Our saucy tradition inspired by literature’s horniest fart fetishist

Erotic epistolary in the style of James Joyce and Nora Barnacle

Joe introduced me to the explicit letters James Joyce wrote to his lover, Nora Barnacle, while we were sitting at a dive bar on a mid-winter date night in Minneapolis.

We were tucked in a wooden booth - five-foot-tall walls on three sides of our unpadded benches. The lighting was red neon. There were open barstools, but we wanted to be alone. We drank mellow IPAs like we had on the dates of our first summer.

I wore a velvet mock-neck long-sleeve shirt but kept my fur hat on indoors because I was still chilly, even without a breathable layer. Joe kept his wool coat on. Its length bunched behind his back.

I can’t quite recall how the letters came up. The topic of the erotic was never far from us. Joe opened them right there - on his iPhone.

I remember the way his lip turned up on the right as he read this passage:

My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue come bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole.

I took my hat off as he read. He took his coat off when he finished.

Space between my husband and I is near nonexistent, but our imaginative erotic distance is vast. Desire is alive in my household.

We don’t need 1900s-era international travel to conjure our longing. We can evoke Joyceian erotic epistolary from the other room of our 770 square foot apartment. That’s precisely what we do for Valentine’s Day.

The letters we exchanged last week were particularly punchy, and I thought this love-loving community might appreciate a peek into our saucy, private correspondence. (As always at Happy Endings, the extra-explicit moments are only for paid subscribers.)

Note: as sometimes my Midwestern humor doesn’t come through a screen, these letters, though full of genuine lust, are laced with cheeky irony (isn’t that how the most vulnerable truths are revealed, though?).

Enjoy, love lovers:

My darling Joe,

There is hardly a moment in time that I don’t think of you. I sometimes wonder if you’ve inhabited my brain. As if you have upheld my deepest self, and I must check upon you in the present to be sure my own self is still standing.

My strong, brilliant man, how I treasure your body and mind. I admit to crawling into your side of the bed once I’m aware of its emptiness. Your sweat, dried, but the space still damp - not an appealing state, but because it’s yours, I am drawn there. I put my face into your dirt, your shed skin, your secretions, with no care for my own hygiene and beauty. You’ve made me forget my decency.

Joe, when you’re away, I miss you with a heartache beyond any I’ve known. A heart, starved of the companionship it lives off, hollowed out and convulsing upon itself, seeking sustenance. It’s been - I’ve been - fattened up by excess through these years with you. I’m soft. Oh, yes, how the thought of you makes me soft…