We are always surprised by the banality of the perverse, by the limitations the body places on sexual activity, by the commonplaces of the erotic imagination. A subject so intensely charged ought, it would seem, to come up with more when it erupts in public view. The paraphernalia of fetishism should be more exotic than leather, chains, boots, and fur. One wants the Black Mass to be more chilling than it is. Only events like those British child murders, which occur from time to time, are truly shocking—and they, like the excesses of the Roman amphitheatre, fall more into the category of blood than flesh. We are not much interested in blood as entertainment these days. Perhaps we have been satisfied, even sated, by the daily life of the cities, the evening news on television, the events of last year, and the repeated promises of mass blood on real streets. This year, what we like are public exhibitions of flesh.
Feature, 1774 words
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