Erotica, Exotica, and Essays
April is the Cruelest Month
Breeding sunshine and taxes, mixing grand adventures and catastrophic computer failures... Can we call it fashionably late?
Meanwhile, we've been re-reading D.H. Lawrence (Lady Chatterley’s Lover) and indulging in a few ill-advised fantasies of our own. One of us is finding an old friend hard to resist, the other is inexplicably taken with an awkward, gangly youth some (ahem) years her junior. Fantasies only, dear readers, a truth that we have mixed feelings about. After all, there is little that is fun in being wise; but much risk that comes with being foolish. And so we are trapped between our urges and our good sense, finding solace instead in our reading and chagrined at our own caution.
But enough of our miniature dramas. We carry on to a beautiful little offerings of poems, and a new story from B.D. Fischer (an author that we always find particularly bewildering – we can never seem to explain to ourselves why his stories stick with us so effectively even when we are never predisposed to liking them. We wouldn’t mention this in such an open forum, except that we suspect that he rather likes the mixed feelings and the fact that we keep saying yes.) Be sure to stop by the sundries, as we have a new batch of peculiar over there too, and Aunt Corbin has addressed another question about sex that we’ve been too ashamed to ask.
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