SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013
Edited by Susana Mayer
SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013, Volume 1
Note to the Reader:
Suggestion for reading the anthology: The placement of pieces within the text was
based on submission date. Similar to the Salon, the first one to sign up (submission and
acceptance) is the first one to be shared. Therefore, it is not necessary to read in any
Please read the backstories, they comprise an integral aspect for many of the pieces
and are occasionally just as interesting as the piece itself. As you will notice some are
offered before the actual piece and others afterward; they were placed at the discretion of
I have included editorial notes, comparable to the comments I interject occasionally at
the Salon. These will provide you with additional insight to some of the authors and their
“Enjoy Often!” John Franklin, Salon attendee
Table of Contents
1. No Name, Frances Seidman
2. One Saturday Night at Lupin Lodge, Maurine Killough
3. Katriona Experiences the Fantasy, Essemoh Teepee
4. Forest Walk, Essemoh Teepee
5. White, Gwen Masters
6. Next, Sharazade
7. The Accidental Brazilian, Sharazade
8. From My Silence 25, R.K. Singh
9. From The River Returns: Tanka 44, R.K. Singh
10. From The River Returns: Tanka 156, R.K. Singh
11. Wisdom of the Body: Some Reflections, R.K. Singh
12. Incognito, Tamara O. Amante
13. The Sound of Lust, Ms. T. Garden
14. The Kiss, Seraphina Ferraro
15. Winston Watches, Barbara Foster
16. Benares, Barbara Foster
17. It’s So Much Easier When You’re Away, Riccardo Berra
18. The Challenge, M/Lilii-Black Dahlia Creative
19. (267) XXX-XXXX-mobile, M/Lilii-Black Dahlia Creative
20. The Inside of Sex, Evelyn Rae
21. The Artist, Liz Adams
22. The Beast Within, I.G. Frederick
23. Leather Love, I.G. Frederick
24. Eruption, I.G. Frederick
25. Reciprocation, Plum Dragoness
26. As Campers Speak with Hushed Voices, Robin Elizabeth Sampson
27. I Want to Watch Us, Robin Elizabeth Sampson
28. Ties That Bind, VL Sheridan
29. Addicted, ApathyKiss
30. Balance, Raziel Moore
31. No Fooling, Raziel Moore
32. A Sexual Recitation, Mark
33. So Close, Jesse White
34. I Really Remember This, Frances Seidman
35. The “Grown-up” Me, Frances Seidman
36. An Almost Experience, Frances Seidman
37. First Time, Frances Seidman
38. The Anatomy of a Marriage, Frances Seidman
39. Rape, Frances Seidman
40. “What if…” – Invitations to several encounters by strangers, Frances Seidman
41. Self-love— plus imagination, Frances Seidman
42. Group Therapy, Frances Seidman
43. Memories, Frances Seidman
Backstory to the Anthology
Cover Designer & Photographer Bio
“SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013” volumes I and II are dedicated to my
chosen mom, Dr. Frances Seidman, the Erotic Literary Salon’s first nonagenarian
attendee. When I mentioned I was creating a Salon, Frances immediately said, “I’ll write
a piece. You know, I’ve never done this before!” Even at 91, she was up for the
After much thought, she decided to initially write under the pen name Lily, since she
did not want to compromise her winter volunteer position with the Florida public school
system. During the second year of the Salon, Frances chose to use her given name, since
she was no longer working directly with children, but teaching adults how to volunteer.
Originally Frances did not want to be pressured to write monthly or feel obligated to
produce more than one piece. However, she succumbed immediately to the Salon
attendees’ applause and praise at her first reading, where Frances shared an extremely
personal and graphic piece. She sat down before she was prompted to offer her title,
which comprised the backstory and punch line. The audience let out a gasp and another
round of applause; the comments that followed reinforced the typical assumptions
regarding sex and the elderly. Lots of preconceived notions were shattered that evening.
Frances was always of the opinion that she could only write in first person until she
was inspired to write her first fictional work. She based this piece on a fantasy regarding
a platonic friend. Her second fictional work was a rebuttal to an attendee’s chimera
The Erotic Literary Salon community of erotica connoisseurs creates a comfortable
space for all readers to contribute their sex stories. They especially enjoy hearing
Frances’ words and can’t wait for her return from her winter retreat down south. She no
longer feels pressured to write, but gladly creates works inspired by the encouragement of
the Salon supporters.
Rebekah Zhuraw, Editorial Consultant for this text, suggested the dedication. I agreed
immediately, considering it a most appropriate way to honor this dear woman. Frances is
a model of how to age gracefully in all areas of life. The attendees have been offered a
rare glimpse into the sexuality of a vibrant, wise woman.
It takes a village…
I’m grateful to all of the attendees and followers of the Erotic Literary Salon. Their
submissions created this stellar inaugural edition.
Rebekah Zhuraw for her assistance and guidance in selecting the pieces, and
organizing the manuscript; Inara de Luna for her invaluable assistance behind the scenes
and editing, and Walter for helping in the selection process and proofreading.
My “dream team”: Heidi Champa, Jeremy Edwards, Robin Sampson, and Emerald,
for setting me on the path to realizing my dream.
Sharazade for her significant contribution to formatting, and answering late night
Arnold Skolnick for his generous offer to design the eBook cover, using one of his
Carmen and Val, who were most instrumental in taking the Salon from one of
Philadelphia’s best kept secrets to Philadelphia’s hottest place to spend an evening. Their
support ultimately made this anthology a reality.
My guardian angels, Russell Backer, Sam M-B, Frances Seidman, and John C-D for
their financial, emotional and technical support.
“SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013,” is an exceptional collection of erotica and
sex writings. It includes fantasy and first person writings that have never been compiled
in a conventional anthology collection: email exchanges, poetry, excerpts of
novels/memoirs, and journal entries sharing daring true stories, along with several
traditional short stories. There is something here likely to satisfy every taste.
This anthology is an outgrowth of my work in creating and sustaining the Erotic
Literary Salon. All the “sensexual” submissions follow similar guidelines as those set
forth at the Erotic Literary Salon, a venue where people come to share their uncensored
erotica in front of a most supportive audience. Accordingly, each piece has a backstory,
authors sharing the story behind their story. Sometimes this information can be quite
personal, offering a revealing glimpse into the author’s relationship with sexuality.
The anthology is comprised of works by a diverse group of erotica writers, including
well-known authors and gifted writers from the Salon and the international community of
Salon followers. Some pieces featured in the anthology were test-driven at the Salon.
Why “sensexual”? It’s a sensual, sexy new term that bypasses all the old judgments
around divisive labels like “erotica” and “pornography.” Pornography usually conjures
up negative judgments, while erotica, a more toned-down term, is most often equated
with sexual material for women. The subjective line between erotica and pornography is
personal, temporal and culturally prescribed, and “sensexual” breaks down this boundary.
I must admit, when I initially considered establishing the Erotic Literary Salon, it was
geared towards women, and I, too, used the term erotica so as not to offend my
prospective attendees. The terms Literary and Salon were marketing tools to extend
legitimacy to the event, since I realized porn or pornography would immediately offend
people who equated these terms with degradation. At the Salon, these terms are often
debated by new attendees. You will find a collection of definitions on the website, and
you are welcome to add your own at http://www.theEroticliterarysalon.com.
Open sharing and debate are all part of the supportive environment of the Erotic
Literary Salon. Yet, it still surprises me when I hear attendees express their gratitude for
having a venue to share their sensexual writings sans censorship. “Susana is doing a very
brave thing...It’s hard to overstate what a remarkable event you produce each month...
Philly needs something like this…I never knew such a life of honesty could exist. I finally
found a home I can be comfortable in...this event changed my life.” It reminds me there
are no other events of this kind presently in this area, and few in the entire country.
People have confided in me how writing and sharing their words have helped them
deal with a myriad of issues. Often this is the only occasion they have to hear how others
express their sexuality. Exposure to these writings, especially journals and first person
works, have given them the opportunity to reflect on their own sexuality. It can be of
great comfort to know that there is such a variety of styles to creating sexual pleasure.
For those who are troubled by sexual pleasure, the sharing of words may assuage their
The Salon has also given victims of sexual abuse an outlet to share their shame. By
giving voice to their distress, in some instances the mere act of sharing has relieved them
of the burden of shame. For others, the control of the pen has allowed individuals to
rewrite their sexual history, enabling them to cope more positively with their traumas.
Some people attend the Salon just to enjoy a night out with friends, or an unusual
place to take their date. For an increasing core group of regulars, it is a community of
like-minded people who enjoy sensexual writings.
The Salon is many things to many people, but one thing is a constant—each Salon is
unique. I never know how the evening will progress, since each month the readings and
featured presenters vary. Similar to my daily posts at the Salon’s website, I lend my voice
to this event by offering news items with my sex positive spin, inviting individuals to
view a sexual newsworthy item from a different perspective. As a muse for this event, I
feel these items not only educate but can be used as research material for participants’
Between gatherings, the Salon also continues via the web. Those unable to attend
because of distance are able to share their works on the site, along with some of the
readings from the Salon. A professor of English in India, a contributor to this anthology,
expressed his gratitude for having such a community, “At a time when mindless
orthodoxy and prejudices seem to govern the general mindset, you have been trying to
‘correct’ certain notions that adversely affect generations of men and women through
your Salon. I have only praise for your dedication and commitment to the cause of larger
And now the Salon has the opportunity to flourish not just during events and at the
website, but through an annual anthology, of which this is the first edition.
The material in this collection encompasses everything from sensual innuendo to the
graphically explicit, leaving it up to you to identify your own comfort zone. I encourage
you to either read the book alone or with a partner as a playful exploration, to find out
what arouses your libido or theirs. Sharing it with your special book club (or creating
one) could provide for interesting discussions and lively entertainment.
I created the Salon to begin a process of mainstreaming erotica by taking it out of the
bedroom and placing it on a podium. Now, sensexual takes erotica back to the
bedroom—to provide education, stimulation, entertainment, and ideas to enhance your
I invite you to visit the Salon’s website, www.theEroticliterarysalon.com, where you
can submit your writings and events to the blog, read daily posts on sex news stories,
sexuality events, and information pertaining to sensexual writing and publishing. The
press affiliated with the Salon, http://www.SenSexualPress.com, will be posting
submission guidelines and dates for the annual “SenSexual” anthologies. Please submit
your sensexual material for possible inclusion in forthcoming issues of the “SenSexual”
anthology. It’s all good and it’s all sensexual.
