New York Book Tour 8: All Good Things....

Well, writing these detailed, not to say boringly endless, accounts of my book tours has been almost as exhausting as the trips themselves! But we’ve finally reached the very last installment of my reports, Monday, October 20. You might guess I’d spend my last day in New York packing and relaxing, but then you wouldn’t have been paying attention to my self-imposed schedule. Thank heavens I never had a real job as a lawyer or something. I’d have been one scary workaholic in my constant quest to do the job right.

That said, I began my morning with another gloriously relaxing brisk walk with my sister, this time up the west side of Manhattan along the river to somewhere in the 70’s. Then we walked back towards 5th Avenue and caught a cab back to the West Village for breakfast at another neighborhood bistro, Morandi, which was owned by the same people who ran Balthazar. Again the ambiance was golden Europe, this time with an Italian flavor. I had a hearty breakfast of roasted butternut squash with onions, spinach and poached eggs, washed down with a delicious café au lait. I wanted to take pictures of the charming dining room, but again my sister lectured me on invading privacy. Guess it’s a New York thing!

Fortified for more walking, I grabbed a few copies of Amorous Woman and my press kits for one final bit of book promoting business. First we walked over to St. Mark’s Bookshop, near all of those lovely Japanese restaurants. Approaching book stores to sell my novel has been one of the most challenging (and humiliating) parts of my activities, but I have to say that the people at St. Mark’s were cordial and professional and played no games. The small press book buyer ordered two copies of my book immediately on the basis of my pitch, and I left smiling and wondering why New Yorker’s have the reputation of being unfriendly. It certainly didn’t seem so on this trip.

Then we ambled up to the Museum of Sex, where a friendly young woman happily accepted a free copy of Amorous Woman, the second I’d given the institution, but I never heard back from them. I hope she—or someone—enjoyed it.

Last, we stopped by the Pleasure Chest in the West Village, a store that stays happily in the black from the bus loads of ladies on “Sex and the City” tours who swoop in to buy rabbits for themselves and their girlfriends back home. The owner told my sister that this one sex toy is totally responsible for his profits. The young woman at the counter was very cool about letting me leave a stack of my bookmarks at the entrance and mentioned that she’d just won a literary contest herself. We bonded over the writing life, I bought a small bag of penis candy for my man back home as a souvenir, and then it was time to pack and head off to the airport via A train.

My brother-in-law brought me a going-away bag from Batch with a dark chocolate cupcake filled with salted caramel, which certainly helped pass the time as I waited for my flight.

I felt tired, but happy with my New York visit. It had gone better than I’d ever dreamed—granted I’m a “have low expectations and the surprises will be good” kind of person. Looking back over my book tours now, I am still incredibly grateful to everyone who helped with the events and took their time to meet me. I'm also proud of myself for making the effort on behalf of my baby book, although sometimes I can't quite believe I did all of this myself. But no one else was going to do it for her!

I really did feel like a new parent who was trying to figure out how to take care of this mysterious, needy little thing—you know, like that scene in Eraserhead. There were times when I felt like a a fraud, as someone unworthy to take my book on tour, but with the support and encouragement of so many friends, I kept going. I sold some books, although not nearly enough to finance the trip, but what I really earned was a sense of self-worth, a feeling that my writing could be taken seriously by its harshest critic—myself.

So, in closing, I want thank everyone who came along with me. I’ve enjoyed sharing the trials of a newbie novelist with you and wish you many fine adventures in your writing life, too!

The Winner!

As you may have noticed from my last post, EllaRegina won the official Amorous Woman Real Trooper Award for attending the highest percentage of my AW readings.

Her prize was an ensemble of the same style of black bra and panties worn by the model on the cover of my novel. And she wasted no time in trying them on for size. I think she looks fabulous, don't you?

New York Book Tour 7: New York Bows at My Feet!

We're getting near the end of my book tour diary, and yes, a climax is near! Sunday, October 19 was my last full day in New York. I had an event that evening at Kinokuniya, my most literary and in a way most daunting, but I was determined to make the most of the rest of the day in Gotham City. My sister and I decided to take a nice long walk and we were up early before most of the shops opened, striding westward along Charles to the river. I picked up a latte along the way—my nod to Sunday as I was unable to enjoy my husband’s delicious French press coffee for almost a whole week.

