Sultry Spicy Sexy Soup!

It’s summertime, the season of lingering evenings and night skies ablaze with fireworks, the perfect time to invite like-minded friends over for a casual gathering in the garden to eat, drink and talk dirty. It’s my honor and pleasure to be the first hostess on our erotica writers’ Spicy Sunday Blog Tour (co-hosted and inspired by Marina St. Clare who definitely fired up the grill ;-). Already my mouth is watering at the thought of our traveling feast. From basil to thyme, we’ll tempt our taste buds and imaginations to summery explorations of our deepest sensual appetites.

To set the mood for a sultry erotic gathering, I offer this seasonal song from the legendary Ella Fitzgerald.

So, do come on back to my garden and pull up a lawn chair. As you see, we’re shielded from the prying neighbors by apricot and fig trees, mallow flower and maple (besides, in my part of the world, the neighbors themselves are probably doing things that would make us blush). There are plenty of beverages to quench your thirst: a nicely spicy Mas Malbec, some Sierra Nevada pale ales on ice and of course chilled Demon-Slayer sake—don’t we all have demons to slay?--which will be served in my signature 19th century Chinese erotic wine cups (feel free to take one home as a souvenir). Here there’s no need to hide what you do or explain why you’re writing smut instead of “real” literature. We all understand the call to adventure in the land of spice.

(I can't seem to get enough of this cup!)

For our inaugural gathering, I’ve chosen not to focus on any particular spice, but instead to celebrate the magic and potency of the whole array of tongue-tingling seasonings. Spices have played a key role in history and the human imagination. The Egyptians used them to mummify bodies for their journey to the afterlife. In medieval Europe, a hostess was judged by how many rare and exotic spices she used in her dishes, and the lust for more led explorers to map and conquer the world. Herbs and spices can profoundly alter the mood or the metabolism. Some are aphrodisiacs, cinnamon being the best-known (which means I might add a few more shakes to my morning yogurt!).

Spices are especially appropriate for an erotica writers’ movable feast because “spicy” and “sexy” are often used to mean the same thing. Witness the Spice Channel or the chili peppers used to designate adult language in emails. As erotica writers we bring spice to the written word. Our stories pique and arouse the libido as spices do the tongue. An exotic, spicy dish can transport you to a foreign land, just as erotica can take you to a world where the rules and customs are different from our ordinary lives. In each case, there’s always a danger a heavy hand can take you a little too far. And with both, a taste of something good always leaves you wanting more….

Today, in honor of world travel and a happy mélange of spices, I’m offering for your dining pleasure a Bengali lentil soup (see recipe below), along with some fresh-baked buttery naan. This recipe is good for supper on a gently warm summer evening because it’s so very simple, and of course spices are known to cool the body in hotter climates.


Don’t forget to save room for some of my signature cookies—pecan bars, Finnish spoon cookies and yin-yangs, which all make use of Mexican vanilla to achieve their transcendent flavor. For the health-minded, I’m also passing around some fresh blackberries, available by the basketful in the summery excerpt from my Best Women’s Erotica 2006 story, “Therapy,” appended below (the anthology also includes Emerald’s wonderful story “Deal”).

While we’re sipping and sampling, I wanted to suggest a discussion topic that’s been on my mind recently. As I consider the dozens of dirty stories I’ve written over the past twelve years, I can’t help but see certain patterns emerging, repeated images, recurring scenarios, characters stepping back on stage for encores. When I first started writing erotica, each story seemed like a way to explore totally new territory. My narrators were not me, or rather they were a much wittier, braver me, a self all wrapped up in swirling, seductive veils. With so many stories out there now, however, I sometimes feel what I’m actually providing is a clear a map of my erotic desires, a guide to fucking Donna--body and mind--exactly the way she likes it. And, damn, it’s too late to use a pseudonym!

So fellow summer spice party guests, do you find that writing erotica is a way to hide the real you behind a mask of fiction, a different persona, even another gender (and of course a pseudonym)? Or do your stories end up revealing the hidden you in ways you may not have intended…or perhaps welcome? How risky does it feel to write erotica? Is it more like a foreign adventure or a homecoming? Or is it perhaps a little of both?

I look forward to hearing your spicy thoughts. And don't forget to join us next Sunday when Erobintica turns up the heat with hot chili powder!

Now, some food for the body:


Bengali Lentil Soup (serves 6)

1 cup red lentils
4 cups vegetable broth or chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1 14 oz. can of chopped tomatoes
2 T olive oil
1/2 teaspoons cumin seeds (a heavy hand is fine here)
1/2 teaspoons yellow or black mustard seeds (ditto a bit more is good)
4 cups onion (2 large), finely sliced
5 teaspoons garlic (3-4 cloves), chopped
1/2 cup fresh cilantro leaves, chopped

Note: Fresher spices from specialty stores like Penzey's--the kind that make you pleasantly dizzy when you take a whiff from the jar--make for a better soup!

Mix lentils, broth and tumeric in soup pot, bring to boil and simmer 20 minutes until lentils are soft. Add tomatoes and cook for a few minutes longer, reduce heat.

Meanwhile in skillet, heat oil. Add cumin and mustard seeds and sauté until fragrant, for just a few minutes. Cook at low heat, be careful not to burn seeds. Add onions and garlic and cook until golden brown, about 10 minutes or somewhat more. (I sometimes add in chopped carrots or potato).

Add onion mixture to lentils and cook a few minutes longer, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat, add cilantro, cover and let steam a minute. Serve hot—of course.

And food for the mind:

If you like fresh berries, I offer up this excerpt from “Therapy”—the story of a good doctor and a patient who tests his boundaries (clearly one of my recurring themes, not to mention the dirty picnic scene!). In this scene, analysand, Emma, is lying on the couch and setting her seductive plot in motion….

When I rehearsed my story this afternoon, my main worry was that I’d laugh and ruin the effect. But here, in front of Daniel, levity has turned to something more like fear. My insides are knotted, my mouth parched and ticklish. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

“It was the summer after my sophomore year of college. I was nineteen. I’d taken a crappy job at the university library—English majors don’t have much to choose from, you know--but I took a few weeks off at the end of August to go to my grandparents’ farm in Pennsylvania. It beat reshelving books all day, but I was bored out of my mind. Then one afternoon I decided I needed an adventure, so I saddled up their horse, Mitsy, and rode up Peter’s Mountain.”

Under the veil of my lashes, I check for signs of boredom. Daniel leans forward, the picture of attention.

“I used to ride a lot back then, you know,” I continue. “Sometimes guys would make rude remarks about girls on horseback, but the truth is, a saddle doesn’t touch the right places. There is something else to it, though. Mitsy was a big bay mare with a rolling gait, and it did give me pleasure to feel such a powerful animal move beneath me, respond to the faintest pressure of my thighs….”

His chair creaks. I don’t open my eyes, but my legs suddenly feel hot, seen.

“It was very still up on the mountain. Just me, the song of the insects and the muggy heat pressing on my skin. After a while I realized I was riding past a row of huge blackberry bushes, heavy with fruit. There were so many fat berries I just had to reach out and pop one in my mouth. It was sweet. Not like we get in the markets here. You could actually taste the sun in the juices, tiny explosions of crushed berry essence. I ate another, then a few more. I slipped off of Mitsy’s back and shoved fistfuls into my mouth while she grazed. I didn’t stop until my stomach ached.”

A flutter of my eyelids shows that he is in fact staring at my legs, or rather, at the lacy band that holds the stockings in place at mid-thigh.

“And then, well, only then did I notice that everything was all too neat and orderly. I wasn’t feasting on wild berries, I’d stumbled onto a plantation, someone’s property. They raised these things for money. There I stood with my stained fingers and palms. My lips and chin were probably purple, too. A thief caught red-handed.”

