The Eroticism of Fat Men
“I don’t use women. I do what the poet in your novel does, I consume them by sight.” Curiosity no longer impelled him to discover “the unknown” inside a woman’s corolla of petticoats, to grope for flesh amid ruching and flounces and horsehair bustles. So peculiarly extraneous had women become that he hadn’t had sex in two years. Like someone “on whom love had been lavished,” he wanted no more of it.
By Frederick Brown