The brisk “talking-walk” is a long family tradition and as my sister and I discussed the past week and strategies for getting Amorous Woman into the hands of more readers we managed to ambulate (how’s that for a fifty-cent word?) all the way around the bottom of Manhattan, passing Castle Clinton and the Staten Island Ferry terminal and South Street Seaport and heading up along the east side of the island. We probably walked for about two hours until the coffee insisted we get in a cab for home. It was a fresh, butterscotch-tinted morning and my cheeks were pleasantly flushed, my blood pumping with feel-good exercise chemicals.

My sister had some other visitors coming in to town, so I would be on my own for the rest of the day. I decided to have lunch at a soba restaurant on East 9th Street called, simply enough, “Sobaya” [The Soba Shop]. Hiro Sato had recommended this as one of the best noodle shops in the city and I knew to trust him on these things. I arrived on the early side, but the place was already busy with other in-the-know patrons. Hungry from the long walk, I decided to get one of the seasonal specials, “chirashi soba” [noodles with scattered goodies on top].
My jaw dropped when I saw the tray they delivered to my table. It was a veritable feast. Taking center stage was a large bowl of buckwheat noodles gussied up with tofu milk skins, vegetables, kamaboko [fish paste], rolled sweet omelet, spinach, wheat gluten dumplings, burdock root, and tempura with shrimp and vegetables. But that’s not all. Garnishes included a dish of inarizushi [vinegared rice in fried tofu skins] and a long narrow dish of relishes including boiled sweet potato, edamame pods and burdock in a sweet soy sauce.

The lunch was so lovely to look at in a hearty, country Japanese kind of way, that I hesitated to eat it and thought I might just take pictures. But soon enough the delicious aroma got to me and I put my chopsticks to work. Japanese food is supposed to be high on the looks and low on taste, but this tasted every bit as wonderful as the visuals. The noodles were obviously handmade with an al dente sturdiness and the broth was the darker soy version native to Tokyo. The complexity of the soup was very satisfying and I sipped it slowly. The inari had a delicate sweetness—much of the sushi you get here is too sweet and overbearing, but this was perfect. The garnishes were perfect complementary bites of goodness and I took my time nibbling this, slurping a bit of soup, savoring the sushi. The lunch was the perfect way to warm up on a chilly autumn day and I’d say Sobaya is well worth the visit for distinctive, high quality food that lives up to the best Japan itself could offer.
Another treat on menu for the day was a museum. Since I usually hit the big tourist spots when I come to the city with my family, I went for a low-key historical experience (the kind of place my kids would endure because they like my cookies), the Merchant’s House Museum, which was said to be a time capsule of New York life in the 1850s. The museum was once the home of Seabury Tredwell, a well-to-do importer of hardware and other useful metal objects, and was built back in 1832 when the tony addresses in New York went as far uptown as East 4th Street. After Tredwell died, his now-less-affluent wife and daughters continued to live there and the youngest daughter never married, ending her days in the 1930s when the neighborhood had long ceased to be fashionable. Her diminishing purse had one advantage—the furnishings and condition of the house remained much the same and her executor had the good sense to immediately convert it to a museum.

