
'Mr Wilde, I thought you had turned over a new leaf!' scolded Clare.
'So I have, my dear,' panted the poet, thrusting his prick in and out of the poor lad's bum. 'Only I have begun at the bottom of the page!'
Fun fact: because of the way I sort my books, it ends up on the same shelf as Doyle.
The last part of the book is dedicated to porny letters to the editor, and a column called "Dear Doctor Jonathan," a sexual advice column spliced with a side of Dear Penthouse. Basically, a small porny story followed by questions about people's sexual worries. Which Dr Jonathan then answers.
Apparently, the Oyster maintained during its run that all letters printed in its magazine were from genuine readers.
My favourite of these, a letter entitled "Let's Be Friends" (From Georgina Cambridge, c/o Rotherwick Lodge, Luton, Bedfordshire, dated May 1890) involves a young woman who tells this story of how, when at a party, she had a sexual encounter with another woman, and then a young man. Her question to Dr Jonathan has two parts.
1. Am I a lesbian?
2. Was I "wrong to let young Adam stick his prick up my bum?"
Dr. Jonathan replies that no, one sexual experience with someone of the same sex does not make you a lesbian. And there's nothing wrong with buttsex.
So do not worry simply because you enjoyed a sexual experience away from the established mainstream. I have always maintained that the whole experience of sex is greater than the sum of its parts, though every part has its pleasure and every pleasure its part. In normal love play, anything can happen -- and usually does sooner or later.
That's... actually good advice.
However, this pales in comparison with the other thing that catches my eye about this.
The author of our letter, and her female friend, sneak away from the crowded dancing of the party down to the stream in the beginning of the letter, and there is this scene.
I can't even offer commentary. It breaks my brain on too many levels. So I'll just give it to you, because I like to share.
The stream runs through a rather deep bank and as we clambered down we heard some rather exciting sounds emanating from behind a bush. Who should we discover there but Mr Oscar Wilde buggering a pretty young man who was in Lord Bourne's service.
'Mr Wilde, I thought you had turned over a new leaf!' scolded Clare.
'So I have, my dear,' panted the poet, thrusting his prick in and out of the poor lad's bum. 'Only I have begun at the bottom of the page!'