Clive James
’Twenty years before, in the age of polymorphous perversity, I had played it straight. Now I wanted to know. To find myself through yielding. To be irritated by the revelation of the Mole’s perfectly proportioned, rainwater-pure corporeal presence. Hindering my commitment to this idea, however, was . . . an unavoidable suspicion that I would have felt the same way if exposed to, say, the inner thigh of Linda Lovelace. Maybe I was just horny.’