I really loved this museum and no doubt the experience was enhanced for me in that I could take my time on the self-guided tour, without kids to hurry me along. It had been decorated for Halloween along the theme of Tredwell’s funeral, with a black wreath on the door, his wax body lying in state in the parlor, pictures draped in black crepe, and the dining room prepared with funeral cakes for guests who’d come to pay their respects.
Upstairs I got to see the bed where Tredwell and his daughter breathed their last and learned many things about the daily lives of New Yorkers in the 19th century involving homely details like chamberpots and chambermaids (the latter of whom which will figure in my next novel). The drapery on the bed was not the original, but it was made from cloth discovered in the attic, which was well over 100 years old. I’d recommend this museum for a much quieter peek into New York’s historical treasures than some of the mobbed uptown museums.
On my way back to my sister’s to prepare for my last presentation, I decided to stop by Batch bakery, which Rachel Kramer Bussel had recommended as having her favorite cupcakes in the city. It was hard to decide among the chocolate cupcake with green tea filling, the lemon yuzu, the carrot cake with salted caramel….well, all of them looked tempting, but again I went seasonal with the pumpkin maple rum cupcake. I carried it over to my sister’s and sat down to snack and write my talk. As my blurb for Kinokuniya was definitely more literary, I decided to read a section of the original Life of an Amorous Woman and then read the section from my novel that was directly inspired by that snippet to show exactly how I “translated” the original. I chose a section from chapter 3 where Lydia is deciding how she can get the attention of an older Japanese dentist, comparing this to Ihara Saikaku’s heroine’s description of her flirtation techniques.
But first, another break for food porn. The Batch pumpkin cupcake was truly exquisite—trust Hiro for soba, Rachel for cupcakes, you can’t go wrong! The cake was very rich and moist, an explosion of pumpkin and spice. The frosting was not overwhelming in quantity, but had an intense browned butter flavor (yes, Kirsten, you know how much that excites me!) with flecks of freshly ground spice. All Batch cupcakes have a hidden surprise and beneath the sliced top was a layer of rum and fresh pineapple filling. The cupcake was most evocative of pumpkin pie—except it was better than any pumpkin pie I’ve ever eaten (except maybe the French pumpkin tart at The Butler and the Chef Bistro I shared with Sage Vivant, but that’s another story).

After showering and donning my “professional” outfit, which was becoming a familiar ritual, I hit the street for another walk up Sixth Avenue to 40th Street. I found that walking calmed me before an event and it was also my last chance to enjoy my favorite time of day and season in New York—an autumn dusk. I just love that hour of change (between the dog and the wolf?) when the air thickens and goes grayer with each moment and the neon glows bravely. It helped keep my mind off of my presentation. I like readings, but in the hour or so before I always wonder what the hell possessed me to sign up for making a fool of myself! And Kinokuniya was definitely a special challenge.

Kinokuniya Bookstore and I go way back. I’d often patronized the much smaller older store during the summer I spent living in Manhattan, saving up for my first trip to Japan in 1983. That’s where I bought my guidebooks, the trusty Lonely Planet guide which talked about orgasmic Japanese women, and my Japanese novels in translation. In Japan, Kinokuniya was a key resource for English language books and a favorite place to meet friends at Umeda Station in Osaka. And in fact Yuji and Lydia in my novel live very near Kinokuniya, at least in my mind’s eye. I still go to the San Francisco branch several times a year and the thought of my novel taking its place on the shelves of this bookstore was a long-cherished dream. But I never dreamed I’d actually do a reading there and I probably wouldn’t have but for Sato-Sensei’s intercession and assurance that I was a scholar and a gentleman who just happened to wander into Saikaku-esque racy territory all the while maintaining a dignified literary poise.
The lovely new store definitely did the job right in terms of readings—I’m definitely appreciating these things from a new perspective. A generous display of my novel along with Hiro’s new book, Japanese Women Poets, graced the reading area, and Sharon Cunningham, the events coordinator was positively charming and professional throughout. (She even bought one of my books—now that’s the way to treat an author!) The audience was about fifteen or so people. My sister and some of her friends, some of Hiro’s friends and a handful of strangers, and not least at all, EllaRegina and Martha Garvey who came to lend me their very welcome support. I hereby award EllaRegina the official Amorous Woman Real Trooper Award for attending the highest percentage of my AW readings of anyone, including my husband! (ER, it's your very own black bra and panty set, just like the lady on the cover of my book : -).
Hiro began with a gracious introduction and a reading from his book Erotic Haiku, which is out of print and sells for a dear price on Amazon, fittingly so because it is racy! Then I did my comparative reading of the two Amorous Women and then we both took questions from the audience—which were very literary in keeping with the setting. Afterwards we both signed some books and chatted with the audience. I got to talk with Martha and say good-bye to EllaRegina, who’d been a key player at so many of the high points of my book tour. (For regular readers of my book tour diary, she seemed to have survived the spanking party with nary a problem sitting down for the reading….)
The evening concluded with dinner at Hiro’s, a Japanese-style home-cooked meal of fish, rice, miso soup and side dishes at his apartment. I got to meet his wife, Nancy, who showed Natsuki (Hiro’s assistant who’d joined us at the restaurant on Tuesday) and I the view from the roof of their apartment building.
The sight truly took my breath away--all of New York spread out at my feet in a tapestry of neon splendor. It occurred to me then that I’d dreamed of being a published writer since I was in grade school, dreamed vaguely of some sort of official acclaim, which later came into slightly less hazy focus as involving the New York publishing world bowing—or at least nodding briefly—to my literary talent.