Daniel chuckles softly. I know he enjoys word play.

“I probably should have gotten back on Mitsy and high-tailed it out of there, but I was frozen to the spot, waiting for someone to discover me, scold me, force repayment for my theft. But nothing happened. Just birds chirping and the noon sun pounding down and little by little my fear turned to something else. I felt…brazen, for lack of a better word. As if I were an actor in someone else’s X-rated dream and the director was whispering—go ahead, honey, don’t be shy. Almost in a trance, I pulled the picnic blanket from the saddlebag and spread it out on the ground. Then I took off my halter and shorts, even my underwear, and I lay down, my pale and tender parts exposed to the sun, and I…”

My throat closes around the next word. This isn’t going the way I’d planned at all. I meant to unsettle and arouse him, but instead I’m back there again, a naked girl on a blanket, quivering with shame and excitement.

Daniel’s patient voice floats into my head as if from far away. “What did you do, Emma?”

I tried to speak, but all that came out was a croaking sound.

“Did you masturbate in the field?”

Did they give classes in that in shrink school, too, saying naughty words out loud with nary a tremor?

“Yes,” I squeak. “Funny, I can’t seem to say that word here.”

“Don’t you feel safe?”

“I know I should. But instead I feel nineteen again.”

“There is no reason to be ashamed about any of this, Emma.”

“But there’s more. You see, I didn’t do it the usual way, trying to get off as quickly and quietly as I could under the covers. This time I rubbed myself very slowly until I was sopping wet and just about ready to come, then I’d ease off and start again. As if I were daring someone to catch me. Then I saw him….”

“Who?” For Daniel, the timing is uncharacteristically abrupt.

“The workman, the caretaker. In the shadows at the far end of the row. He was watching me.”

Daniel sucks his breath, faintly, as if drinking through a straw.

“His hand was moving, about waist level. Up and down. What a normal girl would do, if a normal girl happened to find herself naked on a mountainside jilling off, is cover up and get out of there fast.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I spread my legs wider and spit into my palms and circled them over my nipples and made all sorts of sounds in my throat, like an animal. By the end it wasn’t even an act. My thighs trembled and my chest was so flushed you’d think someone had slathered berry juice all over my breasts. When I came I groaned so loud, Mitsy walked over and nuzzled me to see if I was okay.”

“And the man watching?”

“When I looked over again, he was gone.”

“Ah.”

“Do you think I’m sick?” I hadn’t planned to say that either, but my heart skips two beats as I wait for his answer.

“I don’t believe labels are very productive, Emma. ‘Sick,’ ‘exhibitionist,’ they’re all terms of judgment and shaming. What matters here are your feelings, in particular your desire to have your sexuality be seen and accepted.”

I can tell he makes a living at this. But I didn’t come here for soothing words. “Isn’t it a problem if I act out those feelings? In front of a stranger?”

“It could be, but in this case….”

“You think it was just my fantasy, don’t you?” I sit up suddenly.

Daniel’s head moves back an inch or two, in what for him must pass as surprise. Is it the strength of my reaction or an unexpected flash of naked pussy?

“I’m not sure that matters so many years later. The scene itself has elements that would be beneficial to explore whether or not it happened in fact.”

“What if I told you I checked afterward and found a puddle of spunk in the grass right where the guy was standing?” In truth I didn’t, but I want to keep the engagement on my territory: action, not analysis.

His upper lip curls slightly. Jealousy? A touch of counter-transference?

“I still believe what’s most important now are your feelings and why you chose to tell me this today.”

I check the clock on his desk, conveniently turned to the couch for the client’s benefit. Twenty minutes left and so much more to accomplish.

“Okay, sure, I’ll admit most of my sexual fantasies are about being seen and accepted.”

“And loved?” Daniel asks softly. “That’s what we all want, isn’t it?”

I nod. He is good at this. Unable to meet his eyes, I study the Oriental rug that covers the floor between us. The pattern seems backwards—the round flowers are like roots, sprouting stems and leaves that beckon with graceful green fingers—tell me, tell me. “The truth is I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Since the beginning really. I want to do it here. On this couch. I want you to watch.”

The room falls into silence….

Twenty-two Years Ago...

...tomorrow, Herr Doktor DGS and I were married on a very hot Saturday at noon at the historic Catholic church in Maryland where F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda are buried. I was getting out the photos for our annual commemorative viewing and thought I'd scan in a few for my blog buddies. We'd used a budget photographer, so the pictures aren't quite the quality I'd aim for now, but the photo above is a candid of the young bride that is one of my favorites--this is before I sweated off all my make-up in the un-airconditioned church.

This is a favorite couple photo by the pro. It was staged after the official ceremony, but you can't light too many symbolic candles, right?

Sorry, Herr Doktor, but I couldn't resist scanning this photo (are you sorry you taught me how?). While I was changing into kimono for our Japanese-style grand re-entrance in new costume, appropriate because we met in Japanese class, my new husband decided to give the maid of honor a visually aided preview of the wedding night.

And yes, that night exceeded all expectations, so much so that the groom was willing to indulge his bride's whim for another costume change--to better understand the male POV, of course. This show of good humor would insure us a life of fun and adventure for two decades and beyond. My Japanese friends loved this picture and said it was proof I'd married a good man. They were right!

A bow of thanks for stopping by!

Get Ready for a Spicy Summer Party!

It’s been a busy week, cleaning up the house, tidying the back yard, baking cookies, and hauling out my crate of 19th century erotic wine cups from China (see above) for the big party on Sunday. Yes, I’m playing hostess for the first meeting of the Spicy Summer Sunday blog party tour and I have some tongue-tingling food and conversation on the menu, plus an awesome musical performance that really sends chills down my spine—the perfect entertainment for a hot summer afternoon.

By the way, I know I promised a “happy ending” to my porn stash/creepy sex doctor musings, but have been so caught up in the party preparations, it may not happen this week, but I'll try. In the meantime, Mom’s not home yet, so feel free to keep leafing through my Viva’s, vintage Penthouse’s and Japanese manga porn (don't worry if you don't read Japanese, you don’t really need any translation to figure out what’s going on ;-).

But back to the excitement ahead, here’s the all-star list of summer Sunday parties. My mouth is watering already!

5/31 Opening ceremonies right here
6/7 Erobintica--hot chili powder
6/14 Neve Black--cilantro
6/21 Sommer Marsden--cumin
6/28 Gina Marie--cinnamon
7/5 J.M. Stone--thyme
7/12 Craig Sorensen—pepper
7/19 Jeremy Edwards—dill
7/26 Isabel Kerr--ginger
8/2 Marina St. Clare--basil
8/9 BadAss Kona--rosemary
8/16 Emerald—poppy seeds
8/23 P. S. Haven--salt
8/30 Gala Goodbye of a yet undisclosed orgiastic nature

Yes, folks, it's going to be one HOT summer....

Should I Be A Slut or a Whore?

Just a quickie to ask your advice, blogland buddies. As I mentioned earlier, one of my future projects is to make podcasts of some of my favorite stories. I really love to read my work aloud--as I discovered during my Amorous Woman promotion. My stories begin as voices in my head (yes, the line between madness and art is fine) and so channeling that voice for my reader/listener feels very intimate and immediate and gratifying.

I know that some people offer their podcasts for sale and I initially thought I'd bundle 5 or so stories and sell "anthologies" for a few dollars through Paypal. The point was not to make money, which I'm sure I won't, but to take myself seriously as an artist, to say that my work is worth something. To be honest, selling my stuff, even my novel feels strange. I'd rather buy up all the copies and give them away! I do this for love and anytime it's veered closer to doing it for money, I get a little uneasy.

