Jeremy Edwards’ erotic stories are guaranteed to be juicy treats. The cornucopia of his short fiction is sweet testimony to his talent and appeal (I almost said “a-peel,” but restrained myself). We’re in for an extra special indulgence later this year with the publication of his first erotic novel, Rock My Socks Off, which is guaranteed to be fun and sexy in equal measure.
To make our weekend all the more mouth-watering, Jeremy will be sharing a second person excerpt from “You in Your Apricot Panties,” which also appears in Alison Tyler’s Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex. (For a real treat, you can hear Jeremy read the story in his own sexy voice over at Dr. Dick's Sex Advice.) This makes me wonder if the second person isn’t best suited to shorter stories. Could an entire novel work in the second person? This is perhaps a question to mull over in the future, but for now, let’s sit back and enjoy this exuberant celebration of apricot panties—a theme especially suited to spring!
My story "You in Your Apricot Panties," which I'm so proud to say appears in the fabulous Alison Tyler's Frenzy, came about in an interesting way. In the course of an interview with wonderful lingerie/erotica blogger A Slip of a Girl, I'd been asked how I'd come up with the concept for a different lingerie-themed piece I'd written. Here's part of what I said to Slip, in passing:
"I didn't think anyone would want to read just 1,500 words of me drooling about how yummy a character's panties look on her. (Though saying that makes me wonder now if I should try writing a story like that, seeing how far I get!)"
And that's exactly what I did. I sat down to write a rhapsody about a woman in her panties. Her apricot panties. And the spirit of enthusiasm that I thought this concept demanded made me want to rhapsodize, not merely about her, but *to* her. And so off I rode, mounted securely on a second-person saddle.
From "You in Your Apricot Panties":
Oh my fucking goodness. You! You in your apricot panties. Sitting there, cross-legged on the rug, your music magazine spread in front of you as if it were a horny girl with her legs open, just for you . . . you in your apricot panties.
You in your panties, your sun-bleached hair perennially falling in your face, your wholesome little breasts enjoying their "bra optional" freedom . . . you in only your panties, your apricot panties.
Your apricot panties, with slits at the hips that give me a window on the sleek, fleshy world of your just-below-the-waist contours. Your apricot panties, whose opaqueness around your crotch provides a modesty that is so sensually undermined by the wisps of blonde bush that peek out along the seams.
Your apricot panties, whose sunny color may say "bathing suit," but whose cotton-intimate gusset shouts "private" whenever your moisture begins to seep through.
Something in the magazine makes you laugh. But when your eyes meet mine to share the joke, I know that your mind isn't really on music-biz gossip. You look hungry for me . . . you in your apricot panties.
On the days that I fold our laundry, your apricot panties look so cute in the basket, smiling up at me in their sleep. But "cute" doesn’t cover how sexually dynamic they look on your body. When they're wrapped around your ass, it's impossible for me to separate the wrapping from the package. I'm not seeing apricot panties, I'm not seeing you . . . I'm seeing you in your panties, your panties on you.
Your panties on you, like a neon apricot sign directing me to your cunt. Your panties on you, like fluorescent orange highlighting across the word "sex" on a page full of other words. I don't just want to run my hands over your cheeks and give wet kisses to your pussy. No. What I want is to fondle your derrière in your apricot panties, to mouth your crotch with the fabric between us. To taste cotton that tastes like your pussy, to rub my lips against natural fibers that house your natural fibers.
Your ass is so round beneath them. Hell, even the reinforced seams have a rounded edge to them, as if the manufacturer wanted every detail of this garment to scream femininity. Did the manufacturer know how mouth-wateringly luscious your soft bottom would look in them? Did
he hold the fabric up to the window of his office and ponder how the rich cotton would stretch across the perfect shape of your pale behind? Did he lock his office door to pore over full-color schematic drawings that demonstrated how tightly the orange skin would cloak the corner where mound turns south toward cunt?
I want those drawings.