Tuesday, April 19, 2011

On the Mystery of the Female Orgasm

I finished reading D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterly's Lover...

She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling and swelling till it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries.  The voice out of the uttermost night, the life! 

Am I right, ladies?

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