The closer I get to actually recording the podcasts, the weirder it feels to ask for money. Why not just offer them freely? My labor of love given in kind to anyone who gives me the gift of her time? Or am I shortchanging myself, a victim of low self-esteem? Yep, money really messes with my head. I guess another option would be to try a test sale and see what happens....

Anyway, if you have any thoughts, please weigh in!

My Writing Secrets Revealed!

It's been a great holiday weekend--wine parties with friends, a repeat viewing of one of my favorite erotic movies, The Lover, some freezing cold, yet always heart-warming, soccer down by the bay. But this morning I got my biggest holiday treat! I'm honored to be a guest today over at Logical Lust's blog (they're the wonderfully writer-friendly publishers of Swing!: Adventures in Swinging by Today's Top Erotica Writers) where I talk about writer's block, writing resources, how I do my research and my favorite compliments. This is more of a discussion of craft and process than my usual interview, so I'd be curious what you all think. Please do drop by and leave a comment if you're so inspired!

I Like to Dress in Men’s Clothes….

…and hang around in bars. Well, not the bars part, I’ve never been much for bars. But I do have a history of dressing up in my lover’s clothes, just once or twice, to get a better sense of what it might be like to be him.

In fact I wrote a whole story about it, called “Being Bobby,” which you can read over at the wonderful online erotica magazine, Clean Sheets.

“Being Bobby” is about a college-age couple, so I thought it would be fitting to post a photo of myself from those formative years. I’m not dressed in my boyfriend’s clothes here, but I was definitely aiming for the male look.

I was dressed up for a costume party—it was winter, but the clubs at Princeton often had theme events like "come as you aren't"—and since I’d gone as a dance hall girl/prostitute at Halloween, I thought it might be fun to play the flip side and go as a gay hustler. That’s why I have circles under my eyes and carry my own Vaseline. As I recall this costume didn’t get quite the universal acclaim of the hooker outfit (I have a photo of that, too, but you will never see it). Only a few people guessed what I was supposed to be without being told, although I remember raised eyebrows and amused smiles over the Vaseline. By then I’d already gotten a bit of a reputation.

Well, all of this talk of cross-dressing is putting me in the mood to slip into a Suit and Tie! Be back later this week with my final porn stash installment....

Sex, Lies and Nancy Friday

“Of course I came, darling. Twice!”

“Yes, I am married. But by mutual agreement, my wife and I lead separate lives.”

“You’re the best, baby. The best ever!”

“Respect you in the morning? You bet, sweetheart!”

Sex and lies are all-too-frequent bed partners. Some people even claim that when it comes to sex—such a lawless, irrational urge--there is no such thing as a lie or a truth. I’ll agree that it is a complex matter. In a way, I’m still a bit of a romantic about sex (as much as I’ve tried to ape male sexual behavior in proper 1970s feminist fashion in my early career). Sex with my soul mate is the most revealing and honest thing I’ve ever done. But I’ve also told plenty of white lies over the years and I’ve certainly lied to myself.

There is one sexual lie that I find very hard to forgive, however. I discovered this profoundly disillusioning truth about five years ago when a call went out on ERWA for a book on women’s sexual fantasies. The call mentioned Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden and said it’s time for a new infusion of that best-selling formula. Give readers a peek into the dirty minds of women and they will buy! But, the call said, since most of the fantasies in her books were written by professional writers (and by implication not the confessions of ordinary women), this book would be made up solely of high-quality fiction pieces.

What? Those super-dirty stories about perverted nuns and horses and lesbian dominatrixes in Nancy’s books (and I have all four) were like made up?! They weren’t real fantasies?

Can we believe in anything anymore?

I knew I had to submit something in honor of Nancy and those “fake” sexual fantasies that fueled my imagination in my teenage years (and beyond). And so I dashed off a Nancy-like twosome of dirty daydreams, giving the same “realistic” context and writing in the same confessional tone. My story was accepted for publication, although it turns out none of the other stories in Women’s Fantasies, edited by Sonia Florens, have that Nancy format meant to trick you into misplaced trust. They seem like stories, but of course, erotic stories are also fantasies as well, aren’t they?

Today, as my public woman-porn-stash musings near their end (one more wrap up post later this week), I wanted to share a part of that published piece, which I now see was profoundly inspired by mind-fucker extraordinaire, Dr. Robert Chartham. This Alfred Kinsey take-off is a wee bit long, meant more for a lazy summer afternoon than blogland, I think, but what the hell, it’s my blog and I can drone on if I wanna! Oh, and for those of you who like professional analysis with your fantasies, be sure to read the insightful commentary by the renowned sex therapist, Dr. Roberta Chasm.

From "Men in High Places" or "Jessica's Fantasies":

Jessica C. is 40 years old. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA with her husband and two sons. She works full-time as a mom and part-time as a reference librarian.

I come from a fairly conservative Catholic background. My parents didn’t say a word about sex to me, except when my mother gave me a scientific facts-of-life talk when I was nine. I didn’t really discover sexuality--what a marvelous thing it could be--until I met my very open-minded and very loving husband. We’ve been married for eighteen years and have two beautiful children.

My husband travels a lot for his business and the other day I read that most videos rented in hotels were porno and the average length of play was thirteen minutes. I told my husband and he laughed and said, “That sounds about right.” But for me it’s very different. I wonder if it’s a gender thing or if I’m unusual, but I love to lose myself in long, elaborate fantasies, keeping my body just aroused enough so that it feels like I’m floating above the bed with images and words swirling around me like caresses. When I have a morning to myself, I can spend hours this way before I finally let myself climax.

My fantasies tend toward exhibitionism, although in real life I am very modest and proper and never wear anything you’d call revealing. I think people would be shocked to know what goes on in my head! Here are two of my recent favorites.

In my first fantasy, I’ve volunteered to be interviewed for a new study on female sexuality. The interview takes place at the office of a researcher at the local university and it’s funded by a prestigious organization—in fact I learn of it from the ladies I work with at the library, who assure me it feels good to do something for the advancement of science. At the researcher’s office, everything is very proper and professional at first. The female assistant gives me consent forms to sign and promises my identity will be protected.

Then the doctor comes in for the interview. He is older, mid-fifties, and very sure of himself, the type of man who looks down his nose at ordinary folk without an M.D. and at least two Ph.D.s to their names. But, as is proper protocol with a subject, he is very cordial and smooth as he asks me questions about my sexual history, how old I was when I started masturbating, how I lost my virginity, how often I climax with my husband.

At first I’m shy, but as I warm up, I begin to tell him things I’ve never told anyone before. Sometimes, when I have a few hours free for this fantasy, I focus on all the details of the question-and-answer period, the way the doctor’s eyes begin to glow in spite of his serious expression, the way he shifts in his chair as if he might be arranging something in his pants. Other times I move quickly to the special section of the interview. After I’ve answered all the questions, the doctor tells me I’ve been so cooperative, he’d like to invite me to participate in an extra “laboratory” phase of the study.

He leads me into a dimly lit room. In the center of the room is a comfortable reclining lounge chair upholstered in a feminine, floral print. The doctor tells me to lie down and relax. He then disappears into the shadowy corner of the room. He snaps on a warm, golden light that illuminates only my body on the chair. Then he explains in measured tones that I will be providing very valuable data for his study if I agreed to allow him to film me masturbating.
I blush bright red and am about to jump up and stalk out, but his voice stops me, like a huge, warm hand pressing me back down in the chair.

He explains that I can take this at my own pace and end the session any time I begin to feel uncomfortable. “You’re in charge, Mrs. C,” he says. “Just imagine you are in your own home with some private time and you’ve decided to pleasure yourself. We will make it impossible to identify your face on the video. This is all for a good cause and will promote a greater scientific understanding of female sexuality.”