Backstory: When I heard that Susana had started an erotic literary salon and needed
original writing, I thought, “I can do that,” and I offered to write a story.
I searched my mind and came up with a recent picture of myself and my almost new
boyfriend. So, I wrote my first story, and offered to write only one. However, its
presentation at the Salon was a success. (I think the idea of sex when someone is 90 was
something new to the group, and their enthusiasm asked for more.)
So here it goes—I can write erotica. When I was a sophomore in high school, I won a
ten-dollar prize for the art of writing composition. So now in my nineties I’ve had enough
experiences to draw from.
Editor’s Note: When Frances, the Salon’s nonagenarian in residence, first came to
read at the Salon, she used the pseudonym Lily. She was fearful of losing her volunteer
position: working with young school children in Florida. A year later she threw caution to
the wind, and now she is Frances to all who attend the Salon.
The piece below was her first attempt at writing erotica.
I am Lily‚ there he was, the man, standing by the pool of our senior community. My
eyes stood still and my breath slowed down. I hadn’t seen a white haired man who could
touch my heart for almost a lifetime. We reached for each other and agreed to meet the
Without shame, I lay naked on the bed, eagerly separating my legs as the man knelt
before me. My body warmed in a new way. Ripples of movement ran through me‚ and
music by Vivaldi.
My skin smoothed out and was flooded with rosy coloring. I was a painting by
Rubens and the man said I was beautiful.
* * *
Editor’s Note: At the very first Salon people were not expected to offer backstories.
However, it soon became evident that the audience demanded to know more about the
origins of the works presented.
This piece referenced in the Dedication was read by Frances at the first Salon. She
had forgotten to mention the title, but after being cued, blurted out “First Date.” Upon
hearing the audience gasp she said, “We’re old, we don’t have that much time.”
Backstory: I missed my friend. He is in Florida and I am in Philadelphia. Writing
about him brought him a little closer. The first story, “First Date,” written several years
ago, included the excitement of our meeting. The next story, several years later, is a more
realistic assessment of where we both are in life.
First Date, continued
It is now seven years later—I am back in Florida for the six-month period I spend in
the sun, doing volunteer work with children and with older people. I look forward to
seeing the man again, renewing our friendship and our love.
There he is standing on my doorstep—now aged 97—very skinny and very frail. We
sat on the couch like two kids on their first date until I suggested we go into the bedroom.
When the man delivering my life call emergency machine interrupted us, we pulled
ourselves together and looked quite innocent—actually we were—almost.
Backstory: Went to hear a band at an optional-clothing compound in California and
this beautiful couple walked in. This is a poem about that experience.
one saturday night at lupin lodge
to Be Seen
walked in like show horses
she, lovely-legs blonde with her evenly-cut hair
sliding down her pretty back
her nubile ripeness, nipples upon rounded fruits
and her ass
her perfect moon-ass
she was wearing high heels, of course
and nothing else
well, except for a provocative mini-thong
color-coded to match her hot pink stiletto sandals
and he with his perfectly shaped dick, muscled thighs
and dark, foxy features
gliding her around the dance floor, all eyes on the fire flies
scrotum and all
i couldn’t take my eyes off them.
i looked at my friend, susan
and her eyes were popping out
they relished in the eyes
that bathed their
Backstory: I have been writing erotica since 2005 and practicing a form of guided
meditation called Directed Erotic Visualisation (DEV) since 2007. I have evolved DEV,
initially as an enhancement to writing erotica, a unique selling point that might get the
work noticed above the mass of competition. The principle was to use a combination of
meditation and suggestion to create an altered state of mind in the listener. In that state,
the graphic sensual language of the spoken story would generate seemingly real feelings,
sensations and physical reactions that would result in an orgasm.
It seems DEV struck a chord with an audience and audio work is now the greater part
of my output.
In developing the protocols and techniques of DEV, I had the willing assistance of
many amazing women. They worked through Skype links to different continents and
different time zones. We collaborated and interacted to work out how to make the best
use of the technique to explore their sensuality and bring to life their every fantasy,
sometimes romantic, other times dark and dangerously exciting.
While this may sound almost clinical and detached, the sense of eroticism in directing
and guiding someone to ecstasy, to cause them to have an incredible orgasm, is very
intense. A further development is interactive or iDEV, a live link that uses all the power
of the technique to explore a participant’s deepest and possibly darkest sexual fantasies.
This piece is an extract from a “contact report” which participants will sometimes
write after their first iDEV experience. It is genuine reportage, with only Katriona’s name
concealed for her privacy.
Katriona Experiences the Fantasy
(From her report to me, following Katriona’s* participation in an interactive
Directed Erotic Visualization (iDEV) session.)
I gasp and open my eyes. I’m naked, my skin damp from perspiration and my pussy
soaked from excitement. I feel disoriented for a second as I return, reluctantly, to the real
It’s the sensation of being alone which always strikes me hardest; he was here, I felt
him. I felt his hands running over my flesh, his lips and teeth on my breasts. I felt, in
torturous detail, his thick, hard cock pumping in and out of my pussy. It seems
inconceivable that I open my eyes and he’s no longer there.
As have many before me and doubtless will many after, I lay on my now damp bed,
breathing heavily, unable to move, my limbs heavy and useless. I suppose in the back of
my mind a part of me secretly hopes that if I stay where I am he will come to me again.
Lacking the will and indeed the strength to move I simply let my mind wander, and I
can’t help but recall the events that led me here, my erotic journey into submission.
I have always thought I had a higher sex drive than most girls my age, and with my
boyfriend living miles away and my university schedule leaving us little time to spend
together, I spent a lot of my time feeling pretty frustrated. Since I’m not a cheater, my
main salvation from this has always come from reading erotica online. I have a vivid
imagination and I took my greatest pleasure from finding particularly good stories and
putting myself in the place of the characters.
I’m a naturally dominant person but my secret fantasy was to be totally taken,
mentally as well as physically, so when I came across a link for a “Directed Erotic
Visualization,” I was intrigued. Giving up conducting my own fantasy in exchange for
being taken through one? It sounded like a good form of mental domination to me.
I was already excited as the MP3 loaded, but then I heard his voice; that deep,
sensual rumbling that ran over my body like warm honey, coating me and consuming my
mind until all I cared about was listening to it. I was lost, drowning in it, in his words. My
world dissolved and was replaced by the picture he painted. In all honesty, I was mostly
just indulging a fantasy; I didn’t believe that he could have any actual power over me,
over my body. So imagine my surprise when he commanded me to come, and I did. I
came repeatedly, harder than I had in a very long time and I hadn’t touched myself once.
I hadn’t needed to, his touch was real, and it drove me wild.
When I came round I felt completely overwhelmed and, in truth, a little scared. This
man didn’t know me, had no idea that I was listening to his recording, and yet he had
taken over my body, he pulled the strings and I danced for him. I sent him feedback, if
for no other reason than because I couldn’t accept the idea of this person having such a
strong affect on me but not knowing I even existed.
Despite assurances that everyone would receive one, I genuinely didn’t expect a
reply, but sure enough I received an email thanking me for my feedback and
recommending I explore his site a little more, specifically the iDEV pages.
He suggested that I fill out the questionnaire to see if I would benefit from the iDEV
experience; I figured I had come this far, no harm filling out a simple quiz right? But
deep down, I knew it was more than that. This man fascinated me, I had sampled just a
taste of what he could do and I wanted more, I wanted to see how far he could really take
I filled out the quiz and sent it to him. By the next day I had my reply. It seemed I
fitted the criteria for a suitable partner and we started arrangements for my first iDEV
From that first email up to the appointed night, I grew more and more excited. We
exchanged emails several times; discussing what I could expect, how to prepare for it and
generally getting to know each other a little. It got to the point that every time my inbox
had a message from him, my breath would catch a little and my pussy would start to
When the day finally came I was flustered beyond belief, I couldn’t concentrate on
anything and I spent most of my time blushing as I considered the events that were soon
to occur. It was a heady mixture of excitement and fear. I knew I would enjoy the
experience, but was I seriously going through with it? I was essentially planning to let
someone have temporary control over my mind, an idea that truly petrified me. He was so
friendly in his emails though, so reassuring, and he lived however many miles away so I
knew I was safe, but still…
That evening I went through all my rituals for making myself feel good. I had gone
to the gym earlier on; I had a bath, washed my hair with my favorite caramel scented
shampoo and conditioner, dried and straightened it, and exfoliated and cleansed my face
and body. The final, and my personal favorite part of the ritual, was slipping into my pink
checked pajama shirt. I don’t own sexy sleepwear because I find it uncomfortable to
sleep in. I love the way my fleecy PJ’s feel on my skin; soft and seductive, with buttons
in case I needed access to my breasts.
I logged on to Skype and there he was, waiting for me. I think I was actually shaking
We started up the session with some general conversation, by which I was a little
surprised, this seductive stranger was asking about my hobbies and interests, things many
men take no time to consider. I enjoyed sharing this information with him, thinking about
these things made me feel more relaxed and comfortable, so when we began the actual
session I fell with little resistance into his dark, sensual voice.
Hearing his voice live was ten times more intense than the recordings. I was totally
swept away into the world he described. I felt everything; I felt his touch, his weight over
my body, his kisses and his cock. The part I found most erotic was that from the few
questions I answered previously he knew exactly what I needed; to surrender to him.
After fucking me and driving me to the point of insanity, I was desperate to cum. I
was moaning, writhing, nearly sobbing with ecstasy. He told me that if I wanted to cum
all I had to do was acknowledge him as my Master and ask his permission. I didn’t even
hesitate, “Please, please may I cum, my Master?”
And then he said four words that would later come to have so much power over me,
“Cum Hard For Me!”
My whole being collapsed, spiraled into blind pleasure as I screamed my orgasm.
He continued fucking me, his hard, thick cock pumping in and out of my soaking
pussy. He seemed to sense how much I loved being taken by him. He told me to open to
him, to offer him everything.