Reality usually takes a different form than our dreams and fantasies, but sometimes the real experience trumps the fantasy in small and subtle ways that pack a powerful punch. Gazing out over this gorgeous view, reveling in the fact that I had done so much for my book all by myself, it didn’t matter that my book was not on the New York Times bestseller list or that I was not courted by The New Yorker. New York was still bestowing her glamorous reward—far more beautiful than any uptown gathering of literary movers and shakers--for taking the initiative and believing in myself. And that, dear readers, is the most satisfying acclaim there could be.

Next: A sweet farewell....

New York Book Tour 6: Spanked!

Saturday, October 18, the sixth day of my Amorous Woman book tour, was a much more leisurely day than the two that had come before. I certainly felt better after a real night’s sleep. That morning I decided to get a little exercise by walking back over to “Japan Town” to check out the Japanese grocery store I’d seen the night before. There was a definite chill of fall in the air. I felt I was witnessing the very moment when the tingly vanilla autumn of Indian summer turned to the bite of hardcore fall.

As I headed down Charles Street to Greenwich Avenue, I noticed that a street fair/farmer’s market was set up along Greenwich, which would change plans for meeting Jeremy Edwards and Helia Brookes to get a ride out to Brooklyn for the sex party—I mean, salon. But that’s what cell phones are for, so I made a note to call them with an update and enjoyed the scenery: booths selling scarves and New Age crystals and incense, one selling deep-fried Oreos (which tempted me briefly for the bizarre factor), and another promising the best cannoli in the city delivered from Brooklyn after 1 pm (which genuinely interested me, but unfortunately I myself would be heading to Brooklyn at that time, and possibly passing the famous cannoli in transit.)

The grocery store was interesting, but nothing too different from what we have in the Bay Area. I also scoped out restaurants for the next day’s lunch (more about that later). I stopped back at my sister’s place to pick up the two bottles of red wine I’d bought for the sex party—I mean salon—and rendezvous-ed with EllaRegina, who was going to be carpooling with us.

Our Seventh Avenue pick-up went smoothly and soon the four erotica writers were sailing along on the West Side Highway, with just a short detour through the Financial District to admire the Woolworth Building, and on our way to the home of the fabulously otherworldly writer and founder of Erotica Revealed, D.L. King, for an afternoon of wicked wordsmith shop talk. I have to say I was very impressed with Jeremy’s cool-headed driving. My idea of hell would be driving in New York City, but he managed it with perfect good cheer—as he seems to handle all of life’s challenges :-).

D.L. lives in a charming neighborhood in Brooklyn, although it was strange to return to a land of single-family houses and trees after the uber-urban landscape of Manhattan. Inside, the house was definitely the realm of an erotica literati (literata?)—bookshelves everywhere, comfy-looking sofas, a cozy kitchen and the bedroom that would be the setting for the spicy climactic event of the afternoon, but I’ll get to that soon. Already in attendance were Joan, the ERWA Sheriff (who’s not at all scary or policewoman-like in person) and her companion, who were regular participants at the salon.

