In his collection Frisk, Cooper is, per usual, on point. In his writing, he mixes sex and drugs, desire and disconnection, in ways that are hard to find elsewhere, at least not done with Cooper’s level of obsession, of precision, with such beautiful, vivid, sometimes horrific details. His sex writing can be scary, and dark, and wildly arousing. Some could or would describe his scenes as completely fucked up, but this is why I love him. He is fearless. These beautiful boys he captures in his prose, like models or rock stars coming to life, they do and say things that could stop your heart.
Here’s Henry and “the guy,” at “the guy’s” house, from the story “Wild”:
“Henry flopped on the bed. It bounced around and squeaked for five, six seconds. The guy stripped. He had tiny red genitals, spider-webby blond pubic hair. Not that Henry cared about defects like that. He himself was a big waste of time from the neck down at this point, thanks to uncountable drugs ….
“…The guy started painting the cock with his tongue. The room felt cozy. Or the pills Henry took that afternoon left him cozy, and the room was just there, a movie set. He shut his eyes, tried to restart a favorite porn daydream. “Shi-i-i-it.” His history had been reduced to a simplistic blur, like the trails in the air left by people on fire.”