Plot: A man and woman talk on the phone in the world's longest, most literate (168 pages) dial-a-porn epic. And at two dollars a minute, certainly one of the most expensive.

Why it's on the list: Sex is stripped of all senses, save one: what can be created by conversation. The two characters share secrets, masturbatory fantasies and the kind of free association that is unbound by laws of physics or convention. Circus sex, workplace sex (have you ever tried to make a photocopy of an erection?), mail-order sex (imagining what the people who fill orders do with individual pieces of lingerie) -- the monologues are closer to jazz improv solos.

Excerpt: I felt his whole weight go on his hands, and on my back too, and he was apparently supporting himself like a gymnast, entirely on his hands, with his knees bent and his legs apart, and then a second later I felt this burning blunt nub press against my Opulent Opal tockhole, and then kind of urge itself a little ways in. I went "Yew!" and the painter in the living room turned in surprise and registered my existence for the first time. My hands were still planted on the cans of paint. And back in the hall, while the one gymnast painter was sinking himself unapologetically deep into my ass, I felt the other, the one who'd responsibly used the right kind of paint all along, now use his thumbs to hold my real...self open, my lips, and then I felt him slide slowly up my real hole. I said, "Vvoo!" The living-room painter's eyes got big, and he studied my face with this look, like, "What exercise tape has this lady been using?"