I’d been looking forward to this event since I started planning my trip. When I mentioned to D.L. that I’d be in New York, she immediately offered to host one of her famous “salons” (not sex parties) in my honor. At first I was a bit nervous, thinking eighteenth-century Diderot and Madame de Stael, but D.L. assured me it was just an informal gathering, nothing pretentious at all.
Indeed, everything was very informal and relaxed. D.L. had set up a nice lunch spread in her backyard, which was also very charming and full of living, green things. Actually the fence and gate reminded me of my grandmother’s house in Pennsylvania. I hadn’t thought of fences as being regional, but indeed they are. As you can see there were plenty of things to munch, crudités and dip, bread and cheese, fried chicken, crab salad.
But the favorite food of all was the “cheese balls” in the great big jar, presented here by the hostess herself. Soon Rachel Kramer Bussel and the talented fetish photographer and book trailer maestro Stacie Joy (whose work can be found on Flickr under "editrixie" and who took the better pictures in this post) arrived—with a big box of cupcakes naturally--and the party was complete.
Again I passed around my fortune cookies. Here is one of the guests holding up one of the fortunes—not sure who it is (Joan?), but the suggestions were greeted with enthusiasm by this creative and open-minded crowd. However, they didn’t immediately put them into practice—not yet, anyway.
And here is Jeremy, lost in a book again. I think he was perusing his story, “Laura the Laugher,” in Xcite's Ultimate Burlesque to enjoy that "Masterpiece Theatre" experience from the UK spellings. Or maybe he was reading my story “All Eyes Upon Her”? In any case, we were both happy to contribute to a good cause and as always delighted to hold the book in our hands. (All proceeds go to help fight breast cancer).
Once we’d satisfied our nutritional needs with the rib-sticking and vitamin-packed cheese balls, we started in on the cupcakes. Rachel told us October 18 was National Chocolate Cupcake Day, and of course, as a renowned cupcake blogger, along with Stacie, she should know. Because there were other flavors in the box, such as pumpkin, vanilla, and carrot, we decided the best way would be to cut the cupcakes into small pieces so everyone could sample them all. Helia also passed around her delicious homemade chocolate chip cookies, which had a lacy texture and a lovely butterscotch flavor. I need to get that recipe!

I’m so busy focusing on the food—typical of me, isn’t it?—that I forgot to fill you in on an important sub-plot. Both D.L. and Rachel are well-known experts in the area of erotic spanking, and although we were all curious about our fellow salonists' achievements, EllaRegina expressed a special interest. She’d attended a spanking demonstration in Manhattan some time before, where a buff ex-CIA guy (or was it FBI?) plucked a gorgeous blonde “volunteer” from the audience and proceeded to demonstrate the proper techniques for an arousing fanny-paddling. EllaRegina still had a few questions about what the subjective experience might involve. Calm yet encouraging, D.L. suggested that maybe Rachel would be willing to give her own demonstration. Which is exactly the sort of thing outsiders expect would transpire at erotica-writer salons.

But, hell, I didn’t believe it would actually happen.

By then we’d opened the second bottle of wine, which was better than the first. For some reason the second bottle of wine is always better than the first. Again I had wonderful conversations with Joan and Stacie on the topic of the reaction of the general public to our work and stupid assumptions that our personal lives and erotic art were one in the same. D.L. made me jealous by talking about her trip to visit Ashley Lister in Blackpool, and I chatted again with Jeremy and Helia—we never run out of things to discuss. It really was pretty much like any other gathering of like-minded writers on a Saturday afternoon. As the shadows lengthened and the October breeze turned chilly, we moved inside to the living room.
Then D.L. offered to give us a tour of her “toy closet.” Now I myself have a drawer at home filled with adult amusements: a variety of thigh-hi stockings, a corset, some thongs and a few Good Vibrations accessories of my own, but it was pathetically amateur compared to this imaginative and extensive collection of erotic aids. I’ll leave you to identify the items for yourself. Needless to say, if you’re into spanking above the vanilla novice level, you’d find plenty to pique your interest here. And, I’m told, many have.

Again EllaRegina was particularly intrigued and at some point D.L. approached Rachel and Stacie as go-between for a proposed lesson. In private conference, they agreed to a quick demonstration of the spanker’s art a trois, behind closed doors of course. Although I myself had written a story about a three-couple spanking party, “A Rare Find,” in Rachel’s Spanked anthology, I wasn’t ready for any hands-on demonstration myself. As an erotica writer, I believe the imagination is free, but I am very monogamous where physical interaction is concerned. Still I didn’t think my husband would object if I were merely chatting in the next room while two women spanked another in the bedroom, involving no nudity and no actual “sex,” although it would be disingenuous to deny that eroticism was in the air. I also knew it would make a good story—either as fiction or memoir (or both). So, I poured myself another glass of wine and sat with Joan, Jeremy, Helia and D.L. to discuss erotica and French philosophers. Or maybe it was Althusser and the hidden coercive effect of ideology, which naturalizes society’s systems of control and makes us believe it comes from within us. Whatever we talked about, trust me, it was profound and worthy of Mme. de Stael.

