There’s something – what’s the word – quintessentially English about this story of post mortem porn disposal. A fellow goes out and distributes his dead mate’s porn amid the hedgerows, culverts and copses of this fair land, to be rediscovered by a new generation of questing youth. (via)
Not that post mortem porn redistribution itself is a monopoly of this, our Island Kingdom, set in a silver sea. Chuck Palahniuk gave us the transatlantic version in his account of life as an AIDS counselor.
Just before he’d died, the woman’s son, the one with one leg, just before he’d lost consciousness he’d begged me to go into his old apartment. There was a closet full of sex toys: magazines, dildos, leatherware. It was nothing he wanted his mother to find so I promised to throw it all out.So I went there, to the little studio apartment, sealed and stale after months empty. Like a crypt, I’d say, but that’s not the right word. It sounds too dramatic. Like cheesy organ music. But, in fact, just sad.
The sex toys and anal whatnots were just sadder. Orphaned. That’s not the right word either, but it’s what comes to mind.
“Anal whatnots” has an English feel to it, but no. It’s the hedgerows that do it.
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