I felt his hand on my jaw, gently tilting my face to one side as he kissed my neck. I
felt his hot, moist breath, his soft lips, and then the sharpness of his teeth, nipping and
biting me. Suddenly, I felt his teeth elongate and sharpen. I gasped and struggled a little,
but he held me in his firm but gentle hand. He whispered to me in his seductive way,
reminding me that I want to surrender to him, to offer him everything. I relaxed; I did
want this. It scared me a little, no question, but I was loving it, I couldn’t resist him, I no
longer wanted to.
“Yes, take me,” I begged, “please, please take me, I’m yours.”
He sank his teeth into my flesh and I swear I felt everything, the sting of his canines
piercing me, the flow of blood into his mouth as he drank from me. I had never felt much
attraction to vampire fantasies but as I lay pinned beneath him, grinding against him as
his cock penetrated me, I had never felt so aroused, so utterly possessed.
“Cum for me, Cum HARD for me!”
I moaned, writhed and bucked as my orgasm rushed through me.
After my climax I lay on the bed, totally spent, unable to move. I couldn’t think. All
I knew was that I had never before felt pleasure like this, and it was he who had given it
to me. I was awash with gratitude, I wanted to please him; I needed to please him, my
Looking back, that was probably the exact moment I began to submit on a deeper,
subconscious level. I knew, without doubt, that pleasing this man would result in
orgasms, pleasing him would feel so, so good.
With that in mind I eagerly obeyed his command to kneel in front of him, to
complete my ritual of surrender. He placed a collar around my neck, telling me that I
belonged to him, just for now. Until I returned to the real world I was his property, his
pet. I shuddered with delight and moaned my agreement. I knew that this was only the
Lying here alone on my sticky, damp bed linen and feeling the ache inside that tells
me a cock has been there, I ask myself,
“What is reality?”
*Katriona’s name has been changed to protect her privacy.
Backstory: Something a little different and special are the Audio Experiences that I
have developed and created. D.E.V. is an Immersive Audio Experience similar to 3D
Audio, a blend of meditation, visualization and suggestion techniques that can put you
right into the thick of a story, you can feel it, touch it, and...well, listen for yourself.
This 32-minute experience sets the scene for what is to come. Truly find yourself
relaxing into the passion of the erotic sensations that are being described. The power of
Directed Erotic Visualisation is in creating the very real feeling that you are there, having
a most intimate and very personal experience.
Editor’s Note: I had the privilege of attending one of Essemoh Teepee’s workshops at
the 2011 Erotic Author’s Association Conference in Las Vegas. After a brief lecture on
Directed Erotic Visualization (DEV) we were all handed towels to sit on, just in case our
reactions were particularly strong while in orgasm. (We were informed the hotel would
charge for re-upholstery. I recall commenting that we should have been informed earlier
as to this possibility, so we could have had a change of clothing with us. It brought
laughter from the audience (mainly women) and was noted seriously by Essemoh. Then
he proceeded to demonstrate his technique.
I was most intrigued by DEV, even though it didn’t work for me within this
setting. After speaking further with Essemoh, he offered to create a personalized version
and I agreed to critique his method.
In order for him to design a custom experience, I needed to answer a series of
confidential questions regarding my sexual desires and turn-ons. While responding to
these extremely personal queries I realized the questionnaire could be an invaluable tool
for couples. It would allow them to share intimate information regarding their sexuality
(specifically turn-ons), which is oftentimes overlooked until an issue arises within a
After receiving the MP3, I created a comfortable environment to enjoy my
personalized audio experience. What followed totally astonished me. While listening to
the story and eventually being directed to orgasm….well let’s just say it worked.
Upon reflection I realized the detailed story using my specific turn-ons gave me
the necessary personal verbal cues and time to prepare. Something the pharmaceutical
companies have not been able to perfect in a pill, and certainly with no unwanted side
effects—only pure pleasure.
If you are interested in having Essemoh Teepee create a personalized experience
for you or as a gift, follow this link http://bit.ly/Y3D3rW and please use the code:
I encourage you to write about your experience with the personalized DEV, and
share it at the Salon in Philadelphia or on the Website. Send your work to
esalonpress.com and sign the piece with either your given name or a pseudonym.
The burning started down low, an ache in her lungs that spiraled up to her head. The
scent of bananas made her instantly hungry. She sat back with her eyes closed while the
rush gathered slow and easy, then came up fast and hard from the middle. It was the
sensation of a roller coaster sliding down to the bottom of a slick rail at breakneck speed,
then slowing as it churned up another hill, but the adrenaline from the fall was still
She looked at him, at the handsome face framed in tendrils of blue smoke. The smoke
matched his eyes and the rush matched the way he made her feel when he did that one
little thing he liked to do between her legs, that one sweet motion that sent her to the
moon and back. She leaned back against the couch and then there were two of him, the
one living and breathing and the one in the little mirror on the table.
Double the pleasure.
“Do me,” she said.
His hand demanded that she open, and she did while the low music of her own blood
sounded a bass line through her head. He slid into her and then his rhythm was hers, and
she was flying right along with him, saying things that were like second nature, telling
him to fuck her hard and fuck her deep. When he rolled her over onto her knees it was
like the world was the one spinning, not her, and the idea made her laugh out loud.
Then he was in front of her and it took a moment for her to realize that it wasn’t him
at all, not really. It might have been a reflection in that mirror but it felt real, that cock
sliding into her mouth while he was behind her and tapping out a rhythm of his own.
Some part of her mind (the part that was still sane yet crumbling fast) registered that there
were not just the two of them but the three of them.
She swallowed the cock and the other, a rhythm in counterpoint, a candle burning at
Her reflection in the mirror said many things. “What would your mother think” was
one and “Good girl goes bad” was another, but more than anything there was lust. The
brand of lust she had never felt before, the heart-pounding-blood-rising-animalistic-
whole-body-orgasm lust that told her nothing else would ever compare in the physical
world, nothing after this would ever come close.
She came. She came hard and it was a screeching dissonance when she heard him say
the words his jealous possessiveness wouldn’t let him say any other time: Take him that’s
it show him you like it fuck him let him have all of you make him come.
She wondered briefly (and sanely, imagine that) just how high he was to cross those
boundaries they had set in their hearts and minds and then she realized she didn’t care.
Her body was just a vessel and the feeling inside it was too great, too brilliant.
Then someone flooded her throat and within seconds he was flooding her cunt. She
was swallowing both of them. Her hair was in her face. The strange taste of someone
other than her man was on her lips but that was alright, because his familiar hand was on
the back of her head and she was watching in the mirror as the powder disappeared again.
“Good girl,” he whispered, and she laughed long and hard.
So when he told her to do whatever she wanted to do and there was another cock in
front of her, this one new and untouched, she opened her mouth. She didn’t think to ask
how many there were because deep down, she knew. She knew those friends who knew
his secret, who knew where he kept the little black box and the mirror and all the rest,
those he would trust to be here with them in this place and doing these things.
She started to cry. There was no reason for it, she felt great, why was she crying?
Then he said do this and there was a sharp painful scent and suddenly the world went
even and smooth. When she came down just enough she knew what had happened and
why but she didn’t care. All she wanted was what he was giving her. She inhaled again
and there it was.
This was what she wanted.
She devoured the cock in front of her. There was another sliding into her cunt. She
thrust back against it and begged for more, her words nothing but moans as the man
twined his fingers in her hair and fucked her face with a slow, easy rhythm.
She was going to come again. How many times had she come? It felt as though she
came with every line, every blast.
She took on all five of them. One at a time they stood in front of her and she worked
magic on their cocks. She made them come, made them moan and she made one groan
over and over in pleasure. After that she felt invincible, so she took one of them up the
ass so deep she thought she could taste him in her throat. There was no pain, not even
when he slammed into her with all his strength and a drop of her own blood hit the
pristine white carpet below them. She looked at it and came, right then, while he plowed
into her with no grace.
It had been minutes or hours when she nodded and took the needle in her own hands.
She didn’t need anyone to tell her what to do; she had watched it happen to him a
thousand times. She pressed the plunger and the ball slammed into her center. The high
was like nothing else she had ever imagined a body could feel.
Her hands shook and she dropped the needle on the floor.
Everyone was gone. The room was nearly silent. He lay on top of her and slid into her
with a gentleness that made her cry. She felt as though she might be dying. Her heart
pounded too hard and then it didn’t pound at all, just sailed from one beat to another like
a boat tossed upon an unruly sea. His lips were at her ear and he was whispering the
words he always did, I love you and then some words he had never said before.
I’m sorry, you never should have seen this or done this and it’s all my fault.
In the morning he looked at her with frightened eyes.
“Are you going to leave me?” he asked.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“Leave me for what I did to you?”
She counted her breaths, even and slow and careful.
“It was my choice, not yours,” she said.
When he climbed into the shower, when he could no longer see her and when he
thought everything was fine, she opened the little black box and pulled out the mirror.
Backstory: “White” was written during a difficult time in my life. My boyfriend at the
time was a successful musician who had a very loyal following. His public persona was
that of the golden boy, the apple of his mother’s eye, the one who could do no wrong. But
his private life was a shambles, a blur of every drug and drink imaginable. I stuck with
him through two rehabs, believing with all my naive heart that he would get better and
eventually become the man he had been before the pills and booze and lines. I wanted so
badly to get into his head and heart and figure him out, but in order to do that, I would
have to cross a line that I might not be able to cross back. I wrote story after story like
this one while trying to come to terms with all that swirled around me, but “White” was
the one that said everything I really wanted to say. And if you’re curious, I never did
cross that line. I left him instead.
Editor’s Note: Gwen has graced the Salon on several occasions, reading a variety of
works including short stories, excerpts from her novels and personal fantasies. One of the
most prolific erotica writers, Gwen’s demeanor is quite demure in contrast to her racy
content and language.
On the way to work, Miriam let two drivers change lanes in front of her, and stopped
immediately upon seeing a stoplight turn yellow in order to let a driver on a
perpendicular street squeeze a left turn in before the final change.
In the parking lot of the insurance claims adjustment office where she’d worked for
over a decade, she slowed to allow the oncoming car to take the parking space in the
shade, near the door, and circled for another minute and a half before finding a space way
at the back. In the sun.
The last cup of coffee before someone (and that someone was invariably Miriam) had
to brew another pot went to Ralph. As she lifted the lid to the photocopy machine, Gloria
rushed in and said, “Oh… are you in a hurry?”