Finally I consent, but for a while, I lie very still in the chair trying to psyche myself up to do this for a good cause, just as my colleagues at the library must have done before me. At last my fingers creep up to unbutton my blouse.

“Wow, look what she’s doing!”

I squint into the shadows and see that there are actually three figures over in the corner: one crouching behind the video camera that’s set up on a tripod, the doctor with his clipboard and another taller young man in jeans. The last one is the source of this enthusiastic exclamation.

I realize the doctor lied to me. This is a show, not science. But the truth is this is my fantasy, to be watched while I’m masturbating, not only for the advancement of science but for the personal education of three curious men.

I pull my blouse over my shoulders. My bra opens from the front (as if I’d known this would be convenient when I dressed for the interview) and when I unfasten it, I hear another sigh from the darkness. My breasts fall free into the cool air.

“Awesome tits.”

Then comes a harsh whisper, “Jeremy, Jr., I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room if you can’t restrain yourself from making unprofessional comments.”

I begin to tease my breasts. My nipples are highly sensitive—my husband calls them my “on buttons.”

“Look at the expression on her face,” the excited voice declares, heedless of the scolding. “She’s turned on already.”

He’s right. My mouth has already fallen open in that “oh” of arousal and my chest is all flushed with a pink rash. I pinch my nipples and roll them between my fingers. My pussy is swelling and throbbing with tiny electric shocks of pleasure. I arch up in the chair. I want those men—young and old--to see it.

From the corner I hear heavy breathing, footsteps pacing, another deep voice making rhythmic grunts of frustrated desire.

I pull my skirt up to my waist and work my pantyhose down around my knees, my thoroughly wet panties nested inside. I put a finger to my clit. I spit on my other palm and start rubbing it all over my chest.

A low moan comes from the corner. “Dad, she’d touching herself down there.”

The father shushes his son and clears his throat. “Ah, yes, Mrs. C. Now is the time for the first question on our survey. Are you having any particular thoughts or fantasies at this moment?”

“I’m thinking about rubbing hot spunk all over myself,” I gasp. “I love it when a man comes on my breasts. But my husband doesn’t do it often. He likes to come inside me.” My finger is flying over my swollen clit now and I’m whimpering with need. “I’m wishing a horny guy has just shot his load all over me….”

With a cry, a handsome young fellow in his early twenties leaps out from the shadows. He definitely resembles the doctor, but the long wavy hair and earring give him a sweeter look. In an instant he’s standing over me, jeans at his knees, swollen dick in hand.

“I’ll help you, Mrs. C,” he says. Such a Boy Scout. He stands by the chair, aiming his tool at my chest. With the other hand he reaches toward me.

“Don’t touch her,” the doctor yells. “That’s against medical ethics.” But there’s a hint of jealousy, too, because I’m smiling at the young man and praising his hard, beautiful cock and telling him I can’t wait for him to spray all over me.

I think it’s going to happen soon by the look of him.

“I’m gonna come,” he pants. “Open your mouth, Mrs. C. See how much you can catch on your tongue.”

Junior’s dirty game appeals to me, and I’m strumming myself furiously as his semen arcs over me. One shot hits the target, another my cheek, the rest dribbles onto my chest. I spread the slick, soapy mess over my breasts, moaning with delight.

“More,” I whisper. I could come but I don’t want to. I want to float forever in this marvelous world above the clouds.

“Hey, Mike, she says she wants more. Do you want to try? I’ll man the camera for you. This lady’s super hot.”

A husky affirmative comes from behind the camera and another young man steps out, pulling a thick cylinder of meat from his pants.

This time I can’t help myself. I lean up and take that swollen, red knob in my mouth and start sucking it. Mike lets out a groan of appreciation.

“You can’t do that,” the doctor fusses. “This is a study of female masturbation, not a porno film.”

I have both of my hands clamped on Mike’s muscular ass and he’s all the way down my throat. I know he’s going to shoot his load soon, he’s getting so hard in my mouth. It’s as if he’s pumping his excitement into me and even though I’m not playing with myself at that moment, my pussy juice is gushing onto the chair.

With a shudder, and a series of rapid thrusts, Mike ejaculates in my mouth. I hold it there and swirl it around with my tongue before I swallow it down. I’m so turned on, it tastes nasty and sweet all at the same time.

Mike zips himself up, embarrassed now, and quickly retreats to the corner.

I still hear one man’s labored breathing coming from the shadows.

“Doctor,” I call, “I believe it’s your turn. I still need a little help to get me over the top.”

He lets out a long sigh. It’s those last shreds of cool professionalism evaporating into the steamy air. Reluctantly he walks over, pausing every few steps, like he’s being drawn to me, a fish on a line. He stops at the bottom of the chair. I can see his huge erection through his pants and a little stain of wetness at the outline of the tip. He tosses his clipboard on the floor and fumbles with the chair. The footrest snaps down, and he yanks off my pantyhose and kneels between my legs, cock poised to enter me. Clearly he expects I’ll have intercourse with him. After all he’s the doctor, the real man, the grand prize.

I smile. “Oh, no, Doctor, I have different plans for you. I want you to eat my pussy while you pull on your peter like the naughty boy you are. Isn’t that right, Doctor? All this talk of scientific research when really you just want to see ladies play with themselves so that you can watch the video later in your office and get off. The truth is, Doctor, you are nothing more than a dirty little masturbator.”

He can’t really answer because he’s already buried his face in my muff, his nose poking out over my fur. He is doing a good job, though, very professional. His tongue makes little figure eights on my clit, so that I’m squirming and squealing like some kind of crazed animal. And of course his hand is down between his legs jerking off his own tool, and that’s when I come, thinking about him on his knees doing exactly as I’ve commanded. Or sometimes I wait a little for my satisfaction, until after he’s come. I like to watch him wiping himself with his handkerchief and mopping the puddle of his own spunk from the floor....

Dr. Roberta Chasm Comments:
I’m Dr. Roberta Chasm, and I specialize in making sweeping generalizations about people’s inner lives without really knowing what I’m talking about. Today I’m going to analyze the sexual fantasy of a certain “Jessica,” a “part-time reference librarian” from “Pittsburgh, PA.”

To begin with, I think Jessica should think about getting a full-time job at the library. She clearly has way too much time on her hands, if you get my drift. I also suspect this woman has had some bad experiences with the medical profession and/or professors. The degradation of the sex researcher at the climax of her story reveals a deep-seated resentment of authority—although in the interest of full disclosure, I myself wouldn’t mind seeing a few of my more arrogant colleagues on their knees mopping their jiz off the floor with their hankies.

Now, the unremitting exhibitionism Jessica relates in the fantasy also raises a red flag for me. Her desperation to reveal her sexual experiences to the doctor, first in the interview and then on film, borders on the pathological. There is some concern that if these urges increase, the subject may find herself caught up in the dangerous amateur porn market. If she begins selling videos of herself acting out this fantasy, it could potentially damage her marriage as well as encroach on my market for therapist-approved DVDs of real women and couples which can be purchased at: http://www.yesyouareasickpervert.com.

However, in spite of these glaring revelations of her own complexes, Jessica’s fantasy has some redeeming elements. It is encouraging that in spite of her mousy behavior at the beginning of this scene (which no doubt reflects a general spinelessness in her real life), she gradually claims her own power, reversing the patient-doctor dynamic through the self-actualizing seduction of the two younger men. In this way, Jessica’s tale transcends boundaries of gender, age, and class to result in an uplifting female empowerment experience.

Because of this, I recommend that Jessica continue to enjoy this fantasy, although she should consider limiting the amount of time she actually spends engaged in self-abuse. And if she is looking for some healthier ideas as a replacement, I suggest she consult my new book Sexual Fantasies Can Make You Rich. I’m happy to say it’s selling quite well!

