A final comment, for the moment, on Belle. She's the only blogger I've read who understands that a word may mean one thing, while the choice to use it means another.

I still don't link to her on the sidebar, because I don't I approve of her decisions, and most of the people who do link to her, either approve or don't care. It's not a question of morals: she hurts herself for a living, and I think she shouldn't. But at her best, the sheer number of emotions, of gradations of emotion and of sense that she can feel, and then describe, and then pull from a reader...
these abilities are things to envy in another human being.

She describes being alive in a way I understand but can't describe. I can't describe the sensations, nor the way she mirrors them in writing, but I feel them, and always have.
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The fact that I've been using the wrong word only proves the point: her writing doesn't describe so much as evoke. The language produces a response but then seems to fall away leaving only sensation.

A drop of sweat ran down the inside of my thigh, perhaps the only part of me that felt truly warm. When it reached the top of my stocking I felt it soak in, dissipate.

Eroticism is in the details.