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“The woman trembled slightly in the chill breeze, her long hair stirring about her shoulders. Her dancer’s body was a sculptor’s dream. She stared straight ahead of her, and what the men behind her could not see was that a soaring sweep of sparkling awareness had captured her eyes. It was a bizarre tabeau: the nuder and and superbly balanced woman at the edge of the precipice and the heavily clothed and armed men unable to get near her.” And then came the cry. ‘Please, don’t jump.’”

For Martha Seligson, the totality of everything she had been taught, been made to feel and understand, had passed into the realm of illusion.

Marco Vassi was, without a doubt, the foremost erotic writer of our generation. Praised by Norman Mailer, Kate Millett, Saul Bellow, and Gore Vidal, he was not only the ultimate sexual explorer, but a literary craftsman whose own life experiences became the stuff of his fiction—expanded, of course, by a grand imagination and a full sense of the absurd.

Tragically, Vassi died from pneumonia after he had contracted AIDS.