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Please Read This Excerpt from My Important Male Sex Novel

A Male Writer shares a few select passages from his upcoming novel, "Boned," which bravely tackles the oft-ignored subject of an older man who wants to have sex with young women.
Image via Stocksy / Mosuno

There was a time when the great American male novelists took delight in writing about sex… Sex was freedom, sex was adventure, sex was a good time, sex was pain, sex was life. Masturbation, threesomes, pedophilia, extramarital flings, one-night romps: It was all up for grabs, and how they grabbed it. In these more tentative times, male literary novelists tend to shy away from such strong stuff. - The New York Times


Well this is very frustrating. John Colapinto, a 57 year-old staff writer at the New Yorker, is about to release Undone, a 400-page work of "literary devilry" centered around a middle-aged man with a unique quality: a fetish for teenage girls. Obviously I'm thrilled that the theme of men desiring sex with the naive and nubile is finally getting the literary revival it has long deserved. Mr. Colapinto is an American hero, an artist willing to ask the vital question: what if an older man wanted to fuck hot teens?

While I, like the New York Times, applaud this feat and welcome this new work, I'm also annoyed to discover that a subversive novel where "virtually every page is saturated in the theme of male desire" is being published mere moments before mine. After publishing a book of personal essays with a small press, the natural next step was to publish a scandalous, exciting novel reviving the lost art of male erotics. Please find below a few bravely perverse passages from my upcoming novel, Boned, taking bookstores from behind summer 2016:

- Riding the subway every morning was an ordeal for the professor. The seasons had recently changed, and the coming of spring had coaxed some young teenagers' breasts into being. They had emerged around the same time as the tulips in his backyard, the ones his bitch wife planted before leaving him for her so-called "obvious reasons." Now he couldn't stop staring. All these young women just flaunting their bra straps on the L. Sometimes he would see the top of a thong, or the whisper of areolae under a thin blouse. It was hot. Hot for him.


- The 21 year-old bounced up and down on his 57 year-old dick. "Wow," she moaned, the essay she'd come to ask for help with now crumpled on the floor. "My friends are going to be so jealous. This is unequivocally what I want." The professor knew she was telling the truth, and that's what made the fucking they were doing so truly hot.

- The stripper smiled a kind smile, the club's roving lights glinting delicately off her braces. "It doesn't matter that your dick doesn't work all the time," she said softly. "I can tell it works when it counts." Her fishnet outfit—and her honesty—were both pretty hot.

- All three women in the bar were crying. The professor could not stand to see faces so beautiful and innocent contorted in such wet sadness. Draining an entire glass of whiskey (like it was water, like it was nothing), he crossed the bar and sat on the edge of their table. "What's wrong, angels?" he asked. A deep red crept across the faces and bustlines of the women. "You tell him, Sandra," the blonde said. The redhead could not meet his gaze. "Chrissy, please. You do it." Chrissy, a demure brunette, rose from her seat: "This is the first fight we've ever had as friends," she admitted. "Normally we can handle any disagreement, but none of us can agree on who wants to fuck you the most." "I do, Chrissy, don't be a bitch!" the blonde screamed. "You FUCKING WISH, Allyson!" shrieked the redhead. Soon, they were clawing at each other's bodies on the floor, vodka waters smashed all around them. The professor had to admit that he liked seeing it and it was hot.

- Five or six years ago the professor had made the active choice to start losing a bit of his hair, as a courtesy to those who might otherwise be too intimidated by his achievements and general air to approach him. He combed his artfully thinning hair and looked at his phone: 69 texts. The hot number.

- The feeling within him was rising, stronger this time than ever. He was a fraud. Walking around all day, not admitting the reality of his life to those around him. And why should he not? What was stopping him from grabbing a megaphone, from climbing a rooftop and shouting: I think young women are sexually attractive and I would have sex with them if they would let me! He was no coward. The professor sat down at his computer and began to type: I am starting this blog so others need not live in fear. Soon the world would know the truth that burned inside him. Despite the warm humidity of the night air, he shivered. Things were about to get hot.