“Not at all,” replied Miriam, and took her document off the glass so that Gloria could
start feeding her sheaf of documents into the tray. And press “double side.” And press
“collate and staple.”
In the break room, the last donut went to Karen. There were sixteen permanent staff
and two interns, and there had been two dozen donuts, so someone—well, several
someones—must have had a second already. Not Miriam, though; she hadn’t even had
“Do you mind swapping lunch breaks? I’ve got to meet someone…” And so Miriam
didn’t go to lunch until 2:00.
“Who’s next?” asked the man at the counter of the sandwich shop. Miriam was—if
by “next” you meant “person who has been there the longest”—but the honor went
instead to a newcomer who was quicker to raise her hand and place her order.
The holiday party was scheduled only thirty minutes after the close of the workday,
so most people—Miriam included—had brought clothes to change into. In the ladies’
restroom, Miriam waited first for an available toilet stall (even though she and Karen had
technically arrived at the same time), and then till the other women had finished applying
makeup and finally left a spot by the mirror.
The party was particularly nice not only because of the sparkling fairy lights and
tasteful decorations, or even because of the unexpected presence of a (cash) bar, but
because clients had been invited, both current and prospective, as well as members of two
branch offices. The room hummed with conversation, fueled as much by the excitement
of new people to talk to as any food or drink.
Pausing to let another person cut in front of her in the bar line, Miriam scanned the
crowd. Could it be? She checked twice, but it was. A man. A handsome man. A
handsome man of the appropriate age, standing alone. Such chances do not come along
more than once; sometimes not even once. Miriam left the line. She was practically
within range, the point where she could have extended an introduction, when she was …
not sideswiped, but let’s say “overtaken” … by a tall slim woman in a tight suit with a
low-cut blouse. Corporate sexy. Her eyes glowed with the same desire Miriam thought
her own might. The new woman extended a hand towards the man, leaning in with a
Good manners are what make life pleasant. Whether Miriam had been taught this or
come up with it on her own, she really couldn’t say. Etiquette, politeness, thoughtfulness
to others; these had earned Miriam an easy passage through life. She didn’t fight or
argue. No petty squabbles disrupted her workday or career path. She’d never had a feud
with a neighbor, or even a friend. Miriam had spent a lifetime of doing unto others, even
though she couldn’t help noticing that not many people were likewise inclined to do unto
her. She had been patient. Very patient. Perhaps too patient.
“Excuse me, I believe I was next,” said Miriam; not loudly, but firmly enough to be
The woman drew her hand back and looked at Miriam in confusion. “Next?”
“Next for the man,” explained Miriam, motioning to the specimen in question with a
tilt of her head.
The woman’s slight frown deepened just a shade. “I’m sorry…?”
“Shelly married Ryan in accounts. Olivia eloped with Neville. Gray transferred to
Cleveland, and we’re all sure it was to be with Cindy, who changed companies as soon as
he got there. Karen took the intern. Actually, she’s had two interns.” Miriam didn’t even
mention her sister. Why revisit that? “I have been waiting,” she continued, “waiting for a
long time, and I really think it is my turn for the man. I am next. I am being served now.”
The woman gave a sort of nervous laugh and tried to catch the man’s eye, but the man
was looking at Miriam. The woman gave a roll of her coiffed blonde head and veered off
to a group of people unfamiliar to Miriam; the woman’s friends, perhaps, whom she
could now amuse with an anecdote about the oddest woman.
Miriam turned to face the man. “Gareth Knight,” he said, with a faded but still
evident British accent, and she nodded with approval. That was just the sort of name and
accent a dark handsome stranger ought to have. “Miriam Bloom,” she responded, and
they shook hands; he held hers just a fraction longer than she was accustomed to.
“And how would the lady like to be served?” he asked.
When you are finally at the counter, looking over the menu board of frappuccinos and
double mocha cinnamon lattes and organic agave lavender chaise, it is almost
disrespectful (not to mention a waste of an opportunity) to ask for the house coffee; even
Miriam knew that. Except here there was no menu.
“What are my choices?” she asked frankly—having really no other choice.
He considered. “We might get a drink,” he suggested, “or I could ask you to dance.
We could take a table and sit and talk.”
How do you rank among the separate-but-equal?
He seemed to understand the difficulty. “Let’s do all of them. A dance first. And then
we’ll take a drink to the table.”
And so it was. An abrupt opening sweeps aside minutes or hours or even days of
slow, careful beginnings; it was as if they’d skipped the first date and started with the
second, or perhaps the fifth. Is it the fifth date on which one goes to bed? No matter the
number—to bed they went, following a charmed evening and a ride home Miriam barely
remembered (certainly she forgot her own car, which probably did not go unnoticed
among her workmates).
The buffet was still open at the handsome stranger’s house, if he could really still be
called a stranger. Buffet? More like a smorgasbord. There was so much of everything!
Kisses. Caresses. Hands. Considering he was only one man, he certainly seemed to have
a lot of hands. Miriam was sure she counted three at one point. Unless that wasn’t a hand.
Had he asked her what she wanted, she wouldn’t have known what to say, it had been
that long. It is fortunate, then, that he didn’t ask. He was everywhere at once: Teeth on
her inner thighs, fingers on her nipples. That third hand in her hair. Then his mouth at her
neck, right where it joined her shoulder. Goodness! How had he known about that? But
he seemed to know all sorts of astonishing things. The tongue on her puckered ass, for
instance. No one had ever done that before. Miriam hadn’t even known that was allowed.
Was it allowed in the other direction? As it turned out it was, and he responded most
Miriam had been waiting too many years to hold out for long. When his mouth
reached between her legs, when he slipped a finger, then two, into her slippery sex, when
he licked and then sucked gently on her swollen clit, Miriam bucked and came so hard
she hoped he had the same generous dental plan their own office did. He stayed with her,
though, till she came down, and then gently eased off her and kissed her belly.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back weakly. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I think
His smile took on a wicked edge. “Finished? Oh, hardly.”
Who knew? That there was so much more. Well, Mr. Knight did, that was quickly
made apparent. He knew how sensitive her skin had become, all over her body, so that he
could lightly stroke its surface and she would shiver in response. He knew that he could
knead her muscles deeply to draw forth her grunts of pleasure. He knew that he could tug
her hair and brace his thigh between her legs, exert just a little pressure, and she would
purr like a cat and twine her arms around him. He knew that orgasms do not have to be
simultaneous; that “next” is perfectly permissible in sex, that wet and open as she now
was presented the perfect moment to pull her thighs apart and enter her. She savored the
fullness of him, her own pressure having subsided, and she moved back against him with
ease, drawing him out, eager to receive him.
To her surprise, upon his finish, she found herself newly wet—and not just from him.
Miriam was not—well, she had not been, that is—multiorgasmic. She wasn’t quite sure
what the protocol was.
“I think…I think I might have another,” she said. Gareth, however, looked blissfully
spent, glowing and softening beside her. “The Lord helps those who help themselves,”
she’d heard, and though no Deity had been particularly supportive of her efforts in life so
far, she put her own hand to the matter. More obliging than the divine (being physically
closer, for one thing), Gareth at first refueled her with his lustful eye (so shameful being
watched! and yet so hot!) and then joined his hand to hers.
How long had she taken this time? It seemed only a moment, and yet at her finish, he
“Next!” he claimed, playfully, and pulled her astride him.
“Oh, I don’t know how to do this,” she said, having never been in such a
commanding position, but he wasn’t listening. His strong hands gripped her hips and
encouraged her in the right rhythm, and it turned out not to be so hard after all, especially
since the receding orgasm left room for her thoughts to come back in, and her thoughts
were again on feeling his thickness inside her and extracting his pleasure.
And so it went on all night, first one, then the other, first fucking, then sleeping, then
waking, then all over again, on top, then underneath, then one side, then the other. So
many choices! They didn’t get to nearly all of them, it seemed. The only thing for it,
clearly, was another night—or, well, several more nights. Which stretched on into
months, as these things do in the right circumstances.
And what of Miriam? Did she stride forth in the world now, with newfound
assertiveness, claiming her rightful place in the many lines of life? Oh, heavens, no. She
hadn’t been at all unhappy with the path she’d chosen—well, as long as she could have a
companion to walk with. That had taken some gumption, yes, but she saw no need to
abandon civility (or even humility) for aggression. No, she was just as gracious and
yielding as ever.
If there was any change, it was perhaps in her understanding of the few times one
might need to give Fate a nudge; no, not Fate, exactly, but perhaps an interloper. Yet she
knew too how hard that can be if it is not in one’s character. It is all too easy, really, to let
things slide, to let others go first, to wait too long, until the waiting becomes the end
Office space at Miriam’s company was tight, and when summer brought the intern,
there was some doubling up necessary, sometimes, depending on the state of permanent
staffing (always in flux).
Miriam was just a little surprised when mousy Beth (such nice eyes, everyone said,
and how pretty she’d be if she raised them more often) came to see her. “It’s about my
office,” she said, softly.
“Is there a problem?” asked Miriam, in some surprise; she didn’t think she’d
“Oh, no, not really, it’s just… well, it’s not a big space, and now if there’s to be a
second person… I mean, I’d thought… I’d thought the intern would go into Karen’s
office, since she’s got that extra desk…”
Karen was quite capable of picking her own fruit. “No,” said Miriam firmly. “It’s on
a rotating basis now. Karen took the intern last time.” Literally. Miriam couldn’t help but
blush. She’d been the one to walk into the supply closet unannounced. And this intern…
well, like the others he was young and strong. Virile, you might say, and single. Miriam
had peeked at the application before filing it.
“Everyone has to take a turn. And you are next.”
Backstory: There isn’t really a long backstory to this; more a musing on the interplay
of aggression and patience. At what point is patience a virtue, and at what point does it
hold you back? Does asking for what you want work? Women are, I believe, still subtly
(or not so subtly) to be indirect about their desires. This story explores a more direct
The Accidental Brazilian
I’m a reasonably good traveler, I like to think, but sometimes I do lose things. I’ve
lost socks, I’ve lost receipts, I’ve lost phone numbers. I’ve lost time, sobriety, sense of
direction, and (more than once) my pride. Once I did the unthinkable and lost my
passport. In an airport. (Just… don’t even ask about that.) I would have thought that last
one was the worst thing possible. But that was before I had the chance to say, “I
accidentally lost my pubic hair in the Middle East.”
