I will hold my mouth to his ear, as if I were a polished seashell, so he can hear the sea inside me—welcoming him. I will pause and look at him—up into his face. I will steady myself in his gaze, catch the low sun of his cock between my smooth, white thighs, and explode into shine. I will look at him and think, I have spent this man’s body and I have spent it well.

DEBRA BOXER

on “Innocence in Extremis,” first published in Best American Erotica in 2002

“Innocence” was distilled from a two-hundred-page unpublished novel that I wrote in a kind of fevered frustration over the span of a year. It was a story that I wanted to read but couldn’t find—so I wrote it myself. I was trying to make unbearable feelings bearable. It worked. I said exactly what I wanted to say.

Not long ago, I came across an essay that I wrote for school when I was eleven years old called “The Meaning of Success.” I realized that I’m essentially the same in my thirties as I was at eleven. And that’s exactly how I feel when I read “Innocence in Extremis” today, ten years after I wrote it. I’ve been through irreversible changes and galvanizing experiences, but I’m still the same person I was when I wrote that story. It’s both comforting and heartbreaking to me.

The Program

G. Bonhomme

You probably first saw the ads on the subway. Grinning guy in a tux, supermodel hotties draped over him. “Get with The Program”; or the other one, “The Program That Made a Man Out of Jerry.” You might have puzzled over it for a moment. Some exercise thing, probably, or a drug like Viagra? Or any bullshit product advertisers claim can get you laid. Still, though, the way the guy in the tux looked: commanding. Rolling in sex. You’d swap lives in a minute.

The poster had some of that fine print at the bottom like they do when they’re pushing something your doctor has to prescribe: “The Program is a course of cognitive-behavioral biofeedback therapy for the treatment of severe interpersonal interrelation adjustment disorders. Use only as directed. Ask your doctor if The Program is appropriate for you….”

Then the doors opened, and you shuffled through with the crowd and forgot all about it.

The first time you vividly remember hearing about it was at the bar. A real looker was sitting there nursing her drink, blond hair down to here, slinky white dress, big ripe tits—the kind you’d love to get your dick between. The guys had been watching you eyeing her and you’d had a few, and with them egging you on you went for it. Somewhere between the booth and the bar, though, the rough edge of the bravado faded, and instead of just showing off for the guys, you found yourself really asking: