Coco Mellors

“Anyway, in one of the essays he talks about being able to tell how giving a person is as a lover by how curious they are. You’re meant to actually count in your head how many questions they ask you in a minute. If they ask four or more, then they like to please.”
“And if they ask none?”
“Then you can pretty much assume they don’t eat pussy. Or, you know, dick, if that’s your bag.”
“Pussy,” said Frank quickly. “Is my bag.”
She gave him another of her amused looks.
“I sort of figured.”
“And you?”
“My bag? Dick.” She laughed, then tilted her head to consider this further. “Maybe with a side bag of pussy. But just a small one. Like one of those little clutches you wear to the opera.”
Frank nodded. “An evening purse of pussy.”
“Exactly. As opposed to, like, a duffel bag of dick.”
“A portmanteau of penis.”
“A carry-all of cock.”
“A backpack of boners.”

Reality was sweaty and ugly. It was deodorant stains on black clothing and cold sore cream and utility bills.

“When was the last time you were with a straight man, I’m talking any straight man, and he said something more interesting than what you were already thinking?”