Now, there’s something about traveling that puts you in the mood to try new things.
After all, if you wanted to do everything the way you’d always done it, you’d just stay
home, right? So that is why, when the American woman I’m staying with said that she
had a local woman coming over that evening to wax her, and asked if I’d like this woman
to attend to me, too, I said yes.
I’ve never waxed anything before, or been remotely tempted. It’s not that hard to
shave, and I’m not obsessive about hair anyway. Also, it always sounded painful to me,
and who needs that? But… I was charmed by the idea of a waxer making housecalls, and
as it happened, I was planning a trip the following week to a remote island with beautiful
beaches (beaches = bathing suit = want smooth legs). I also would never find a better
price: US$40 would do both legs, one’s “lady area,” and a follow-up massage with baby
In fact, I reasoned, it might be even cheaper for me because I actually don’t shave my
pubic hair. That’s by choice—I like the way my hair looks, and I like the way it feels. I
like brushing my hand (or someone else brushing his hand…) lightly over the tips and
feeling it all the way down. I shaved once in college, just to see what it was like, and I
didn’t like it one bit. My skin felt a little numbed, and the bald look I found frankly
I don’t speak Arabic, and the woman coming over didn’t speak English, but no
matter… the other American woman spoke Arabic, and I asked her to explain that, while
I was happy to have my legs done, above that I only want the edges trimmed up.
Swimsuit-friendly, in other words, but leave the little triangle in the middle. There was
much nodding and agreeing, and I also gave the international hand gestures for “Please
leave my bush intact.”
The other woman went first, and then it was my turn. I lay down on the carpeted
floor, over a spare bed sheet to protect the carpet from baby oil. The woman wasn’t
actually using wax, but rather a sugar/honey mix with the consistency of spackle, but the
idea was the same: She applied it to my skin, the mixture stuck to the hair, and removing
the sticky mixture removed the hair as well (by the roots).
She started first with my calves. She’d put a little on, and then sort of rip it off again.
The sensation was not unlike being attacked with a lint roller—perhaps a lint roller that
used duct tape. Before each application, she’d mutter “Malesh,” which is Arabic for
“Sorry” or “It can’t be helped.” A way of saying “This might hurt a little.” It wasn’t too
bad, though. After a while, I had little pricks of tears in the corner of my eyes, but I
hadn’t gasped in pain or anything.
Ah, but then she went a bit higher, and also had me bend my legs to get at the backs.
Now, the backs of your thighs are hard to shave. They’re awkward to reach, and you also
can’t see what you’re doing. In shorts-weather, I’d take care. But here… where the local
dress custom for women means that I need to keep arms and legs covered at all times…
well, how much time and effort do you need to really spend there? So the hair was
longer, and thus hurt more coming out.
She knew it, too. I could tell because instead of saying “Malesh,” she’d switch more
and more often to “Bismillah.” Literally meaning “In the name of God,” this is a word
with many interpretations and uses (and these can vary just a bit from country to
country)—you can use it to begin something, like a project or even a meal, but it’s also
used to sort of excuse yourself when you have to commit an unavoidable sin. For
example, I once heard a man use it when he was in the U.S. and had to pray, but couldn’t
determine which direction was east (for Mecca). He’d done his best to find out, and made
his best guess, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain. That was a “Bismillah” moment. If a
man had to grab a woman’s arm, perhaps to prevent her from tumbling to her death in a
ravine, or something, he might excuse himself with a “Bismillah”—he shouldn’t touch a
woman, no, but he’d have no choice, because saving her life would be more important.
And… ripping out long hair in a very tender spot, that turns out to be a “Bismillah.”
All I could say in response was “Tammam,” meaning “OK.” I mean that literally—it
was all I could say, because it was all I knew how to say. Somewhere along the line I
should have picked up the Arabic for “OH fuck that HURTS oh my oh my ouch ouch
OUCH!” but it was too late now.
As she got closer and closer to my pubic area, I do remember thinking that perhaps
her idea of a bathing suit edge and mine were not quite the same. I lifted my head to see
if she’d strayed over the border, so to speak, and … I noticed a huge gob of the sugar
mixture sitting right there on top.
Um… how was that going to come out?
You guessed it.
OH LORD! I don’t even know if there are words in Arabic (or English) for that; I
beat the floor with my fists instead. You women and men who’ve been waxed before
know what I’m talking about. For those who’ve never had the pleasure, let me suggest
applying something to your own pubic hair—perhaps superglue—and then ripping it off.
If you are for some reason already hairless (genetics, or an unfortunate accident with
radiation, or you already shave), you could probably get the same effect by stripping
naked, holding a strong young cat over your nether region (claws against your skin), and
applying the superglue to the cat and ripping it off him instead.
What could I say? Of course, only “Tammam.” The woman just beamed at me. She
showed me with great pride the amount of hair she’d gotten off me. And once you start
down that road, you can’t turn back. Not that she tried. Nope, she gleefully bismillah’ed
her way through the entire bush. Up to the belly, down around to the backside, and all
points in between. ALL of them. At a certain point, I wasn’t able to say “Tammam”
anymore, so she actually took over saying it for me. “Tammam! Tammam! OK, OK.”
Yes, it turned out that she knew as much English as I did Arabic. I was OK, we both
agreed, or she agreed for me.
Finally it was over, and I lay prone while she massaged my legs with baby oil, front
and back. The pain subsided, or rather evolved into a flushed tingling warmth. She
indicated that I could now get dressed, and when I rejoined my friend in the living room,
she explained through my translator (who seemed to be working perfectly fine now!) that
I should wait half an hour before bathing, to let the baby oil soak into the skin and protect
it. I thanked her (I also know “Thank you” in Arabic, but that’s not the right response to a
Bismillah Moment), and I not only paid her the $40 but a $5 tip besides. She’d done a lot
of work, after all, and who knows? Perhaps she could use the extra for English lessons.
I’d wanted something different, and I now have it. Will I keep it? I’m not sure. I’ll
have to think about it as it’s growing out. For now, though, I like it. It’s a reminder—
visible and tangible—of how travel brings the unexpected.
Backstory: This is a completely true story. Because of my age, perhaps, as well as a
combination of style, preferences, and values, I’d never been without pubic hair. Never
even been remotely tempted to remove it. After this experience, I continued to shave for
another few months, determined to give it a fair chance, but in the end decided that (quite
apart from the time and effort involved) I simply didn’t like either the look or the feel of
it. Hairs bring sensitivity, and I’m just not willing to part with that. But it will be a long
time before the memory fades.
Editor’s Note: Sharazade has been a featured reader at the Salon, experiencing first
hand the diversity of the works presented. She was pleased to find a home for this piece,
since it did not fit into traditional erotica anthologies where she normally publishes.
R. K. Singh
Editor’s Note: Professor R.K. has been a follower of the Salon since its inception.
He has generously offered his poetry to be posted on the website and read at the Salon—
to a most appreciative audience. He asked me to choose several works from his collection
of poems, “Sense and Silence,” for inclusion in the anthology. The following
Could you also make some general statement in terms of why you write these haiku, out
of frustration, to relive a thought, etc?
Thanks for making me think more deeply to provide some publishable material.
The following backstory is his response to my request. Upon reading it I realized how
much I enjoy my role as Muse.
Backstory: In the subjective process of creation, human body is a picture of the
human soul I celebrate to understand the world and the self. And, it is normal for a poet
to create out of himself or herself: whatever outside they see excites the inner vision. I
see sex as truth, rendering the experience with beauty and power. Making poetry sexy is
focusing on the flesh to enter the spirit. My erotic haiku also seek to explore the body, or
naked physicality, leading to love of the spirit, or man and woman as one in coitus. The
fleshly unity is the reality, the passage to experience divinity.
In fact there is so much lived and observed in one’s sexual life but hardly fully
expressed. My deep interest in erotic poetry often makes me compose “erotiku” that
happen, as you rightly say, “to relive a thought,” or re-enact sex acts, or re-create a felt or
lived experience of a moment. Haiku offers a good medium to express love and sex
subtly as well as explicitly, yet leaving lots of room for the reader’s imagination.
I consider the expression of passionate sex in my poetry as the internalized substitute
or antidote to the fast dehumanizing existence without, and ever in conflict with my
search for life, search for meaning in a sort of routinized, boring existence. By writing
brief personal lyrics, including tanka and haiku, or confining myself to the privacy of
lovemaking, I make my life itself a work of art, and enlarge myself to the universal
sameness of human feelings.
I see woman, and her nudity, as the mainspring of our being (and art), shaping the
psyche and constituting the sensory experience. She is eternal and there is no poetry
without her. I sing of woman who is both my passion and interest, who is the balance
point of various beings, the very cause and end of life, perhaps the means to rediscover
the original magic of life.
From My Silence: 1974-1984
Every sleeping guy
at the last kick
of a waking tart
From The River Returns: Tanka
The thought is sin
she thinks and denies me sex
to protest against
my mind in the gutter
that breeds erotics in verse
It’s not ageing
but eternal delight:
you under me
smooth belly nude necking
slow stroking parting flesh
R. K. Singh
Wisdom of the Body: Some Reflections
We live in a sexually pluralistic world and whatever our conviction, sex is here to
stay. No use decrying it. It is a fact of daily life and provides humankind with significant
components of meaning. Through the realities of sex and sexual experience we can gauge
a person’s innermost truth, his/her consciousness.
But how sad, despite global interaction and expansion in awareness, most people still
tend to conceal bodily experience; they do not recognize wisdom of the body, which is
worth loving for its grace, truth and reality.
Painters, photographers and poets view the human body with all its senses, emotions
and intellect as a repository of actual pleasure, pain and ecstasy. They express it with
imagination and philosophical intuition, making us conscious of our varied realities. They
are not inhibited by false shame. They know human sexuality, if presented and used
properly, should help us fuse the primordial male-female polarity into energy which
could then make life in harmony with the original source, bring the individual and
humanity closer, and promote stable sexual relations. If used unwisely it may degenerate
into a diffracted and miserable world.
