Dear Agent Of My Dreams,
My novel makes Henry Miller’s work look like a sexual wannabe out on a new angle hunt. Makes the Kama Sutra look like (and I do mean look like, since it’s, as you may know, a picture book and all) the very visual daydreams of a bunch of newbies with pretzely ideas about how to do, you know…IT. (Plus their outfits, or piece of outfits, anyway, are nothing short of highly overdone, whereas I prefer the pictures in my reader’s minds to go straight to the buck-naked point.) My novel makes D. H. Lawrence read like the underlying prude he undoubtedly was, and as for this genre called erotica that people are talking about now, I mean, COME ON, you’ve gotta be kidding, right? Have you read any of those? Most of the people writing that schlock read like the only sex they’ve ever really had was in their own beds, lights out, covers tucked up to their chins, and they were in bed all alone, know what I mean?