Speaking of reviews, today in the comments of a Rage Against the Manchine post, I read this 1974 review by Angela Carter of Linda Lovelace's fictional autobiography, and it has provoked a great many thoughts in me.
In the service of the god, she has taken the repertoire of sexual display from the commerce and intimacy of the brothel and allowed her performance to be frozen upon celluloid, condemned to a sequence of endless repetitions. In doing so, she has removed any element of tactile immediacy from her exposition of the potentialities of the body and therefore completely defused the sexual menace implicit in her own person and her polymorphously perverse talents. And that menace is enormous. If she can engulf a foot, what else could she not engulf? The owner of the foot in his entirety? The world itself?
Because remember this essay I posted a couple of months ago about how horror stories sometimes feature monstrous symbolic vaginae that threaten to absorb the protagonists into an undifferentiated state of pre-birth or of death, the loss of physical boundaries, and also how fascinating the idea that videotaping sex removes from it the highly desirable quality of awe. I didn't say they were well-formed thoughts. Now I'm going to take a shower.