Sex: A metaphor
Artists do not question the cult of pleasure or the reverence for abstinence as they
explore the naked physicality in all its dimensions. They do not create a work for the sake
of casual stimulation. Rather, they know that sexual symbolism becomes devalued and
inexpressive if it loses the wealth of its actual sexual experience and fails to illumine
one’s inner landscape; they seek to illuminate the realities of life through body-images.
Sex is a metaphor: the encounter of man and woman, woman and woman, man and
man to express feelings, to feel valued or loved, to explore relationships, concerns, roles,
to react against false ethical and cultural values, against stereotypes and prejudices,
against hypocrisy and dubious social standards that enchain, and debase honest
aspirations as lust or vulgarity.
Against a gnawing sense of loss of meaning and purpose in the computerized,
simulation-filled emptiness of our life today, including gimmicks, imitations, romantic
overtures, and even plain silliness that are often noticed, sex serves as an antidote to the
fast dehumanizing existence: Its expression is a means of defying the disgusting
sociopolitical world without; it’s a form of active resistance to political manipulation day
in and day out.
No Narrow View
With their erotic presentation, artists and poets seek to create what is physically
balanced and confident, and elevating to the senses. They know that the naked body is a
pretext for a work of art and it can be made expressive of a far wider and more civilizing
experience. As Kenneth Clark observes in The Nude (1956), “It is ourselves, and arouses
memories of all the things we wish to do with ourselves.”
There is, therefore, a sense of purpose in a poet or artist’s eroticism or sexuality—
love of the self through exploration of the body, or naked physicality leading to love, or
libidinal sublimation, or sexual union of two consenting adults.
It cannot be objectionable to express the real human needs and experiences, the
physical body artistically re-formed or sex acts re-enacted with a sense of shared delight.
The sexual imagery indeed conveys a mixture of memories and sensations, a desire to
perpetuate ourselves in the complex of living.
Octavio Paz writes in The Double Flame (1995) that eroticism is a social form of
sexuality, which is transfigured by our dreams. I see it as a means to rediscover the
original magic of life just as sex is the mainspring of one’s psyche and constitutes the
sensory experience besides being the balance point of various beings.
It is in no way being “low,” “vulgar,” or “obscene.” In fact, in ancient Indian writings
love and eroticism carried the same connotation or concept: the pursuit of its language
and emotion in various forms is art. In the Atharva Veda there are a lot of ashleela
Suktas—obscene only according to a narrow view of morality.
Sexpression: Indian Heritage
Many of our thousand-year-old temple sculptures are an undisguised exaltation of
physical desire; the sensuous friezes of the temples at Khajuraho and the figures carved
on the stone walls of the Sun Temple at Konark are great works of art because their
eroticism is part of the Indian philosophy; it is our cultural heritage.
We should be able to appreciate the purity of intention, the desire to distill from the
smallest experience the largest, most universal insights, something which unites us all.
The process of erotic creation, like Kama-adhyatma, pursuing sex to spiritual height,
is something positive in Hindu ethos; it is an important psychological fact of life, a sort of
libidinal sublimation if one also performs with an awareness of the rich and ennobling
pluralistic dimensions of the Hindu culture.
Love and celebration of womanhood, as part of erotic experience through a process of
exhilaration, stimulation and relaxation—swimming through the river of heavenly
happiness, uniting the eye, mind and imagination, and losing ignorance—is both physical
and spiritual. This is what keeps an artist going, giving birth to new works, one after the
other, reaching a height to feel silence through spirit in the body.
But somehow, in recent years, largely due to lack of the spirit of enquiry and
appreciation of the Hindu culture, tradition and values, discussion and expression of sex
in public seems to have been denigrated. Authors and artists have been frequently
subjected to violence of the orthodox right wing which seeks to ban honest sexual self-
expression and is intolerant of recreational and non-procreative sex acts.
There was a time when even prostitutes in India were an integral and respectable part
of the Hindu society. There was no social tension due to unsatisfied lust. Sex practice was
not looked down upon just as men and women enjoyed healthy emotional relationships
both within marital and larger societal contexts. The writers of the ancient Sanskrit
manuals like Kamasutra, Panchasakya, Smara Pradit, Ratimanjari, Kokashastra,
Ratirahasya, Ananga Ranga, etcetera, educated men and women in the art of courtship,
foreplay, actual intercourse (including various postures of union), and post-coital
activities; they treated love not only as a matter of giving and receiving pleasure, but also
as a means of access to the realm where human and divine meet.
Emotional lyrics of poets like Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti, Bhartrhari, Amaru,
Yashovarman, Jayadeva and others reflect frank eroticism but create a transcending
spiritual effect and meaning with their expression of the primordial pursuh-prakriti, or
what the Chinese call Yin-Yang interplay.
God Created Sex
I do not know how many people would disagree with the view that the taste of the
forbidden fruit in Eden was actually the awareness of physical attraction between man
and woman: The tree of knowledge was actually the knowledge of the process of
creation, of love, of sex.
The Bible, like the ancient Hindu scriptures, does not decry sex. In fact celebration of
physical union is God-ordained; man and woman are expected to stay together, love each
other as their own flesh.
Because God created human beings as male and female, He created sex and ordained
sexual union (in a socially acceptable form) to bind man and woman together, to make
them dear to each other as husband and wife, to lead a healthy emotional life through
love and sex, and thus ensure personal and social stability.
As I see it, it is God’s design that we enjoy life, be happy, be one flesh in coitus, and
thus glorify Him in body. In the Vedas and Upanishads, too, sex is the source of
happiness in equality, in oneness of man and woman, in love.
The search for love, or desire for sex, even if erotic, is essentially the aspiration for
entering into another to know, to understand. It is rather a search for the ‘whole’ in daily
living and giving. It is the search for a bridge between the uncontrollable external events
and the often impulsive, subjective, or internal responses.
Body as Soul
In brief, depiction of sex in art and literature has been metaphysically serious in India,
just as sexual desire and fulfillment is an action of the spirit in body, leading to pleasure
and harmony. The body images illuminate the realities of life; sexual metaphors in art
make it possible for artists to convey what it feels like to be filled with desire,
transmuting and transmitting memories of experience.
Artists visualize the human body as a picture of the human soul; they celebrate it to
understand the world and the self. If they glorify nudity, it is to explore the
consciousness, in conflict with the muddling external chaos.
As a poet, I realize humans are flesh in sensuality and there is divinity in it. The
fleshly unity is the reality, the passage to experience divinity, and its expression should
not be repressed through governmental interference in the name of morality and all that.
Sexual self-expression should be treated as one’s fundamental right just as personal
freedom of choice, sexual privacy rights, and tolerance for diversity are the hallmarks of
a liberated enlightened society.
--Dr. R.K. SINGH
Professor & Head, Dept of Humanities & Social Sciences
Published in Triveni (Hyderabad), Vol. 68, No.1, January-March 1999, pp. 28-31;
Also, in The Mawaheb International (Ontario), July-September 2000, pp. 14-15.
This article was originally intended for an Indian audience that has forgotten their
own traditional view to sex and sexuality. However, its message is applicable beyond
this arena. Many of my reflections derive from the West and Christianity. If this topic
intrigues you, you can read more on this subject in another article I have published on
Tamara O. Amante
Backstory: I am a student who falls in love with teachers older than me by at least 10-
20 years. It all began in grade school. My first crush was on my Social Studies teacher. I
hung around after school for hours. After that was my high school crush on an English
teacher who called himself, “the Italian Stallion.” And boy, did I have the hots for him!
He was a passionate English teacher who made me breathe heavy when he explicated
Keats. When I was in undergrad I fell in love with another English teacher. I hung out in
his office for hours, walked him to class and everything. He even drove me home from
campus! He was such a good teacher that he got a standing ovation at the end of my final
class with him. In my graduate study, I fell in love with my program director. He was the
oldest of them all; white hair, speaking several languages fluently. We even said, “I love
you,” to each other. During a fiction writing class taught in Italy, we exchanged a very
chaste kiss on the mouth. I swooned. I have never had a sexual affair with a teacher, but
boy would I ever if it were offered to me. Now you understand the theme of my story. I
wrote it from Ana’s perspective, then from Mr. Pássaro’s, back to Ana and then back to
Mr. Pássaro to create a powerful balance. There’s also a little dominance—I like to
dominate and be dominated during sex—that ends with them as equals. My friends tease
me about my “old man” crushes, but I wonder what would happen if I had Ana’s courage
to offer the forbidden fruit? Well, I do still have a PhD to look forward to…better stay
“You know what I want, Mr. Pássaro,” Ana says, pouting, voice husky with want.
She plops down onto his porch-swing.
Mr. Pássaro’s black eyes stare down at her plump breasts which strain against her hot
pink tank. A devilish smile plays across her cherry Chapstick coated lips. The metal
creaks back and forth under her weight. The sun is a heavy heat. Sweat streaks the sides
of his caramel colored face. A breeze blows through the trees causing the windows on the
little house to rattle louder than the gossiping cicadas. It is their mating season.
Mr. Pássaro walks across to Ana on the shaded side of the porch, each board creaking
beneath his brown loafers. He runs both sun-baked hands through his unicorn mane and
“I am your teacher,” he says. He places both hands on her freckled shoulders. “My
job is to teach you.”
His hands are calloused, worker hands, the kind of hands that have manipulated earth.
He tells her that he was not always a Portuguese teacher at her university. He was once a
farmer in his homeland. He was once a simple man. He knows what it means to give in to
carnal desires, but they must not. She shrugs away from him, pulls her feet up and crosses
them. The grass blades rustle slightly. She looks up at him, big blue eyes full of need. She
tells him that she is being realistic, she wants to fuck him.
“Ana,” he pleads. “Why don’t we go back inside? I’ll make more tea.”
“I don’t want tea, Mr. Pássaro. I want you inside me.” He clears his throat.
“Pull down your pants and I’ll show you.” A look of fear coats his face. “Aw, come
on. I see the way you look at me,” she continues.
“Yes, okay, and that is wrong, but what you’re asking—”
Ana grabs the rim of his brown Dockers and pushes them down around his ankles.