Dr. Roberta Chasm is available for private and couples therapy. Videotaped sessions are also available. Learn more at: http://www.yesyouareasickpervert.com.

Viva Sexual Fantasies

Hope you all had a nice weekend! As the work week begins, it’s back to porn stash studies for me. We’ve done the pictures, now it’s time to move on to the good part: the words. Pictures may indeed be worth a thousand words, but when it comes to arousing me, the right thousand words always do a much better job. It could be that I’m just a more auditory, language-focused person, but even at 14, it wasn’t the pictures in Viva that kept me coming back for more. It was the monthly feature called “Sexual Fantasies” by Dr. Robert Chartham.

I know I read these smutty confessions tons of times, settling on particular favorites, but really enjoying them all. The early 1970s marked the discovery of the sexual fantasy in American culture—or rather the willingness to recognize and exploit this aspect of our eroticism in a self-conscious way. Because of course, all pornography is a sexual fantasy of a sort. But with the publication of Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden, suddenly even the minds of ordinary women--gasp!--were goldmines of dirty thoughts and scenarios. However, unlike Penthouse’s letters, these shocking, taboo-busting fantasies were considered safe to read only if they were properly “analyzed” by a trained professional.

Enter Dr. Robert Chartham who presents his insights into erotic fantasies including “their Meaning, Significance, and Contribution to the Human Sexual Condition.” Each issue of Viva generally ran three different fantasies (at first it was just men’s fantasies, but quickly went co-ed and females tended to dominate 2 to 1). Each fantasizer was identified by a first name with last initial and described in terms of height, weight, health, job, marital status. The reader was thus encouraged to think she was dealing with a real person, not by any stretch of the imagination the output of some professional writer who was given an editorial prompt to write something about gangsters or threesomes (more on that next time!) The fantasy is then presented in frank, titillating language which can definitely get you worked up if you're in the mood for it. It’s not unlike an erotic story or even a Penthouse letter, although the action is of course acknowledged as pure imagination. After each confession, Dr. Robert Chartham comments at length. Back in the summer of '76, I read these commentaries with great interest, part of me hoping this expert would enlighten me as to what my own fantasies meant as well as give me insight into the minds of those strange creatures called men.

Yet, even at 14, still subject to whims of teachers and other authority figures, I knew there was something a bit off about Dr. Chartham. He definitely played favorites. Rereading his comments now, I declare the guy a total fraud and complete mind fucker. Talk about having complexes! You only need to read a few issues to see the pattern. Dr. Chartham basically chides all the males for their politically incorrect dreams, whether it’s sleeping with a mother and daughter or transforming a plain Jane into a sex goddess. In the former case, the two fantasy women “are probably his way of compensating for his lack of sexual stamina.” In the latter, Dr. Chartham issues this sermon: “What selfish men these Pygmalions are…they feel like gods to whom women ought to be grateful…I have always based my sexual activity on the equality of the partners. Insofar as I am motivated by a certain degree of selfishness, I frequently have a strong desire to be the entirely passive partner. But I’ve always believed that ‘share and share alike’ gives both partners the best of both worlds. I am not, therefore, in sympathy with Richard (the fantasizer under scrutiny who claims to have lived his fantasy of transforming plain women into beauties many times), and I am sure no woman would be who had been through his hands and dumped.”

It may be true that “Richard” or his real life counterpart is a jerk, but surely a trained therapist should not be in the position of judging a fantasy as sympathetic or worthy or indeed assuming to know what others think? Or on the other hand seeing it as an expression of inadequacy, as if any human being on earth is without unfulfilled yearnings and needs. Although the feminism of the 1970s did express a lot of anger towards men, even then, I knew that belittling men was not the way to go. And to do it under the guise of an expert opinion is bordering on the downright dangerous. It’s true that women suffered far more abuse than men at the hands of mental health professionals, but to see someone, man or woman, reveal themselves in this way (even if it is all fictional) and then be held in contempt just, well, it pisses me off!

Dr. Chartham does not redeem himself in my eyes by treating the ladies more gallantly. If your name is female, it doesn’t matter what sort of fantasy you have, the good doctor is there to support you—and probably invite you over to his place to show you his black-light posters later. Yep, he’s full of crap, but I still have to share this little love letter to a writer named Martha W. who fantasizes that she’s at a swimming pool and a dozen gorgeous men come up and service her in various ways. Here’s what the doctor has to say from his professional perspective. I wonder, fellow writers, if you agree?

“The full-time writer’s job is a lonely one. If you write fiction, the experience is even more lonely. People your pages with all kinds of imaginary characters, make them as real and as solid as you can; but not one of them can rise from the page, put his or her arms around you, and provide the emotional and sexual solace you crave. It’s a hard life and it’s a lonely life. No wonder one fills one’s fantasies with crowds in a dolce vita setting.

“You and I, Martha, being writers, experience our sexual potential vividly. Because of the austerity of our working conditions, we have become fantasizing sybarites, seeking the practical comforts our lives deny us.

Let me be honest: I like being made love to slightly more than I like making love. You seem to feel similarly. And while I fantasize that my cock is capable of satisfying countless numbers of women, you fantasize that your cunt can make happy countless numbers of men. [blogger’s aside: one of these scenarios is more realistic than the other ;-].

(Caption from Viva cartoon: My mommy says when I'm older I can have as many of those as I want.")

In my fantasy, odalisques bathe all my sensitive zones with expert fingers and mouths. It is delicious, and so softly inspiring.

In fantasy, we are omnipotent. You say, ‘Stand in line, boys; you’ll all be accommodated.’ I say, ‘Stand in line, girls; my cock is there for anyone’s pleasure.’ Of course, both of us are sexual show-offs. We both need to be the center of sexual attention. But by God, we know we can deliver the goods! And it is this which gives us our sexual power and our sexual satisfaction.

No, I don’t think you are strange in the least! Take time off from your work, and use your ingenuity to find a real lover for yourself. [blogger’s aside: time to provide your phone number, doctor?] Or check out the group-sex scene, where you may find others who are in search of the same pleasures.”

Whew, well, he has us female writers pretty much pegged, but at least I’m not sick like those two weirdo guys! Ah, Robert Chartham, what happened to you in the intervening years? Did you merely pass on to the next world one afternoon as you lay passively in bed being serviced by a dozen female patients? Is this perhaps another research project to pursue in my endless quest to unlock the history of eroticism in America?

Next time—another light bulb goes on when I see how the good doctor inspired one of my first erotic publications!

Perverted Professors Dipped In Chocolate--Yum!

I'm really happy to announce that one of my favorite stories from my archives is now available online over at the delectable Oysters & Chocolate.

The title of the story is "Dear Professor Pervert" and it deals with many of my favorite themes--naughty academics, bukkake scenes, sexy writing assignments, office sex. There's a lot going on in this story and best of all, I've been elevated from my usual "vanilla" designation to the far more intriguing "licorice whips" category. The pervy Professor Perkins first started giving his X-rated assignments a few years ago in the pages of Yes, Sir, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and now he's ready to teach everyone his special sex writing tips.

Please stop by and vote if you feel so moved. And here's a sort of vanilla excerpt to whet (wet?) your interest. Trust me, this is only the beginning of the perversion! (And I actually did have a dream like this about a professor way back in the day....)

A flashback scene from "Dear Professor Pervert":

In fact, it was my dirty mind that lead us down a darker, more twisted trail. It all started innocently enough with a naughty dream.

I was lying on the floor of Professor Perkins’ office wearing an old-fashioned schoolgirl’s kilt and white blouse. The Professor himself was stretched out on top of me, but he didn’t really have a body. He was just a hot weight pressing me down, making my flesh feel all tingly and melted. I couldn’t see his face either, but I felt his hand stroking my cheek and his voice slipping into my ear. Your final paper was so good it made my cock hard for two weeks straight.

