The Best American Erotica 2007

Introduction

Envy the young. Their beauty, their incomparable strength, cannot be bottled, as dearly as their elders try to squeeze a facsimile out of a jar or a needle.

Youth -- that petal before it uncurls, that curious morning dew -- what enormous potential. Anything is possible because nothing has been tried. Envy them? We want to gobble them up -- their very presence is an incitement, a rebuke to death. They are defiant.

But turn over the card. Power comes only with age, which elders have in spades.

You can't drive, you can't hold the keys, and you can't lay claim until you grow the fuck up. The very words "experienced lover" describe a life lived, adventures drawn upon.

Beauty and strength may open doors, but it's only wisdom that tells you how to cross the threshold.

When I was young, the phrase "generation gap" came into vogue. So did the thrilling insult of my old comrade Jack Weinberg: "Never trust anyone over thirty."

Those same baby boomers are rather testy these days, and trust no one. It's coming out in their erotica, as well as their children's.

The '60s generation, more than any before it, is outraged at the prospect of mortality and determined to beat it. No Olympian gods were ever so vain. They look at their offspring and feel a combination of possession, fury, and guilt. Love? Sure, of course. But I'm talking about the darker side of Zeus's parental ego, which among the boomer set is a constant battle with narcissism.

I speak from the cusp of boom/GenX. I've wobbled on both sides. I look at my daughter, and her beauty and vitality are so vivid I could faint. I want to lock her up -- no, I mean, I want to empower her. Actually, no, I want to scare her shitless. Oh, let's be honest: I'm scared shitless. My generation has melted the polar ice caps, looted the bank, and my inheritance to her is what?

I can remember myself at sixteen so clearly. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to fuck everyone, especially the interesting, self-possessed grown-up types. I had one girlfriend, similarly inclined, who became lovers with the an older New Left patriarch. The fellow was twice her age, with thinning hair, and I was skeptical.

She shushed me. "He's great," she said. "I can wake him up in the middle of the night and ask any question, and he will always know the answer."

Her thirst for knowledge wasn't what impressed me. It was "the middle of the night" that was so seductive -- those witching hours when only babies slumber.

When was the moment when our youth become aware of their charms, as well as their desperation? They seem younger now, although that could just be my mother talking. But look at our twenty-first-century culture. Every teenager knows the time to launch a career as a porn star is in the weeks following high school graduation. Celebrity journalism shows us that Hercules and Aphrodite will both be toppled in their early twenties without massive intervention. It's no wonder the commodification of good looks and muscles has wrought an erotic backlash.

Virginity. Authenticity. The natural pearl. These are what are idealized today, as well as commercialized beyond all recognition. Fake sex -- titillation -- is for sale; real sex is elusive and underground.