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A collection of musings, prose, quotes and short stories with a romantic and erotic nature. From the heart of a Gentleman. For all those in love, those who have lost love and those that hope to find that one love.

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From the heart of the author, romantic, sensual, passionate, erotic raw and honest. Add to Cart. Keats longed for a brighter word than bright ; Written on the Body calls for a more luscious word than lush. This revelatory crossbreed of prose poem, erotic ode, and philosophical text unspools like silk and offers surprises at every turn. What begins as the story of an affair—the gender-ambiguous narrator falls for a dying married woman—hurtles into an arousing dreamscape of exaltation and loss.

She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there.

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I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. She's refilled each day with fresh tides of longing. Here come the sexy bits. But when Charles Highway finally wins the good graces of Rachel, whom he's been lusting after for a hundred-plus pages, he's kind enough to warn us about what is soon, ahem, to come. Eliot—assisted climax. It hovers for a full quarter of a minute, then lands, soft but firm, on her cunt. Minot's short story chronicles the coming of age of a boarding-school coed. Boys and girls in thrall to heady new hormones make out in empty swimming pools, in cars, on couches, and at parties.

As Minot's searing vignettes roll through and across the decades—the rockabilly jives of the fifties, the camping trysts of the seventies, the strobe-lit fraternity bacchanals of the eighties—they form a tableau that can feel timeless. But in an era of murky sexual politics, this gutting deconstruction of what is politely called "young love," in which each affair hurts more than the last, has never felt more contemporary. I lay back with my eyes closed, luxuriating because he knew all sorts of expert angles, his hands never fumbling, going over my whole body, pressing the hair up and off the back of my head, giving an extra hip shove, as if to say There.

This extraordinary novel, a retelling of the Don Juan story, follows a rake's progress through Europe on the eve of the First World War.

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Written by the British art critic, essayist, and novelist Berger, who recently died at ninety, it's shot through with rich visual language, ominous invocations of the social and political forces about to tear the world apart, and erudite meditations on the nature of love, sex, and desire. Oh, and a few crude drawings of penises. When he enters her, when this throbbing, cyclamen-headed, silken, apoplectic fifth limb of his reaches as near to her center as her pelvis will allow, he, in it, will be returning, she believes, to the origins of his desire.

The taste of his foreskin and of a single tear of transparent first sperm which has broken over the cyclamen head making its surface even softer to the touch than before, is the taste of herself made flesh in another. This can never stop, she whispers, slowly and calmly. Set against the backdrop of the Prague Spring, The Unbearable Lightness of Being examines the relationships of four flawed, capricious lovers. Sex, adultery, and intimacy appear in terms both romantic and realistic.

In one instance, you're awaiting an impending orgasm during a character's ill-advised tryst with a stranger. In another, you're contemplating the mechanisms of sewage systems as she takes refuge in the nearest bathroom. The pain and beauty she and the other characters encounter offer a master class in sensual metaphysics, one that stimulates more than just the physical senses. She hated that distance. She wanted to merge with him.

That is why, looking him straight in the eye, she insisted she had not had an orgasm even though the rug was fairly dripping with it. David Foster Wallace once quoted a friend who'd described Updike as a "penis with a thesaurus. But when you're searching for a story of sexual indulgence, is a thesaurus really so unwelcome? Cue Couples, Updike's tale of confession, lust, and melodrama within a circle of scandalously adventurous friends in small-town Massachusetts. Written soon after the advent of birth control, it offers an enthralling celebration of the sexual revolution. She went down on him purring; she was a minx.

This was new, this quality of prostitution, of her frankly servicing him, and taking her own pleasure as a subdivision of his. Her slick firm body was shameless yet did not reveal, as her more virginal intercourse once had done, the inner petals drenched in helpless nectar. She has even fielded calls from America. Apart from some P. James, Thomas Hardy and A. Still, perhaps we should not be surprised by any of this. The Wellington WI, launched two years ago, conforms to the modern template, where wine tastings and reiki classes are as likely to be on the agenda as baking.

Jerusalem is not sung. Jam is not made.

My poem "Erotica" read to you by me, Rowena.

Locally, the fruity story has been mostly well-received. There used to be a brothel down the road.

50 Must-Read Erotic Fiction Novels, Anthologies, And More

I bump into Michaela Warham, 46, at the Backstage hairdressers. One Wellington resident is not impressed, however. She reads right to the end of the tale.