Then, she shoves down his navy boxers until they meet his pants. His semi-erect cock
plops down between his legs. She finds the look of him startling yet intriguing. She had
no idea that his cock would be darker than, well, the rest of him. She takes it into her
hand and gives one smooth lick from the base of his testicles to the tip. He shivers. She
takes all ten inches into her moist mouth moving her tongue down the shaft. She moves
up and down smoothly, to the base and back where she licks the dew drops of pre-cum
into her mouth, smacks her lips and says, “Mmm.” Then she stands, pitting her 5’”‘8”
frame against his 6’”‘4” body, so close to him she can feel his breath on her face. On
tiptoes she kisses each cheek once, his custom for greeting her all semester long.
She tells him that she loves him; loves the light brushes of his rough hands across her
milky skin. She tells him that she loves those casual and accidental touches that they
shared during class and in his office, those chaste hugs that lingered a little, those light
kisses on her cheek. She loves his new moon eyes, the way the silver streaks in his long
hair shines like lacquer in the sunlight. She loves his accent, the gravel in his voice. She
loves his house, the colorful carved animals lining the fence. She loves his bed, the
handmade quilt with tiny stitched Cork oaks standing ardently somewhere in the wheat
fields of Alentejo. She loves his little stove. She loves his rice and beans, his smell. He is
all earth, all work, all muscle even at fifty-six-years-old, even after twenty years away
from the farm.
“Touch me,” she says, voice breathy. He lifts trembling hands and places them on her
breasts. “Do you like them?” she asks. He nods his head. “I said, do you like them, Mr.
“Sim,” he breathes. “Muito.”
He sits down, takes one in his hand, parts his thick lips, and gently sucks her areola
into his mouth. The warm wetness sends a shiver to her womb. Her nipple stiffens under
his learned tongue, which glides back and forth across her plump pink nipple and then
slowly around. She guides his hand to the tiny knob in the pleat of her shaven vagina. He
licks his finger, rubs over and around her clit while interchangeably celebrating each
breast. When she feels herself peaking, she moves his arms so she can slink down on his
lap, her white skirt falling over his moss-covered thighs. She leans that beautiful face
down and for the first time since she started coming to him under the false pretenses of
wanting to learn more Portuguese—what, three days ago—she kisses his mouth. He pulls
away from the kiss.
She smacks him across the cheek and says, “You will fuck me.”
She kisses him again hard. At first he is stiff against her lips, but he acquiesces to her
pressure, lets her dominate his mouth. She hovers above him, pulls him into her, stops
halfway, gasps, and then continues sliding down until her thighs rest on his. She pauses
there for a moment. She has played with dildos and vibrators, but she has never had a
man inside her filling her up to the brim like this. He kisses her breasts gently, leaving
wet spots. Then he kisses her neck, her chin, her cheeks, her lips. He slips his hands
under her ass, pushes her up halfway, then pushes her back down to meet his thighs. She
shivers, clutches him; the mixture of pleasure and pain intense. Length she had counted
on, but girth, she hadn’t imagined.
“Darling, am I the first?”
“Yes, Senhor Pássaro,” she whispers into his hair. “You are my first.”
“Oh, Ana, dear love.”
She kisses his cheek. “Teach me.”
A sudden cool breeze kisses the sweat beads on Mr. Pássaro’s face. He can’t stop
now, so he starts the momentum again, uses his hands on her hips to pull her up, push her
down. Soon enough, she takes over. He closes his eyes. A feeling washes over him, one
he hasn’t felt in decades, since his wife’s death. The feeling drives up from his toes
clenching in his shoes, moves up his legs, his thighs, and into his pelvis which thrusts
against her involuntarily. He holds her freckled back, his massive hands resting one under
the other. Is it worth losing everything for? He doesn’t know anymore.
He sucks both nipples, one to the other and back again. She moans and leans her
beautiful face down to his, dahlia-red hair cascading into his face, matching lashes and
brows in color; cornflower colored eyes shining like wet stones in moonlight. He opens
his mouth to kiss her. She runs her tongue along his, sucks it into her mouth. He stiffens
his tongue, so she can suck as he runs both hands through her hair. Tal paixão, such
passion, from a twenty-one-year-old? He thought the flirting and hanging out in his office
was to ensure a good grade for her graduation, but all this time she had truly wanted him.
He inhales her ambrosia, the smell of her sex, her womanness. He pulls away from the
“Girl,” he screams, tries to pry her off. She clings to him, lies down on his shoulder,
clenching her thighs down, pumping, pumping, pumping, releasing tiny whimpers and
surprised breaths. The force pushes her flip flops to the floor. He tries to hold out.
“Menina!” He wants her to stop so that he can pull out when he cums.
She screams in complete ecstasy as if they are young lovers on the banks of the
Rhine. The screams turn to cries and the nudity of her weeping strikes in him a feeling
that raises him from the bench, from his house, the town, state, earth, universe,
omniverse. He floats off, he flies; he can feel nothing but the crash of fluid from him
filling her, and her lips, her lips all over his face. She kisses his forehead, his cheeks, the
tip of his nose, his eyes, finally lingering on his lips. She lies on his shoulder quaking,
loving the smell of him, especially the strange, new smell that came from their sex. He
stares down at her; the satisfied look on her face sends a shiver into his groin. He is also
afraid, afraid of what this will mean for him.
“Ana,” he whispers. “Why have you done this?”
“Because I love you,” she answers.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Silence. “Menina, you won’t tell anyone, yes?”
She nuzzles against his neck and whispers, “Sim.”
He says, “Please tell me that you are on birth control.”
“Sim,” she says. Thank goodness. He never had any children and he doesn’t plan on
having any now, most especially with a recently former student.
“Come inside,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Gloaming falls; blue, red and orange streaked like saturnine rings. Ana suddenly
remembers the line to a Celine Dion song, “Here and now is all that matters.” She sings
the entire verse aloud. Mr. Pássaro pulls up his clothes when he stands. Ana does not put
on her shirt, or her flip flops and she was never wearing any panties. She moves
dreamily, slowly. He takes her hand and tugs her inside. There is a kitchen and a living
room. Branched off are the bedroom and the bathroom side by side.
“Come,” he says. He pulls her into the bathroom. She watches him set up the bath, in
an old lion-footed tub. The room fills with steam. He tugs at her skirt. She leans on his
shoulders as he lifts each leg out. He guides her into water enhanced with jasmine and
rose oil. She lays back, the bath perfect. He strips nude, takes a bar of homemade soap,
translucent and slick, slips it up her delicate skin causing a new kind of arousal. She
closes her eyes as he washes her arms, her legs, and her feet; lovingly kisses her knees.
She hears the soap plop in the water. He runs his rough hand down her body all supple
and eager. He slips a finger down her slippery slit and inside. She gasps.
“Stand up,” he says. He stands first. His cock bobbles in front of her, stiff with
excitement. She wants to take that beautiful shaft in her mouth again, taste their sex. She
kneels in the water, grabs his waist, thrusts him into her hot mouth down to the base. She
can feel his tumble of hair on her lips. She revels in the taste, swivels her tongue around
until she reaches the top. He stumbles forward, moans. She holds his cock with one hand;
holds his testes in the other, swirls her tongue around them until he grabs her soaked hair,
pulling her off.
“Ana,” he breathes. “Let me taste you.”
“Not yet,” she says and gives his tip a playful bite. “Hold it for me,” she demands. He
holds it from the base and she bobs up and down on it, and just when she thinks he’s
going to explode in her mouth she stops, stands, and climbs out of the tub.
“Dry me,” she says. He takes a soft, brown towel and rubs it down her body, drying
her beautiful skin. He goes down on his knees.
“Put your leg up,” he says. She props her leg on the tub.
Mr. Pássaro throws his whole face into her pink. A noise of surprise escapes her. He
gets his whole face wet, inhales deeply taking all of her in, then sticks out his long, thick
tongue and licks her from her hole to the tip of her clit. She grabs his silver/white mane.
He sucks one lip, the other, both. She bucks her hips, thrusting herself into his mouth. He
licks around the clit, runs his tongue down both sides, kneels so he is sitting on his feet,
takes both hands, pulls her closer, and shoves his tongue inside. He sucks the juice from
her, swallows it down. Next, he spreads her supple ass cheeks, puts a finger in her from
behind. From the front he slides another finger into her. He thrusts his fingers in and out,
while licking her clit. Then he pulls his finger out and shoves his tongue as far up her
sweet vag as he can.
“My God,” she shouts. Her legs shake as she cries out. This level of orgasm she had
never expected, could never achieve alone with her porn and her toys. She bends down to
him and feeds from his mouth, licking away her juices. Then, she runs out into the
kitchen giggling, hoping that he’ll give chase.
Mr. Pássaro corners her at the large wooden kitchen table, shoves everything off,
pushes her down on it, cock at attention, gets back on his knees, spreads her ass cheeks
and shoves his tongue right into her asshole. He licks up and down to get it moist, then
slips two fingers inside. He gets a good motion going; she bucks against him, letting him
add a third finger. He pulls his fingers out to give her asshole another good lick, but she
turns abruptly. She smells like jasmine, rose, and cum. He pulls her against his face,
sucks her bulging clit, while reaching both hands up to knead her breasts. She throws her
“Senhor,” she calls into the air above her like a howling wolf, “fuck me, oh God,
He pulls her down to the floor onto a plush rug below them. She wraps her arms and
legs around him. His hands flow over her face, down her neck, over her shoulders and
down her breasts holding his fingertips to her erect nipples, tweaking them just so. She
pulls him closer with her legs, moaning in heat. Their hands meet, fingers intertwining.
He pulls her onto his lap, enters her all the way to the end of her, and she cries out, her
body trembling, clenching her thighs, rolling her toes, her breasts pressing against his
chest. He moves inside her, slow, slow, quicker, builds momentum, pulls her up, up. The
warmth inside her splashes down, coats him, he pushes hard. She tenses, grabs his face,
looks directly into his eyes. He pumps harder. Her mouth opens. She does not make a
sound. Her body grows tense. Then, she becomes fluidity, her limbs limp. He pumps
harder, quicker. They meet, on the peak of the mountain, their power equal. They cum
together, flesh of flesh, bone of bone, man, woman, they belong…to each other.
“Meu amor,” he whispers in her ear, kisses her below it. She places her head in the
crook of his neck. He strokes her bare back, kisses her shoulder gently. The last strip of
sunlight disappears from the darkening sky.
