an acute nostalgia for my ex who recommended it to me (also remorse and sexual inadequacy; perhaps it ended because i didn't fulfill her due to aspects of sexuality included in this book? i hope not desu); admiration for david cronenberg for capturing the tone of it so faithfully; doubt in my own abilities to discern aesthetic qualities in art, and worry that the viewing of the film first had tainted my reading of the book and made it seem like the film had absolutely captured the tone of the book, whereas perhaps my experience of the film had instead coloured the reading of the book and made it seem like that; admiration for j. g. ballard and his unflinching monomaniacal description of sexual fetishism in a relatable and artistic way that creates a fucking fever dream that's like nothing i've read, like a very specific and incredibly focused naked lunch that wasn't all over the place random spam, but instead an analytical focusing and exploration of one specific deviation
I turned towards Vaughan, floating with him on the warm amnion of illuminated air, encouraged by the stylized morphology of the automobile's interior, by the hundreds of radiant gondolas soaring along the motorway above our heads. As I embraced him, Vaughan's body seemed to slide up and down in my arms, the muscles of his back and buttocks becoming hard and opaque as I felt the changing planes. I held his face in my hands, feeling the porcelain smoothness of his cheeks, and touched with my fingers the scars on his lips and cheeks. Vaughan's skin seemed to be covered with scales of metallic gold as the points of sweat on his arms and neck fired my eyes. I hesitated at finding myself wrestling with this ugly golden creature, made beautiful by its scars and wounds. I moved my mouth across the scars on his lips, feeling with my tongue for those familiar elements of long-vanished dashboards and windshields. Vaughan loosened his leather jacket, exposing the re-opened wounds that marked his chest and abdomen, a deranged drag queen revealing the leaking scars of an unsuccessful trans-sexual surgery. I lowered my head to his chest, pressing my cheek against the bloody profiles of a collapsing steering wheel, the collision points of an instrument panel. I ran my lips along his left collar-bone, and sucked at bis scarred nipple, feeling the re-sectioned areola between my lips. I moved my mouth down his abdomen to his damp groin, marked with blood and semen, a faint odour of a woman's excrement clinging to the shaft of his penis. A zodiac of unfor-gotten collisions illuminated Vaughan's groin, and one by one I explored these scars with my lips, tasting the blood and urine. With my fingers I touched the scar on his penis, then felt the glans within my mouth. I loosened Vaughan's blood-stained trousers. His naked buttocks were like a pubertal youth's, as unscarred as a child's. The nerves in my legs and arms began to jump with irritation, my limbs flexing themselves in a series of nervous spasms. I crouched behind Vaughan, forcing his thighs against my own. The jutting carapace of the instrument binnacle presided over the dark cleft between his buttocks. With my right hand I parted his buttocks, feeling for the hot vent of his anus. For several minutes, as the cabin walls glowed and shifted, as if trying to take up the deformed geometry of the crashed cars outside, I laid my penis at the mouth of his rectum. His anus opened around the head of my penis, settling itself around the shaft, his hard detrusor muscles gripping my glans. As I moved in and out of his rectum the light-borne vehicles soaring along the motorway drew the semen from my testicles. After my orgasm I lifted myself slowly from Vaughan, holding his buttocks apart with my hands so as not to injure his rectum. Still parting his buttocks, I watched my semen leak from his anus across the fluted ribbing of the vinyl upholstery.
Some of the motifs got *really* fucking old and repetitive. >describing anything as chromium >i celebrated in the [CAR-PART/INJURY] a new [SEX-ACT] >we were both in car crashes, we're so compatible >the geometry of [SEX-ACT] >his/her firm buttocks
>>7577163 I read it when I was really young and thought it was great but I was an "edgy teen" back then so I don't know what I'd think now. I remember some of Ballard's short stories were pretty good though, like the one where the guy tries leaving the city but all the trains just go around in circles, and the one where society has eliminated time but somebody finds a stopwatch. Oh yeah, there was another one where nobody met in real life, they all had to make themselves up and communicate via screens because their perceptions of reality had been warped so much by entertainment that they considered that to be "normal." It was about two people who met in the end in "real life" and were so profoundly disappointed by the experience that they went back to the screens. That was pretty cool too.
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