The first porno book to touch my hands was THE ITCH by Steven Hammer. I must have read the Olympia Press paperback 3000 times between the 1965 and 1969. The author’s blue tales of trisexual liasions between aristocrats warped my tender libido and I rejected virginity as a value.
Here’s a passage from that great tome.
She doesn’t know what she says, her warm fingers along my thigh.
“We could escape,” he said. “There’s still a lot of that fifty grand.”
“Where would we go?” she whispered. “The Magnums have armies.”
“Besides,” she went on, “you know how you are. You’d tire of me after another week of this connubial bliss. We both have this drive.”
“Itch,” he corrected. “The child’s itch for self-destruction.”
“A lovely way to die,” she said, turning to kiss him closely.
When they broke apart, his head seemed to have cleared.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll go through with it. But we’ll have to live together, always. The rest will be sorties. We’ll be gods who land occasionally to copulate with the mortals. After all,” he said, “we’re strong and beautiful.”
She laughed.”Yes,” she said, and recited it after him like a spell, “we’re strong and beautiful. It should be a full year.”
These books were supposedly written by famous authors down on their luck.
They were very good and as Gore vidal said, “The reading of pornography only leads to the reading of more pornography.”
The old queer certainly had it right.