Admittedly, the entire time I had one ear tuned to the sounds coming from the bedroom. First there were voices, rising and falling. I thought perhaps maybe the spanking had happened. But no, soon enough it was clear from the rhythmic thwacks that the spanking was indeed in progress. There was more discussion—no howls or sobs, just talk—and then some harder thwacks. The other guests continued talking, perhaps distracted, but diplomatic like I was. Or perhaps they were genuinely cool to the point of disinterest? Some had attended these salons before.

I’d had a few experiences like this in the past, of being a voyeur—or rather auditeur. When I lived in Yokohama, the woman in the apartment next door would have very loud sex with her boyfriend at 2 in the morning a few times a week. It was mildly annoying as my husband was thousands of miles away, but I did learn some interesting bedroom Japanese. And then there was that party at my sister’s Bowery loft in the winter of 1980. I came up from Princeton for the big event, but developed a terrible headache and finally collapsed on my sister’s mattress on the floor of her bedroom, the sounds of the party echoing in my pounding temples. As the only resident with a real job and income, my sister scored the one room in the loft with a door.

At some point during the party, her Parisian call-girl roommate decided she had to have sex with her downstairs neighbor (I also knew this guy was the consolation prize because she had her sights on another man) and since I was apparently asleep, the bedroom was a fine place to do it. So, while I lay there, my head throbbing and my stomach queasy, the two of them fucked on the mattress beside me. My back was to them, so it was mostly an auditory experience. There was some grunting, some squeaking of the mattress. It didn’t last long. Except in my memory. I do believe that every experience is a lesson for us, in this case my beyond-Princeton teaching was that New York was a place where anything really could happen.

But back to October 2008, to D.L.’s salon. Suddenly the thwacking stopped. The door opened and the three women emerged looking very much as they had when they went in.

“How was it?” I don’t think we actually asked this in words, but the question floated in the air.

“It feels like my buttocks just had Indian food.” As always, EllaRegina had a way of capturing experience with a unique style.

Not shy about spanking and running, Rachel and Stacie got ready to leave and gave us hugs all around. EllaRegina was apparently still able to sit down after her encounter with leather and told us more over another glass of wine. Perhaps she should relate the story herself, but I remember it begins in my memory with the image of EllaRegina walking in to the room to see Rachel sitting on the bed waiting for her, paddle in hand.

“Did she bring it with her from Manhattan?” EllaRegina wondered aloud to us. The idea of Rachel always at the ready with a spanking implement was certainly within the realm of possibility.

D.L.’s eyes twinkled. “No, I think she got her supplies right here.”

Apparently what happened next was something like this: after a discussion of the demonstration, EllaRegina lay down on the bed. Stacie held her hands down while Rachel did the warm-up spanking. Then they switched and Stacie administered the serious blows.

And so it was EllaRegina’s ass dined on thali that evening.

Clearly any social intercourse after this would be anti-climactic, so to speak. The party was winding down and we all needed to be on our way. We said sincere thanks and goodbye to our hostess, D.L. and Joan, expressing the hope we could meet again soon on one coast or the other. Then Jeremy and Helia drove us back to the city and dropped us off at our respective neighborhoods. EllaRegina disappeared into the Washington Square Arch, and I’d swear I saw a park ranger follow her in with a stack of quarters in his hands. Over at Charles Street, my sister had a light supper waiting for me. Tiny roasted potatoes with salmon caviar, bread and cheese, and a salad with a new dressing she’d just discovered. It has a decided Japanese flavor, but would probably go well with Indian food, too. So, I’ll leave you with the recipe and perhaps a whisper of vicarious heat on your lower regions.

