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Henri Goldberg Overview

born: 1980
born in: New York, United States
lives in:
All Henri wants to do is drink nice tequila and enjoy beautiful, smart women. But the world will have none of it. And so he's left screaming at the top of his lungs at the madness of it all.... [more]

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Excerpt from SPLAT

Few things make me sadder than knowing that a once potent memory has begun to fade, not in its factuality--I may remember all the details--but in its affective resonance: it no longer gets me going. I pine for the pining; I long for the lust. There is a great pleasure, a tortuous pleasure but a great one nonetheless, in feeling your body overtaken with a memory, to have the butterflies flutter in your stomach, the lips tickle your neck, to taste the shadow of a tongue in your mouth. You will never touch that flesh again, you will never know the scent of her on your fingers. But at the mere thought of it your body still quivers. This thorough kind of thought comes less and less as one ages. Soon, this longing resonance is exiled for good, replaced by relentless distraction which is, really, the abstraction of desire. It is the desire for the desire that takes the place of longing. And it is a pale replica, a poor substitute. This is why Tantric sex is reserved for middle-aged horndogs; it is an attempt to find pleasure where there is pleasure no longer. The popularity of Tantra among middle-aged northern California hippies is a desperate plea for longing, for total immersion in pleasure. And you know what? There may be a kind of thorough delight there. But it will never be, never even compare to, that unbridled abandon of yesteryear, when you rolled in the proverbial hay with your 15 year old sweetie, her flesh so pure, your desire so innocent, flesh merging, and there was nothing but great seething delight. No, nothing will replace that. Tantra tries, perhaps admirably, to turn its disadvantage to its advantage. Now, sex will not be abandon at all but absolute and total self-consciousness. We will not surrender to the unabashed melding of flesh; we will, on the contrary, amplify the awkwardness between us. We'll buy a book, study the pictures, read the idiotic prose; we might even take a class: "Tantric Loving for Couples," $375, please. This is admirable. This is the final attempt, the last gasp, of a libido on the wane, just before true sexual pleasure is all together gone. I've tried the Tantric thing. I've masturbated and breathed and pushed and pulled my kundalini up and down my spine, in and out of this and that chakra and, I have to tell you, it was nice. But it's not even in the same ball park as eating the pussy of my exquisite high school girlfriend, half Chinese and half Indian and one hundred percent pert and hot with big tasty tits and the most luscious cunt imaginable and my finger half way up her ass and my big thick Jew cock spurting across her belly and eight minutes later I'm hard again and pushing that cock into her pussy while I suck her perfect tits and I know—I know—that 10 minutes from now I'll be doing it again. That is the pinnacle of man's delight; that is the apogee of existence. Everything else, however meaningful and delightful, is descent. All the sad hippies with their grotesque bodies and ponytails and impressively illustrated books will not persuade me otherwise. Fuck Tantra. Give me my 16 year old self, give me my 16 year old hard on, my 16 year old readiness to be overwhelmed by desire. I dedicate myself now to mining the web for an image of what I once knew, some semblance of unbridled youthful lust, and I want to puke. Even as I write this, as I rant this, I can still barely make out the taste of my sweet Asian 15 year old's asshole. Man oh man, I loved sticking my tongue up her asshole. I'd never seen porn, not really. This is long before the internet when all I'd seen was a few moments of Marilyn Chambers giving a blowjob on a pool table. Don't get me wrong: watching those few moments, packed in a sweaty living room with 12 other adolescent boys, I came in my pants. But when I would stick my tongue up little Joy's ass—her name was Joy! I'm not making this up—it was not an attempt to resuscitate desire that had waned. It was not as if I'd tired of her perfect, tight, tasty pussy or her impossibly firm breasts or her luscious, delicious lips—oh, fuck, I could kiss her all day and be happy, happier than I'll ever, ever be again; no, when I would slide my tongue up her ass it was because I was so enmeshed with her flesh that eating her ass was continuous with eating the rest of her. I can see that perfect little asshole now and it makes me want to scream in the hope that if I just screamed loud enough, I might reverse time and find that impeccable ass perched inches from my big Jew nose where I could inhale it with utter and complete satisfaction. What a luxury that I can still conjure that luscious little gaping corn hole! The light of it is waning, I can barely make it out. But the fact that I can catch even the slightest glimpse is a source of incomparable delight. This is what is left to me, what is left of me: the fading light of a once great luminous asshole.


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