I didn't understand what it was about men—not all men, but a good portion of them—that turned a good, solid “NO” into an “I'm just playing coy; try harder.

L and V, both angular. O and E, both vowels. Coupled together, like a couple of couples coupling and copulating, and you have love. All this talk of sex makes me nostalgic for the Rasputin era.

And in the stillness before dawn, on the brink if a war that could tear us apart, our auras danced and twined in the darkness, coiling around each other until they finally merged, becoming one.

Unrequited love has as much to do with sex as a pillow does. Sure, it’s often part of the process, but it exists on its own whether or not naked people are grinding into each other nearby.

The human heart is my territory. I write about love because it’s the most important thing in the world. I write about sex because often it feels like the most important thing in the world.

Fiction has been maligned for centuries as being "false," "untrue," yet good fiction provides more truth about the world, about life, and even about the reader, than can be found in non-fiction.

What exactly does that expression even mean? An ass that won’t quit? Think about the primary function of an ass—I’d think that’s the sort of thing you might want to quit.

We consciously decide whether to consider people; we fall in love despite ourselves; we entirely fail to fall in love with people who fall in love with us. It is a mightily complicated business.

The reason is that even in a fantasy there is nothing even remotely erotic about a toilet bowl. In fact, considered as an accoutrement to a sexual encounter, a toilet bowl is a real cold shower.

I know we planned to walk down to Schubert's for burgers, but can we go upstairs first?' She raised her eyebrows. 'What for?' 'Because I need to be inside you. Like...now.

In a world of twelve-years-olds in sexy boots and nans in sparkly mini-dresses, the surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel at Heathrow is to look for the lady in the designer suit.

Assuming that all ‘unschooled’ people to lack education is akin to assuming that a salary is the only means to make money, or, that a vagina or a penis is the only source of an orgasm.

I’m like Casanova meets Henry Ford. My reproduction methods are more like production methods one might see in a factory, complete with conveyer belts, mechanical assistance, and cheap labor.

Having no room of my own to "take care of things" had begun to weigh on me. I wondered if storing up semen would have a health impact on me, positive or negative, like shinier hair or weight gain.

He slides himself inside her, her heart is bursting. The pithy organic organ can't hold all that she feels for this man. When she reaches her peak, her brain supernovas, a small, perfect death.