This is not a fair shot at the putatively sexless literary kids these days. It's not even a representational view of the erotic as it works in Infinite Jest. Also, for what it's worth: this line occurs on Page 22 of the book, and describes a rather minor character.

This collection of David Foster Wallace MP3's was lovingly collected by Ryan Walsh in early 2009

Once when I was a little boy I received as a gift a toy cement mixer.

Now there’s no reason to think Wallace loathed writing nonfiction—it just wasn’t his passion. He aligned himself with Dostoevsky and Pynchon, not Capote and Talese, and there’s even scuttlebutt out there that he killed himself in despair over his unshapely mess of a last book and the pressure of never living up to, well, himself. I will read that last book when it comes out, for sure, and since last September I’ve decoded a fair number of his hermetic short stories and even committed a month to finishing (and I did finish!) all 1,079 pages of Infinite Jest, down to every last little cross-eyed footnote’s footnote. I felt less guilty after finishing, but yet finishing only reinforced what I’d suspected. When the Library of America editors get around to selecting a picture of the long-haired, bandana-ed, tobacco-cheeked Wallace for its 2050 catalogues, they’re not going to spotlight his fiction in this first volume. It’ll be the nonfiction he composed during spare hours.