WRITERS-ON-WRITING MONTH: "Books! Books! Books!" Dep't: SEXYING UP THE CLASSICS BY JEFF BARNOSKY Turn Your Head Away from the Camera and Just Screw by Henry James The video held us, around the monitor, sufficiently breathless, except for the way too obvious remark that “everything was very green”, as the video of a young heiress experiencing her first taste of carnal fulfillment should essentially be, I remember nobody said anything until somebody chimed in with the thought we had all been thinking: “Wow, I think her tits are real.” The video, I probably don’t need to mention, was that of a shimmering yet shadowy beauty, much remarked upon in society and in the pages of the scribblers who chronicle the delicate trembling of her inner circle -- a revelation of a tacky, though admittedly sort of hot, embrace between two tortured lovers, clutching only long enough for a taste of true passion before the inevitable ringing of the cell phone, the realization that out there a life waited to be made fabulous, and a model named Fabrizio needed to be made out with even though he’s a little stinky. Someone in the room -- I hazard to guess that it was that total tool Doug -- tried to convince us to go to another site, something about certain members of the general, though not at all representative population, who wondered searchingly whether or not they were hot. Bunny LaBee, ScrewingHer Productions Superstar by Herman Melville At first, Bunny did an extraordinary amount of work in our office: filing things, bending over to pick up pens, going up ladders to get things on high shelves. Basically, things that needed to be done so we could see her love-knobs. One day, after a two-hour casting-couch meeting with a young starlet, beautiful but as untalented as human being can possibly be, I asked Bunny LaBee to come into my office. “Bunny,” I said, “could you watch that last audition tape I just did? I don’t know if this girl has what it takes to be a ScrewingHer Productions Superstar.” Bunny shook her head. “No, you won’t?” I asked. “I would prefer to do you.” “You would?” I asked in shock. “You don’t want to watch the tape?” “I would prefer to do you.” Ah, Bunny! Ah, Sodomy! Hearts of Hotness by Joseph Conrad Katrina Von Lings blew the native and left the cabin. The naked pilgrims were dining on each other in the mess-room, and I took my place opposite the McKinley twins, who spanked each other naughtily. Across the room, Kurtz leaned back, not yet naked, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his sexiness. Suddenly the manager's girl put her sweaty hand in his pants, and said in a tone of utter amazement: 'Mistah Kurtz -- he hung.' Hello, Come Hump Us by Philip Roth The first time I saw Brenda she asked if she could lick my balls. Lady Bird Johnson Is Not Dead by James Joyce A few light taps upon the ass made him turn to the widow. She had begun put to rainbow sprinkles on her breasts again. Yes, the tabloids were right: the former first lady was a sex freak. The newly mixed chocolate sauce fell quickly down her body, dripping off her saggy breasts, down her formerly taut belly. The sauce fell generally over Lady Bird. His soul swooned slowly, and his penis became rock hard as he watched it fall, like the fall of Saigon, upon all the hot and the sweaty. Notes from Under Her Mound by Fyodor Dosteovsky I am a horny man. I am a sick, horny man who likes to put his penis into bowling shoes and trumpets. I believe my prostate is the second coming of Holden Caulfield, though I believe that probably means that all of this ceaseless masturbation has caused me to not only become deranged psychologically but has reached into the deepest reaches of libido. I believe that Shirley Booth was the sexiest woman ever born of human hand. Death in Venice by Thomas Mann Gustave Aschenbach, or Van Aschenbach as he had been known officially since his fiftieth birthday, had set out alone from his house in Regent Park, Munich, for an extended walk. All the boys said his milkshake tastes better than yours, better than yours. Write to Y.P.R. Write for Y.P.R. Right on, Y.P.R.