The BritSex Collective is a loose affiliation of British Writers and Painters dedicated to the exploration of Sex on the Internet. We believe that Sex is no longer a corporeal reality, an expression of the will to live. As we become more distanced from our being-there in the age of technology, Sex too has become a fractured, spectral presence. The Internet, as a reality of shifting references, is the medium that discloses the anxious and brittle conerstone of our sexual being; our project is to undermine all ideas of 'sexual essence' and to administer the final blow to the idea that sex de-voids the alienated self. Sex as machine, not poetry.

In the following issues of the BritSex Collective Internet project, we shall be addressing the issue of Sex and its relation to the medium of the 'Net'. For our first selection, we are featuring a snippet from the current work of Nathaniel Jacket. Jacket's work has been widely discussed as the embodiment of the 'New Wave' of British Fiction in which alienation is the very essence of narrative structure.

Our second textual presence is a poem written by Constance Caroob. Caroob's distinguished body of work has received international praise for her vivid recreation of the sexual act itself. By de-mystifying an act that supposedly reveals the indescribable essence of the human condition, Caroob has helped to define the movement that is now commonly known as 'Robotic Narrative'.

"The carnage of lust, revealed in spectral form, shatters our Dasein into ontic droplets of light: the face of desire in an otherwise faceless universe" Morton Pinley

I peeled off his clothes and left him completely naked shivering in the cold. His flatulent penis looked pathetic in the brutal glare of fluorescence. As I stared, I could see visible signs of excitement: his penis began to grow, engorged with alienation and distance. In its fullest state it was a magnificent expression of unrewarded lust - a sort of plea for exoneration. I still hadn't touched him and yet it seemed as if a myriad of arms, hands, feet, eyes and thighs had plagued him with their teasing presence. I stared and undressed. Fully naked, I strapped his arms and legs to the concrete floor. Now immobile, he whimpered and moaned. Disrespect welled up inside me and I began to shave his pubic hair with a glittering razor. After each stroke, I sensed a growing need to be caressed, cared for, touched. I kept skin contact to a minimum. I left him on the cold floor and locked the door.

The room next to the 'Pub' was full of smoke and the smell of greasy chips: a kind of patina of life without hope. My job had always been distinctly uninteresting. Monday, of course, wraps everything with its unique sense of despair and this Monday was no exception. The pub was full of well-known faces and isolated groups of acquaintances and friends. I began to think of an episode that recently occurred involving my dog...

I entered the room again. He was lying face down, saliva dribbling from his lippy mouth. His hair had attained an almost electrified, scupltural form. I stepped over his rapidly breathing body and stood directly above him. His penis had shrunk and his testicles had sagged and dropped to the floor. His eyes sparkled with a demonic, vicarious vengeance as I masturbated above him. I came to a cadence of ennui as I heard a caravan of trucks rolling past...

Thrusting, Lusting, Busting out
Contend with me:

A crying, sighing, silver snout
Rising to an epiphany.



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