After-the-Spanking-Party Salad Dressing

Mix together in a bowl or dressing shaker:

1/4 teaspoon dry mustard
1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger (she uses The Ginger People Pantry Essentials)
1/4 teaspoon mirin
1 teaspoon low-sodium soy sauce
1 1/2 teaspoons mellow white miso
3 Tablespoons Marukan lite rice vinegar
3 Tablespoons olive oil

Serve over fresh greens.

Bon Appetit!

Next: A climax of a different sort and every writer's dream: all of New York at her feet....

New York Book Tour Diary 5: Colorful Stockings and the Wages of Sin

Thanks to all of you who managed to read all the way to the end of my day 4 diary for my New York Book Tour for Amorous Woman. Of course, it makes sense that it was a lengthy piece because the day was actually about eight hours longer than usual. This entry will be shorter, because the first part of Friday October 17 was dedicated to paying off my debt to sweet sleep after a dissipated night on the town.

I first woke up at 10:30 am, stiff and chilly from my impromptu collapse on the sofa. At my sister’s suggestion I moved upstairs to her very comfortable bed to catch a few more winks. I had a lunch date with Emerald over at Grano Trattoria, the same neighborhood Italian place where I’d eaten with my sister on Monday, so I set my alarm to allow time for a shower and sank back into a much-needed beauty rest.

The alarm went off, and I stumbled over to the shower, which really did help clear my cotton-stuffed head. I was getting dressed when my cell phone rang. It was Emerald who had also slept in. We agreed to meet for a later lunch and I fell back into bed, hoping I could get cash in enough of those wages of sin to be bright-eyed and cheery for my reading at Bluestockings bookstore that evening.
Again I was blessed in that my appointments were all but a few minutes walk away. Grano was fairly quiet at 1:30 in the afternoon and the charming maitre d’, Francesco, seated us at a corner table—although an elderly couple was lunching within earshot. Emerald ordered pasta with scallops (right, Emerald?) and I decided on the vegetable omelet since it was breakfast after all.

I’m not the kind to chat and tell, but again I was amazed that in spite of the fact we’d only met once the night before, Emerald and I were able to connect so intimately in person. You read plenty of accounts of internet friendships—okay, so this is mostly dating which is different, but still—where you meet in person and the chemistry just isn’t right. Such was not the case with my erotica writer friends. Within moments, Emerald and I were sharing our visions for the ways erotica can heal our society’s sad sex-o-phobia. I know, it sounds kind of grandiose to want to change the world with dirty stories, but I sensed in Emerald the same sincere passion for conveying the truth of our own personal journeys and exploding myths and stereotypes of female sexuality.

In many social situations, I’m the quiet one, the observer, but with like-minded friends, you can’t shut me up and I hope I didn’t talk Emerald’s ear off. The couple next to us kept glancing over, although I didn’t bother checking to see if their expressions showed supportive curiosity or alarm!

The lunch-special omelet was just the thing for a queasy stomach—full of spinach and peppers and stomach-soothing cheese. Francesco brought out another plate of the house-made biscotti, which were again fresh and tender and the perfect conclusion to the meal. I didn’t want the afternoon to end, but Emerald had an appointment uptown, so we walked together to hail her a cab. By now it was getting close to 4 pm and plenty of empty cabs were sailing past us. Emerald put up her hand and a cabbie pulled over and rolled down his window. After a quick conference, Emerald came back to tell me he refused to take her the thirty blocks to her hotel. We were confused. A few occupied cabs rolled by, then another with the “available” sign lit up (or so we thought). But the interaction was the same: I can’t take you where you want to go. I happened to notice the same sort of consultations going on one block down the street—why were taxi drivers suddenly so picky? We were contemplating the subway when finally a cabbie agreed to the trip. Emerald and I said quick goodbyes and I saw her off, feeling very much NOT like a New Yorker.

Well, for us out-of-towners, my sister explained that between 3:30 and 5 when the cab shifts are changing, some drivers are willing to do short runs while they’re on their way back to the garage, but they have to be particular. So what you do is hold up your hand to hail them in the shape of a “C” for “close.” Then you lean forward, not touching the cab so they don’t really have to come to a full stop and shout out your destination. If it’s out of the way, they drive on, if not, they stop and take you. Also the “unoccupied” lights are different, just the side parts are illuminated. So now I know, although in the future I’d probably just take the subway or walk to avoid the hassle.