Which, of course, didn’t make any sense. I mean, how could a ten-page paper on “Ode on a Grecian Urn” give anyone a boner for one minute not to mention two weeks? However, the dream got me so turned on, I lay in bed playing with myself and thinking about Jonathan until I had a very wet, loud orgasm. Even after that I was still horny and missing him terribly. That’s how I got the idea to send him a provocative email.

In retrospect it was mild stuff. I told him about the dream and how I “pleasured myself” when I woke up. Then I said, tongue-in-cheek, that I was looking forward to August when I could feel his “pulsing manhood” in my “turgid sex.”

After I sent it, I was a little worried he’d laugh or be offended, but instead he called and said in that low, syrupy voice guys get when they’re shy but turned on at the same time, that he enjoyed my email and was going to send a reply soon.

I couldn’t restrain a giggle of triumph. Last spring I never would have imagined I’d inspire Professor Perkins to send me an X-rated email.

But that wasn’t quite what I got. The subject line was simply “Comments on Your Essay.” In a formal, professor-ish tone, he told me my paper would be stronger if I gave more context for the self-pleasuring—what I was wearing, how long it took, and specific techniques I used to reach satisfaction. He suggested I draw my reader into the scene through the use of vivid detail and avoid clichés such as “pulsating manhood.” He concluded that my work showed promise, but there was much room for improvement.

My face burning with embarrassment and disbelief, I fired back a reply. “Dear Professor Pervert, I didn’t realize I was going to be graded on my effort. Maybe you should write out the assignment with a list of guidelines so I can do better next time?”

A few hours later, I found this in my in-box:

Assignment #1. Spend at least an hour pleasuring yourself without bringing yourself to orgasm. After one hour, you may enjoy a climax. You’ll be keeping a “Masturbation Journal” which will be graded on style and content. At the top of each entry record then time of day, length and location of session, what you are (or are not) wearing as the session unfolds. I’m looking for an accurate and thoughtful essay that explores not only physical sensations, but your thoughts, feelings and fantasies while you are masturbating. Fresh images and honesty are key elements of the exercise. The assignment is due within four hours. Late papers will be penalized. Sincerely, Professor Pervert.

“The nerve!” I sputtered at the computer, shaking with anger. For a minute, I was too worked up over his audacity to notice he’d gotten me worked up in other ways: my panties were soaking wet....

Contemporary Self-Abuse Can Be Fun

I was bored and I googled myself (a contemporary form of self-abuse in more ways than one), but this time I found something I'd never seen before, even though it dates from October 2008. It's a review of Amorous Woman by Gwen at Pop Shot, a sexy blog with lots of great links. Gwen lived in Japan, so she brings the gaijin insider's perspective to my story--always particularly scary readers for me, cause they can tell if I got it right.

I'll tell you, this review put me over the top! Reading Gwen's responses to my book was a reminder that my writing does sometimes reach and touch people who just get it. We're connected in this intimate way without knowing each other at all. It's a pretty friggin' powerful idea. And it kind of helps with my fears about starting a new novel (more on that later).

So keep writing everyone--you never know what will flower from those seeds you sow!

Wife Swapping 1950s-Style

Kirsten Monroe has been an inspiration for me in so many ways--her luscious poems and stories, her eye-pleasing blog, her every-part-of-my-body-pleasing recipes and that awesome barbecue party in the Mojave Desert with some seriously spicy hot-tubbing under the stars. But now I must add yet another reason why I want to be just a little more like her.

She does her research.

Kirsten just sent me a link to the full article about the wife-swapping couple I blogged about below (my lazy self assuming that it would be too hard to find). And yes, Robin, these folks are actually wife swappers from St. Louis, Missouri. Literal wife swappers, as in "let's get divorced and marry each other's wives." But, hey, you gotta admit they look happy!

In this 1959 article in Sexology, Dr. Dengrove goes on to discuss a variety of other partner swapping situations, making sure to include oh-so-scientific references to the Polynesians, the Eskimos and the Banyankole tribe of Central Africa. Not to mention university instructors (and boy, do I know about them!) It's really worth a read for a glimpse into 1959, which is so different from our own day and yet, beneath the dowdy dresses and ugly glasses, so very much the same. I know my heroine is going to find some comfort in it when she finds this article on the Internet. Thanks again, Kirsten!

(Oh and sorry about the badly aligned photo--I just learned how to scan pictures, now I clearly have to get more Photoshop/Web training!)

Viva the Amorous Picnic!

Back before kids, one of my favorite amorous outings was a picnic. I’d dress up in something a little frilly—a skirt was a necessity of course—and pack my special wicker picnic basket with bread, cheese, fruit, fine chocolate and a bottle of red wine. My lover of the moment would haul the basket while I carried the blanket through meadow and forest. We’d wander until we found someplace fairly private on campus or in a park or the woods. The photograph above was taken in May of 1982 during one such picnic during my junior year at Princeton. We were alone to feast and be amorous until a groundskeeper rode by on his lawn mower. Thank heavens for the skirt. And please don’t ask what happened to that poor banana!

Now, appearances to the contrary, this picture actually does tie in to my discussion of Viva Magazine and its place in my erotic education. But I’ll get to that in a moment.

First, I’d like to give you a little background about why I have so many Viva’s in my filing cabinet. When I first discovered the wonders of e-bay, I thought of my sister’s naughty magazines and one pictorial in particular. This was my very favorite image story, one I’d return to again and again. I remembered certain scenes very clearly, even after thirty years. Given that my professional life (such as it is) revolves around sexual fantasy, it seemed like good research to find this issue and see how it affected me as an adult.
I remembered the story started with a woman in 18th century dress carrying a picnic basket out to the woods. She nibbled fruit and had a little wine. Then, tipsy on booze and the great outdoors, she stretched out on her blanket and pleasured herself. A passing Continental soldier espied the lady and decided to join her. She didn’t mind the company and a merry feast ensued. My best guess was the July 1976 issue, which would surely have something with a Continental soldier, but alas after acquiring the whole year, I discovered I was wrong. Nor did the scene appear in any issue from 1974 or 1975. I had nearly completed my set of early Viva’s before I finally hit the jackpot—December 1973.

To my surprise, even after all these years, “Secrets from My Diary” didn’t disappoint. In fact, it was better than I remembered. There were some especially interesting scenes involving food. For example, the man (not a soldier but a certain Lord Ffetherpenney) eats a wedge of watermelon—or is it mango?—from between the lady’s legs, while she sucks her own fingers. Soft core it is, but nicely suggestive. In another the lady pours wine in the man’s mouth, missing badly and licking the wet stuff off of his lips and chin. There’s a nice butt-kissing scene and another of my favorites: the half-dressed lord carrying the naked woman fireman-style back to his four-poster bed.This early pictorial is one of the hottest in my whole collection, so it’s no wonder it stayed with me. Gradually the Viva picture stories become tamer and more posed, more like Gatsby below and by 1976, they all but disappear to be replaced by a Penthouse-style boudoir shoot of a single naked man or sometimes a couple. My sister said she’d heard women didn’t buy Viva anymore; the main purchasers were gay men and this was what they were looking for. She stopped buying new issues after the summer of 1976. Thirty years later, so did I.

But enough about the death of the feminist dream of sexual homogeneity in American culture, let’s get back to me! So, as I was leafing through an old photo album to find that picture of myself dressed as a gay hustler (you’ll find out why next week!), I came across the picnic photo above. And suddenly it struck me. My urge to dress up in long skirts and drag my boyfriends out to the woods, mosquito bites on my butt bedamned, might indeed have originated in my subconscious memories of the diarist and her lord capering en plein air.

