The problem with literary men who write literary sex scenes is not feminism, or Katie Roiphe, or that literary men who write literary sex scenes have nothing but lousy sex to write about because quality sex often eats into writing time, but not always (but the people these literary men who write literary sex scenes about might not always be at the ready to provide literary sex, so). The problem with literary men who write literary sex scenes is that there's a completely imaginary line between pornography and literature, and pornography has no time for your posturing and your irony because people only masturbate sincerely, and literature has no time for the pleasure of anything but literature, and good sex rarely makes for good literature, and pornography only yields to awkward and painful sex by accident. So. The problem is, Meaghan and I just need to do a fucking book.

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