So I read your story and I am aroused by it.
It is a story of two brothers and neither of them spend much time undressed. There is a shower scene but I didn't even imagine him naked. There is one passing mention of sex but it is just a word without images attached. Still, I am aroused by the sense of distance that you have managed to capture so perfectly and by the slow stages of editing, each word removed making the whole thing just a tiny bit better, the blossoming to perfection like an overblown flower abandoning it's petals leaving something stark and lean and almost perfect. I am aroused by your potential to write more stories and perfect them before my eyes, a strip tease of removals that I will be gifted with. The idea of a novel by you makes me physically tremble. I read Chris Ware and I say, there you are, in the panels where there is nothing but the edge of a sleeping face.
And if you touch my work, if you undress the over-wrapped novels that I am so fond of, it will be impossible for me to contain myself. I may become annoyingly hyperactive. It will be irritating and I apologise in advance, but I am aroused by the thought of being edited by you. The idea of your careful knife slicing back syllables has me undone. Is there anything more intimate than this act. Is there anything harder than the anticipation? You have read a paragraph or two and I am ready to drop any adjective I own at the ground before you. I am ready to stand bare and lean and vulnerable.