But which came first? Was I drawn to the food porn pictorial because the circuits of pleasure were already set in my brain? Or did Viva create new ones that still stoke my libido today? Did they feed each other, perhaps, like the lady and her lord in the sunny glade? What do you think?

In my next post, our tour of Viva continues when I move on to the magazine's most direct contribution to my career as an erotica writer. (Hint: this involves reading. Flashlights at the ready, please!)

A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

In honor of the release of Swing!: Adventures in Swinging by Today's Top Erotica Writers edited by Jolie du Pre (now available for Amazon Kindle), I just had to share this provocative photograph. I would love to read the article by Edward Dengrove, M.D. as well, but it maybe be lost in the mists of history. Wife swapping, or swinging, will play a role in the opening of my novel-in-progress, so it's been in my thoughts. I'm sure this group is exactly what my heroine's husband has in mind when he suggests some sexual experimentation will strengthen their marriage. The key to a good key party? Carnations and corsages, of course....

More Viva to come!

Inside Viva: The Pictorials

I’m pretty sure I saw my first copy of Viva: The International Magazine for Women during the summer of 1976. I was fourteen and hadn’t seen much visual porn (except for a few photos in a women’s liberation pamphlet where the coupling lovers seemed so frozen in place I assumed they were dead). I had been reading sex scenes in books for quite some time before that, but that’s another story (see my discussion of The Godfather).

When my middle sister came home to stay with us for the summer after her last year of college, she put away her extensive collection of Viva’s in the bookshelf of her nightstand in plain view. My parents didn’t seem to care, they probably didn’t know what was in them. Magazines for women were by definition “safe.” And a lot of the magazine was safe enough. There was very high-brow fiction, like an excerpt from Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior, and interviews with Warren Beatty and Helen Reddy as well as feminist roundtables and confessions from Vietnam vet’s wives. But there were also pictures. Of naked men.

A comparative viewing (and I have both, so let’s pass them around) reveals that the Viva pictorial is definitely different from those in its brother magazine, Penthouse. Viva always provides one “narrative” series involving a couple and one feature which offers a variety of different naked men, say clothed crotch shots of men involved in different professions or “pin the tail on the male” where you try to match the naked butt with the face. At the time Penthouse, on the other hand, was almost exclusively a look into a lady’s boudoir. Apparently in private most ladies lounge around in various states of nudity and study their pubic hair with great concentration.

But the Viva pictorial provides so much more: props, costumes, atmosphere, even literary and historical references. Is this because the female mind needs more story, more relationship, more stuff to be aroused? Or just that the editors assumed so? At any rate, given that Emerald and I were discussing our love of The Great Gatsby, I was amused to find a pictorial called “A Glimpse of Gatsby,” where a brawny brunette with 1970s style good looks (a sort of Chad Everett look, if you’re old enough to remember "Medical Center") and 1920s clothes lounges around with a Daisy Buchanan blonde.

This intertextual approach does spark my imagination and I got to thinking it might be nice to see a whole series of these peeks into famous lovers' bedrooms. Maybe juxtapose this elegant afternoon tryst with an earthier Tom-Myrtle pictorial set in their New York City hideaway (with a few shots of Nick Carraway listening in)? Then proceed through the great works of literature—Darcy and Elizabeth’s honeymoon; a steamy encounter between Heathcliff and Cathy. Maybe move on to historical figures: JFK with Marilyn, Bogie and Bacall, Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. The possibilities for couples in costume (and out of them as well) are endless.

Yet, even as I appreciated the context, I gradually became aware of a growing discomfort, even anxiety as I viewed these pictures today. I finally realized what it was. There are no erections. These naked men are in the presence of beautiful women in lingerie, kissing them, caressing them and still their members hang like limp hoses. Long, thick, limp hoses, but still. As a teenager, I remember noticing, although not fixating on the organs, but now, it’s hard to focus on anything else. All of the pictures cannot be set the afterglow. And yet, junior is not so happy to see the lady. Is it a relationship problem? A case for Viagra?

Of course, the simple explanation is that if Viva portrayed these situations realistically and showed aroused men, it couldn’t have been sold with Playboy and Penthouse at airports and newstands. It would be relegated to sleazy porn shops, and few women would ever see it, much less buy it.

However, the magazine still worked its magic on my adolescent mind. In fact, there is one picture fantasy that lit my fire then and still brings on a glow today. In the next post, I’ll talk about the Viva spread that stayed with me for more than thirty years and was mostly responsible for my e-bay buying spree. Til then, let's check out that great interview with Helen Reddy! (“I Am Woman” was my shower song of choice for more years than I care to admit).

Pamper Me!

We love holidays of all sorts in our family (Flag Day is a favorite), but we agree they have one drawback--they don't last long enough. Which is why we decided a few years ago to make honoring holidays like birthdays, Mother's Day and Father's Day into entire weekends devoted to the appreciation of the designated family member.

This weekend, it's my turn! I get to call the shots, play Mistress, issue decrees left and right.

My first decree is that we'll go to three soccer games on Saturday. Actually, this is something I love to do. Sure, I use the term "soccer mom" in my bios because I know it will raise eyebrows. Erotica writers are supposed to be 25 year old prostitutes who save their maternal instincts for clients with certain fetishes. But I really am a soccer mom in the sense that I love to watch my kids play and I sign up for snack duty and all that stuff. Having loathed team sports myself as a child, I never thought it would happen to me, but there you go!

Later around dinner time, we'll open a bottle of Cotes du Rhone that is supposed to go well with pizza--namely, Chicago style deep dish spinach pizza from our neighborhood pizzeria, Zachary's, a local institution. Dessert is the yin-yang cookies I made for a school fundraiser yesterday, and I will insist everyone tell me how delicious they are.

Sunday I'll really start cracking the whip. Herr Dr. DGS, who is back from three weeks of business travel, will be busy paying homage to the mother of his children by scanning in some Viva Magazine pictorials and an incriminating college photo of me dressed as a gay hustler (you'll see why in a few weeks!) Then I plan to force the family to take a stroll in the Rockridge neighborhood, probably a route from one of my architecture walking tour guides. Afterward I'll absolutely insist--and they can moan and complain all they want--that we all have an ice cream cone from Ici, a boutique ice-creamery that makes its own fabulous cones that are sealed with a generous dollop of Belgian chocolate at the bottom. This means the last bites of your treat are melted ice cream mixed with a hidden piece of chocolate candy. It's a brilliant idea and a great way to celebrate the wonder of me. Otherwise, I'm staying away from restaurants, which are just nasty on Mother's Day. Our dinner will be leftover pizza. And I'm not doing the dishes!

I hope your Mother's Day is happy, too!

Wanna See My 'Stash'?

It's a cliche in American culture. A boy gets his first glimpse of sex from his Dad's porn collection, which he manages to locate in the corner of the closet when his "special dirty magazine homing device" is magically activated around the age of fourteen.

As a writer, I try my best to avoid cliches, although sometimes it is difficult. But if a boy finds his mom's porn collection instead, are we talking "fresh idea"? I certainly hope so.

I'm gearing up to start my new novel, which will be a look into the sexual history of both my heroine and American culture. What better way to get in touch with my own past than to pull out my porn stash and reminisce?

For the next week or so, depending on how many interesting things I find, I'm going to share nostalgic tidbits from my grown-up goodie drawer, which is actually a metal filing cabinet in my office (after all this is my work). I've got vintage Playboy's from the 1950s and 1960s, a whole stack of Viva: The International Magazine for Women (originally lifted from my sister's nightstand, now rediscovered on e-bay), a few choice Penthouse's, the complete oeuvre of Nancy Friday, The Hite Report, Gay Talese's Thy Neighbor's Wife... Well, it's really hard to list everything today, but I'm sure you don't mind. Part of the fun is in the discovery after all.

