I lived through the AIDS crisis. I didn't have many partners, and I always played safely, and I made it through it one piece, and I continue to play safely because I hope to live a long time. During the 90s when so many men were dying, gay erotica was goddamned celebratory. Erotica writers fought hard to remind each other and their readers that sex could be hot, that bodies mattered, that respect and love and affection went hand-in-ass with sweat and spit and slamming bodies together.
There's none of that here. For a book on "erotica," the sex is often described like a camera's eye, as if you were watching it from the outside and the strongest impression you get are visual, with some audio thrown in if you're lucky. Most of the stories are in the first person, and the characters give you extensive stories of their laments, but rarely their pleasures.
Current Mood: thoughtful