D.H. Lawrence: He's kind of a babe, unsurprisingly.
Despite the facial hair, of course. Those were different times.
I'm writing My Big Sexy Thesis which if it were 1/16th as fun as real sex, I would have written it by now and sent it off to every journal in the world wrapped in red satin.
I'm not a fan of analytical, scholarly writing.
Anyway, since I'm sitting here, plodding through to make page deadlines, I'm finding myself all up on D.H. Lawrence's jock. Specifically, Lady Chatterley's Lover. Not shocking, I know. But still. Just listen:
“’The whole problem about the sexual problem,” said Hammond, who was a tall thin fellow with a wife and two children but much more closely connected with a typewriter, “is that there is no point to it. Strictly there is no problem. We don’t want to follow a man into the W.C., so why should we want to follow him into bed with a woman? And therein lies the problem. If we took no more notice of the one thing than the other, there’d be no problem. It’s all utterly senseless and pointless; a matter of misplaced curiosity.”
"Why couldn't a girl be queenly, and give the gift of herself?"
"He was the trembling excited sort of lover, whose crisis soon came, and was finished. There was something curiously childlike and defenceless about his naked body: as children are naked. His defences were all in his wits and cunning, his very instincts of cunning, and when these were in abeyance he seemed doubly naked and like a child, of unfinished, tender flesh, and somehow struggling helplessly."
"It was as if her whole soul and body and sex had to rouse up and pass into these stories of his."
So, no point to be made, beyond Isn't That Great? As you were.