So let's creep softly to the walk-in closet, where the dusty sunlight filters through a small, shaded window. It's summertime, of course, when the afternoons are long and slow 'cause mom doesn't get home from work until four. A whole box of magazines awaits our twitching fingers. Don't giggle now, this is serious business.

School might be out, but I have a feeling we're going to get ourselves quite an education.

In the Great Outdoors with Erobintica

It’s a lovely day here in the Bay Area, and it’s definitely putting me in the mood for a little fresh air. The outdoors provide so much to soothe the ears: bird song, rustling leaves, the sound of a babbling brook, the muffled duet of grunts and moans coming from the tent over there in the clearing….

But I digress. What I wanted to tell you is that I’ve really had so much fun exploring the sounds of sex here on my blog—with both my virgin ear and my fallen one—and want to thank everyone for sharing their auditeur-y excerpts that capture so well the yearning pleasure of the listener. Still, all along I’ve been also wondering about those crucial partners-in-passion on the other side of the wall. We are well aware of their presence, but how does ours affect them? Indeed, we’ve not yet heard the story from the point of view of the musicians themselves.

Until today.

On this sunny May morning, I have the great pleasure to present a poem by Erobintica, who’s already brought her lovely lyric voice to this blog in "Window Seat." “As Campers Speak With Hushed Voices” is a virgin piece but will soon appear in a chapbook. I’m very honored to present it here for the first time!

So take a seat under the canopy to the right, cock your ear toward that blue tent on the left, and listen closely to Erobintica:

As Campers Speak With Hushed Voices - a poem for my husband

Feet and flashlights pass
inches away from our tent walls
as I taste the salt trace of exertion
on the warm skin of your chest,
brush tongue against nipple,
kiss pulsing neck.
The year’s first wave of heat
has cooled with sunset.
Slight breezes dried the humid dampness
from our skin. Now we create more.
Whispering, we move quietly.
The only sounds –
rustle of sleeping bag,
creak of air mattress
under shifting bodies.
Listening to each other’s breath,
touches get bolder, more
insistent, until we give in
to the pull and join.
At home we take
our time. Here,
we are urgent.
Soon we clasp,
stop breathing,
as fingers
press
hard
into
flesh,
followed
by muscles relaxing,
the uncoupling, sliding into sleep.

Seat Belts Optional...

Auditeurs are aroused by sounds—a definition simple and broad enough to allow for a variety of steamy situations. Thus far, we’ve enjoyed our auditory titillation through hotel, apartment or practice room walls and cracks in the bathroom door. But what if the wall, the distance between auditeur and action, is not made of plaster or wood? What if it’s the leather back of a car seat? What if the listener has a choice to turn and watch as well?

Today we’ll test the limits of the auditeur experience with an ear-tingling sample of the work of two-time Best American Erotica laureate P.S. Haven. The following excerpt is from a story called “In the Back of Raquel,” which first appeared in Violet Blue’s Taboo: Forbidden Fantasies for Couples. The 2004 anthology, which also includes my first erotica print publication "Picture Perfect," is now out of print, but you can read the entire story on Haven’s website. And believe me, you’ll want to.

Haven not only bewitches us with his wordcraft, he offers his own visual interpretations of his stories, which you can view, if you’re over 18, at his Etsy Shop. The entire print of the illustration above was a bit too racy for my blog, so I settled for suggestive over explicit. But daring visitors will certainly want to enjoy the full effect.

One more note of introduction before we take off on our journey. You might notice that although the cast of characters in this blowjob scene is double that of the more traditional duet, there is no one named “Raquel.” If you read the whole story, of course, you learn that she is the fastest girl of all--a 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500—and as you’ll see (hear?) below she adds her part to the symphony of sounds.

So sit back and prepare yourself for a wild ride, Haven-style—seat belts, optional, of course.

From “In the Back of Raquel” by P.S. Haven

Miho inhaled the last of her cigarette and cracked the window, the wind rushing in cold and loud, and flicked the butt outside before sealing the window again. I watched Annie in the mirror, shifting in the seat nervously, avoiding my face now as I studied hers. I don’t mind, I heard myself say. Annie suddenly looked scared, like she did the real first time she gave a blowjob, in her mama’s kitchen, after our senior prom. Miho lit another cigarette and watched me as I watched Annie.

“Hey,” Miho said, sliding close, her hand moving onto my lap, then whispering in my ear, “This is very kinky.”

As I watched, Annie dropped from view and I could see Trey, settling into the seat, sliding down a little, draping one arm across the armrest, the other over my wife. Over the noise of the engine I could hear the faint clinking sound of Trey’s belt being unbuckled. There was a long, silent pause, and then I could hear the wet noise of Annie’s mouth, and by the look on Trey’s face I knew that she had his cock in it. I adjusted the mirror and sat up a little higher in my seat, straining to see in the darkness, taking deep breaths when I could remember to. Even over Raquel I could hear Annie moaning around Trey’s cock.

I stared at the mirror, peering into the backseat, and I could barely make out the dark shape of Annie’s body, curled up in the seat next to Trey, her head swaying in his lap. I glanced quickly down at the highway then back at the mirror. I could see Trey, breathing deeply, sinking into the seat, relaxing, both arms now slung across the back of the seat. Trey’s eyes locked with mine, and I stared helplessly at him, unable to turn away, his eyes white slits, his face half hidden in the shadows, and I suddenly had the feeling that somehow he had expected this, that he knew from the first time he saw my wife that this would be the outcome, his cock in her mouth. I wanted to hate him for his arrogance, his utter conceit. I hated myself for wanting this, but I did want it. I wanted it worse than even Annie could know._

“Suck it,” Trey said, staring directly at me, his voice just loud enough for me to hear. I tried to think of him as the arrogant prick, the spoiled rich kid he was, but all I could see was the confidence of someone who wasn’t afraid to take whatever it was he wanted, and I was jealous of that. A passing vehicle lit his face for a moment and I watched him, gazing down at Annie now, telling her in a breathless moan how good of a cocksucker she was, how beautiful she was. I could see him move his hands to the back of her head, easing her up or down, whatever felt best.

“You’re a lucky man,” Trey said for the second time tonight.

I could feel Miho staring at me, right next to me, gauging my reaction to what was happening, and I could hear Annie, moaning breathlessly as she freed her mouth momentarily, only to fill it again, licking and sucking noisily.

"Can you hear it?" Miho breathed into my ear. "Can you hear her sucking his cock?”

"Yes," I whispered, listening as Annie worked on him, an almost constant moaning coming from her as she sucked Trey’s cock, my own cock achingly erect, straining desperately against my pants. In the mirror I could see Annie, her head bobbing up and down now, and I could see her hands as she pulled Trey’s cock free for just a moment to catch her breath, then reinserts it and begins again.

I could hear Trey groaning, his voice desperate as he begged Annie to slow down. I could easily hear Annie's breathing, heavy and labored while Trey's urgings became more insistent, his moans becoming louder and in rhythm with Annie's. Suddenly Trey gasped, and then growled, and I could see in the mirror his clenched fists as he tangled them into Annie’s hair, his shoulders trembling as he clung desperately to Annie. He held her head perfectly still and I could see his body convulse, his head thrown back against the seat back. A burst of grunts escaped him and I knew he was coming in my wife’s mouth.

The noises from the back promptly settled into silence, with the exception of Trey’s ragged panting, and Miho looked at me, smiling through narrowed eyes, aware, as I was, of what just happened back there. In the mirror I could see Annie sitting up, her head bowed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and giving me a look that indicated she was extremely pleased with herself. In the headlights of the oncoming traffic I could see her face, glistening wet with semen, and as she carefully wiped her cheeks and chin clean....