Ms. T. Garden
Backstory: I have extremely sensitive hearing, which makes loud noises a pain, but
voices unbelievably pleasurable. Accents, intonation and inflections have a “feel” to them
that can cause a sexual response within me. Hearing certain people speak is what I like to
call auditorilingus since I have the same response that I do to oral sex. Yep, I can be left
in a quivering heap of happiness by the right tone and pitch, especially when discussing
the naughty things in life.
As sensitive as I am you would think life would be difficult, but normally I can
control my response by directing my attention to other things. With one exception, I once
had to work closely with someone who excited me, even if we were discussing mundane
everyday things. He didn’t do it deliberately, didn’t even know that he did, but it didn’t
stop me from needing to carry extra panties when I had to work with him.
The Sound of Lust was inspired by a meeting we had that lasted for several hours. We
were discussing marketing and how some people took product loyalty to almost slavish
lengths. Suffice it to say that I was both relieved and saddened when we no longer had to
The Sound of Lust
His voice was a dark velvet covering the steel of his will. It spoke of passions and
pleasures I had yet to experience. It beckoned with the promise of forbidden delights and
transcendent dreams. Willingly, I followed to learn more about that which suddenly had
become of the utmost importance.
His voice caressed my mind and caused my body to throb with desire and yearning.
The timbre to his voice reminds me of the rumble of the lion before he roars. Deep and
resonant, chiming a chord within me that makes me vibrate like the finest crystal poised
to shatter at any moment. He played me like a fine instrument drawing forth the sweet
sounds of his making. My voice changing as I became aroused, the whimpers when the
aches are at their sweetest, the panting when I am overwhelmed and swimming in a sea
To listen to him speak of the mundane is akin to having a full-body massage with all
senses on alert trying to determine when the next phase will begin. When he directed that
voice to me and spoke words full of sexual purpose and promises, all pretense of my
strength was gone. I yielded to him as swiftly as the dew yields to the power of the sun.
He was free to create of me anything that he chose. He had but to make his will known
and I would fulfill it.
I remember the day I became undeniably and irrevocably his slave for life without his
having to put a physical collar around my neck or anything else that anyone will ever see.
After three days of being denied release and having him drive me to the brink of
orgasm time and time again, I was frantic. I couldn’t bear heavy clothing; my skin was so
sensitive. I remember my nipples aching every time I took a breath as they slid within the
confines of my bra. I had long since abandoned wearing panties since they kept getting
soaked as he teased me and stretched me to the breaking point. I begged him every
opportunity I had, careful not to arouse his anger as my suffering and torment brought
him such pleasure. When showering, I had to be very careful when going near my
throbbing aching clit, walking was a torment, in and of itself.
On the third day, he took me to a private place and told me that I was to cum when he
spoke a word to me. This word is used to describe the deepest oceans and the clearest
skies. As he made me tell him just how badly I wanted him and how ready I was to flood
my lady garden on his command, I nearly wept as he kept me on the razor’s edge. He
spoke to me of naughty things and future requirements. He wrung from me confessions
of my desire for submission. Words like cunt and cock became endearments, and the
world was narrowed to what would please The One. He held me enthralled and just when
I thought I would not, could not take anymore, he spoke and commanded. With moans
through silken scarves and tears in my eyes, I soared to the very skies and plummeted to
the deepest depths as my body crashed upon wave after wave of unbelievably intense
As I lay shuddering, my body still caught in the aftermath of not just the physical
release but the total mind fuck by him, he spoke softly to me, pleased with my
performance for his pleasure. I basked in his praise and answered him demurely and
sweetly. I knew then that he owned me. The thought both aroused and frightened me.
What would he ask of me? How far is too far? How much is too much? He has never
pushed me farther than I could go, and I trust implicitly that any pain he brings will be for
my own good. For his pleasure, I would endure so much more...but that is a story for
Backstory: This poem was written in a fit of passion after thinking obsessively about
kissing my boyfriend while he was out of the house. In a state of absolute distraction, I
wrote this in order to get some control over my kiss-ridden mind. It didn’t work, but it
felt good to write it and even better to perform it at the Salon.
it’s all in the kiss, really
the first touch of tongue to lips
or tongue to tongue
and I can tell
there’s a telling
little pull below
of strings being plucked
each stroke a strum of fingers on my strings
vibrations feeding vibrations
that shudder outward
loosing goose bumps
and pushing moans before them like parachutes
opening and rising in the heat
afterward, when we are lying
the expanse of the bed between us
separating the radiating heat
that penetrates the skin of the other
it all comes back to the kiss
it’s not the power of his hands,
though those come next
rough and barely restrained force
squeezing and slapping gasps from me
until my breathing only comes in shallow
all to the rhythm of his hands and mouth
a rhythm that I know so well
but somehow still surprises
afterwards, when the impressions
of his hands on my skin
start to bruise and I stretch into the soreness like a cat
aching slow stretches
it all comes back to
and the minute space between them when he
covers my mouth to
cover a scream that might just
wake the neighbors
even more so than the
whispered admissions of undying devotion
and the constant stream of praise that pours from him
prayer-like moans and chants of wonder at the gates of sensation that
combined with the sheer weight and size and driving need of him
drive me breathless and send me tumbling over precipices
afterward, when all we can do is smile
and know that our bodies have spoken
to our hearts like trumpets in the dawn
and our hearts, excited and incensed by all that’s come before
slow to a sane rhythm in the hush following frenzy
and I swear that I cannot move a muscle in its wake
the kiss remains
and, slave to its rhythm,
at its prompting
I will move again
Editor’s Note: Seraphina’s reading of this piece sent the audience’s lips in motion, as
if being directed by her words.
We meet weekly
Gulp a tasty dinner
Tumble into bed
Lithe athletes bouncing
High as the heavens
On our quilted trampoline
As we fuck and suck
Turn our tails
to the cosmic poles
Our ecstatic groans
Unsettle sheepish Winston
Does the human animal’s
Bestiality appall him?
Flesh a furnace
Stoked with come
Until, spent, we slide
Into the primordial ooze
Neglected Winston barks
Panting to join us.
Backstory: In the seventies I had a mad affair with a Syrian Jewish fellow who lived
on Sixth Avenue in a dump. We met once a week, went to a fancy restaurant and went
back to his apartment to have wild sex. I think I cared more for his dog, Winston, than for
him. Winston was a big, furry sheep dog who got as excited as we did as we made love.
He was so friendly, loved to play games and demanded attention all the time. My friend
was a great lover in the oral variety. We kept to the same moves each week, which I
found thrilling, and we sometimes kept going almost till morning. Winston was our
beloved witness, a companion who really became essential to our lovemaking. Our affair
went on for quite a while. It ended rather sadly when I went over one night and found out
that my lover had put Winston, who was ill, to sleep. I really felt he could have done
more to take care of Winston, but I do not think he wanted to spend the money or time.
Sad, sad. I miss Winston more than my lover.
Sandalwood beads recall stinking
Intoxicated, moonless night, I flew
On your cock, aromatic, enlightened
“Little,” not big death, came.
Under crisp sheets, we worshipped
Shiva, Vishnu, the monkey
Voyeurs of our cosmic dance.
Blissed out, we forgot corpses
Wrapped in Karma packages,
Mother Ganges celestial
Reborn in sacramental pee.
Turn magic wheel, bring back that
Your sari silk tongue licked
Saliva from your Nirvana lips
Flesh seared to the soul.
Tonight, far from saddhu-sodden
I writhe on lonely sheets
Hug still scented beads,
Convinced, we’ll be lovers
Next time around.
Backstory: In Benares in the eighties I had a mad affair, one of many during the time
I spent in the holiest of holy cities. I went to India to do research on a biography of
Alexandra David-Neel, the explorer of Tibet who snuck into forbidden Lhasa. I couldn’t
concentrate on my research—distracted by handsome Indians who claimed to be skilled
in the Tantric arts of love. While David-Neel studied esoteric philosophy, the first to
bring this material to the West, I studied the bedroom arts and learned quite a bit. In fact,
India and my tryst in Benares, was a high point in my erotic education. In India, sex took
on a mystical quality because of the long tradition that has continued to the modern day.
These days, I so much miss India, the fragrant nights, the orgasms that seemed to soar to
the heavens to pay homage to the Indian gods and goddesses. How lucky I was to
experience this ecstasy, which I will never forget.
Backstory: Perfect bodies in a perfect setting, entwined in perfect lovemaking—this is
a sort of erotic mainstay. Since the real world, in which most of us live, is never perfect,
Ricc and I are more often drawn to stories about ordinary people in all-too familiar
situations and relationships. Add the chemistry of sex, heat with a little imagination and
the reaction can be even sexier than the wildest fantasy scenario. So welcome to our little
experiment in “the realm of the senses” where we try to seduce you into forgetting you
are “just” reading. We want you, a red-faced, heavy-breathing voyeur in a situation you
could all too easily find yourself in.
This is the main reason why we think erotica deserves a great deal more respect than
it gets and why we support Susana Mayer’s work so much. No other genre has as much
potential to move and open lines of communication between men and women on so many
levels with so many variations.
If Ricc’s “real-to-life” erotica or any other fancy moves you, do drop us a line at
email@example.com. We both live for your response. An earlier version of this story
appeared in ERWA’s Best of 2010, http://www.erotica-readers.com/GD/TC-
SS/Its_So_Much_Easier.htm for those of you who find it instructive to see the choices
made when a work is edited for an anthology like this. Without further ado.
It’s So Much Easier When You’re Away
A mental snapshot.
Ten-year-old Callie, shrieking, jumps into my arms, bony fawn legs locked above my
“Daddeeee, I missed you so much. Did you miss me?” Her arch little smile, so sure of
her feminine wiles, even at this tender age.
“I missed you so much, princess; I missed the very air around you.” I make vacuum
cleaner sucking sounds. She squeals then wriggles from me as towhead monster Mark Jr.,
swaggers in. The action toy he clutches mimics his gait. He ignores my open arms.
“I got the new red Power Rangers.” He thrusts it in his sister’s face; she swats it from
his grasp. The toy sails onto the couch. They run upstairs shrieking at each other.
“A little help!”
Reflexive scowl stamped on her features, Ellen, my 42-year-old martyr wife, pushes a
suitcase through the door as if it contains lead ingots. She insinuates with body language
alone how much of a shit I am. I’m judged and found wanting oh, maybe a thousand
times a day. Lately for good cause. My faults pile and cling like wet leaves to the marital