So, we proceed through the first dialogue, which contains a hint of incest, some men engaging in violent anal play (a girth of six inches rammed in without lubrication), and perhaps the finest description of a girl ever written in any language.
The audience? Those of whom have a classical education under their belts:
Dear brother, this is my bizarre fantasy: I wish to be the Ganymede of this new Jupiter, I wish to savor his tastes, his debaucheries, I wish to be the victim of his follies.
…I have chosen you…to cull the myrtles of Cythera, and Dolmancé to cull the roses of Sodom.
And the line that made me laugh:
…his bearing and his posture are slightly effeminate–no doubt, because of his habit of frequently acting like a woman.
If you were wondering, I still have a dearth of feeling. You know how, when you are sick, and you don’t want to eat or drink anything, but you know you must, that even if you are not hungry, your body needs nourishment? So you go through the motions, you pretend, you hope that with time you will heal. But for now, you know there are things you cannot fake, you must stay in bed, you must rest and sleep and wait. I’m faking all that I possibly can, but everything, joy, high spirits, anger, fear, desire, thrills, escapes me, in their stead a throbbing dullness that subsides only long enough to discover a stretch of still and uninterrupted sadness, punctuated by little puckering bubbles from whatever little worms are buried beneath, hiding, exhaling, leaving the glassiness pockmarked and sour, before the dullness sets in again. I somehow assume that it’s what I need right now, that there’s something else I should be doing rather than feeling.