Second Person POV "Taste Test"

Erotic themes have been a mainstay of my writing since college, but I didn’t have the guts to write what I’d officially call “erotica” until the fall of 1997. That’s when I was almost literally possessed by a story I titled “The Blindfold.” It took me many months of revision and polishing and interviewing a fencer and acting scenes out with my husband to get it into something close to final form. I originally wrote it in first person, but a senior member of my writing group suggested second person and because he seemed very cool and was published in literary magazines, I took his suggestion and tried it on for size. I was very pleased with the results. The story seemed all the more personal and exciting and edgy in second person—as we’ve discussed here.

Like any first love, I had high expectations for my baby and sent her out to the now defunct Yellow Silk and Libido and any literary magazine in Writer’s Market that deigned to consider erotica. Form rejections came back by return mail, but finally, in the winter of 1999, the editor of a small literary journal called Rain Crow, accepted it enthusiastically for his first issue. (This editor also worked at Playboy and said my story was better than what they were publishing on their website, which led to a brief gig there before the erotica feature was canceled).

In the meantime, I’d submitted the story to an online writing workshop, Francis Ford Coppola’s Zoetrope. Most readers enjoyed it, but one guy wrote this about the POV:

One of the immediate problems with addressing a you in a story is that the you already knows most of the information you're relating so it becomes self-conscious exposition. When you recount the saber story who are you telling it to? He already knows it. So it's for the reader's benefit. Same with the father's heart attack. When the mechanics of the story show you have problems -- unless that's your intent as it would be with a postmodern story. But this is entirely conventional, realistic fiction. If you move to "him" instead of "you" the story-telling aspect of the piece would come more naturally to the fore. Also, with a you the reader is excluded as audience. In first person narratives you contextualize for an audience, that is, you'd tell the story differently to your priest than your best girlfriend. But here you're telling the story to a you -- but you want the reader to read. I think you should reconsider the mode of address.

I thought he was a pompous ass and didn’t listen to him. The story was reprinted as the first prize winner of the Absinthe Literary Review’s erotica issue. Later, in response to a call for a death and sex anthology, I revised the story to make it more “deathy and sexy.” In many ways this new version was better because I didn’t hold back as much in the sex scenes, but along the way I decided to try revising it back to first person as something “more acceptable.” Rejected by the first anthology, this first person version of the story was taken by Clean Sheets, then reprinted in Best Mammoth 6 and Alison Tyler’s Love at First Sting. For all you newbies to writing, remember this history—tons of rejections up front, five reprints in the end. Perseverance is the key in the writing life!

Anyway, I’m posting the same passage of “The Blindfold” and “Blinded” here for comparison--a taste test of first and second person POV. This section I excerpt immediately follows the introduction, a brief passage that describes the first time the man blindfolds the woman and gives her a bruising kiss. Which version do you prefer?

From "The Blindfold"

That was the beginning. I've lost count of how many times we've done it since then, but it's gotten us through this long winter. Sometimes you blindfold me. Sometimes I blindfold you. It all depends on who comes up with a new idea. It's never the same. That's our unspoken rule.

Not that it's entirely unpredictable. You seem to prefer that I wear some sort of clothing: one of your shirts or a teddy, something you can eventually slip off. After more than a year together, it still excites you to uncover my breasts, weigh them in your hands as if you are touching them for the first time. That's one of the things I like about you.

I prefer you to be completely naked. The first time I blindfolded you, I was the one who was trembling. Although it was my idea that you kneel on the bed wearing nothing but the blindfold, when you actually began to undress with a cool smile, I almost told you to stop. I wasn't sure I really wanted to see your big body so exposed, a band of flowered silk over your eyes with the long, loose ends falling softly down your back. I thought it might somehow diminish you.

But I was wrong. I'd never realized how beautiful your body was. Not that I hadn't appreciated it before, but I'd always focused my gaze on your eyes, your expressions. The rest of you I knew better by touch. But now, with your eyes hidden, I could see you with a new clarity: the taut curves of your arms and chest, the hint of soft flesh at your waist that I found oddly pleasing. I noticed that the hair on your belly fanned out more luxuriantly to the left, and by contrast, your right thigh was slightly more muscular, a legacy of your college fencing days. It didn't take long for you to get hard--it never did when we used the blindfold--and I got to watch that, the delicate jerking movements of your penis as it rose and thickened, drawn upward by invisible puppet strings which, I imagined, led straight to my hands.

I felt like a thief.

From "Blinded"

That was the beginning. I've lost count of how many times we've done it since then, but it's gotten us through this long winter. Sometimes he blindfolds me. Sometimes I blindfold him. It all depends on who comes up with a new idea. It's never the same. That's our unspoken rule.

Not that it's entirely unpredictable. He seems to prefer that I wear some sort of clothing: one of his shirts or a teddy, something he can eventually slip off. After more than a year together, it still excites him to uncover my breasts, weigh them in his hands as if he is touching them for the first time. That's one of the things I like about him.

I prefer him to be completely naked. The first time I blindfolded him, I was the one who was trembling. Although it was my idea that he kneel on the bed wearing nothing but the blindfold, when he actually began to undress with a cool smile, I almost told him to stop. I wasn't sure I really wanted to see his big body so exposed, a band of flowered silk over his eyes with the long, loose ends falling softly down his back. I thought it might somehow diminish him.

But I was wrong. I'd never realized how beautiful his body was. Not that I hadn't appreciated it before, but I'd always focused my gaze on his eyes, his expressions. The rest of him I knew better by touch. But now, with his eyes hidden, I could see him with a new clarity: the taut curves of his arms and chest, the hint of soft flesh at his waist that I found oddly pleasing. I noticed that the hair on his belly fanned out more luxuriantly to the left, and by contrast, his right thigh was slightly more muscular, a legacy of his college fencing days. It didn't take long for him to get hard--it never did when we used the blindfold--and I got to watch that, the delicate jerking movements of his penis as it rose and thickened, drawn upward by invisible puppet strings which, I imagined, led straight to my hands.

I felt like a thief.