For most of my trip I usually walked whenever I could. This was for exercise, to work off all of those cupcakes and chocolate desserts, but it was also to reconnect with the city in a way you can’t do by car. In LA I was always at the mercy of vehicles, always watching the scenery slide by through the window like a film. In New York, I was independent, in control of where I was going, right there with the sounds and smells of the place, a part of the city, experiencing my past and my present all layered together. This was definitely one of the pleasures of the trip.

It was already time to get ready for my next appointment, a meeting with a friend of a friend who made a documentary film about a geisha who’d moved to New York. We met at a Japanese restaurant near Bluestockings in the Lower East Side on Allen Street, where I would be reading at 7 pm. It was actually pretty close to The Happy Ending Lounge and made me wonder if the Lower East Side was a more open-minded area of Manhattan (it probably is).

Again I was pleasantly surprised that shy little me could have such a fruitful and exciting chat with a complete stranger. Over Japanese small plates like eggplant with miso and sushi, the filmmaker and I talked about our mutual love of Japan and the challenges of creating art and she bought one of my books, although she wasn’t able to make the reading.

Before long it was time for me to head over to the book store where I would reading with another internet friend I’ve known since 2001, Robin Slick, who is the author of the very sexy novel, Three Days in New York City and the newly-released Daddy Left Me Alone with God, which gives you a glimpse into the rock world from a woman who knows it very intimately. (Check out her unforgettable memoir “Uncle Sammy,” which I’ve never forgotten!)

Here’s the promotional blurb for our event:

Amorous Women in the Big Apple: The Erotica Revolution Comes of Age

Spend a delicious, wasabi-spiced evening with award-winning erotica writers Donna George Storey and Robin Slick who will read from their new novels, starring spirited heroines who embark on life-changing sexual odysseys in Japan and Manhattan. An equally spirited discussion will follow on stereotypes of sexually honest art, the exotic East, the erotic power of women over thirty, and the potential of erotica to make our lives better—much better, indeed!

How can you pass up a chance like that?
Okay, so I’ll be the first to admit that in the course of my book promotion efforts, dealing with independent bookstores has been one of my biggest challenges. But the folks at Bluestockings Radical Books were a radically class act from the start. They were enthusiastically welcoming of our proposal and delightfully supportive and friendly in person. A big row of Amorous Women greeted me at the register as I walked in the door, and I was happy to see a fantastic collection of books of all kinds in their permanent erotica section.

The audience was pretty sizeable under the circumstances. Some were there at my invitation: my sister and her husband, Jeremy Edwards, EllaRegina and the gracious Anne Elliot from Zoetrope. But there were actually some people I didn’t know at all—any of you book promotion veterans will understand what a coup this is!

Robin read first, from the utterly seductive opening scene of Three Days in New York City. I followed with the manga porn section from Amorous Woman (see me looking thoughtful below) and afterwards we took questions, which led to a lively discussion about the politics of book publishing. Chocolate and naughty fortune cookies were passed around and a few books signed. I would definitely read at Bluestockings again and send them big kisses of gratitude for being everything an independent book store should be!
Afterwards Robin, EllaRegina and I decided to go out for some dinner, and although I felt like I’d been eating constantly for the few short hours I’d been awake, my body was interested in the extra fuel. As the evening was just pleasantly chilly, we decided to walk towards the neighborhood of Japanese restaurants on East 9th Street. Again I so enjoyed experiencing New York by foot, especially with the neon lights setting the streets aglow with night's magic. We passed many appealing eateries, all bustling with the Friday night crowds, but we resisted temptation until we reached “Japan Town” and chose a serene-looking downstairs place called Hasaki that had a line of people gathered in the entry way.

Assured by the patient fellow diners that it was worth the wait, we chatted about Robin’s new novel based on her real-life experiences as the muse of famous rock stars and mother of two talented touring musicians. We also talked about the anthology she edited, 39 and Still Holding…Him that includes my story “The First Time.” Soon enough we were seated at our table and I ordered the vegetarian soba noodles, which were light and nourishing. And yes, the restaurant was definitely worth the wait.

Two events down--and they'd gone down smoothly--and one to go at Kinokuniya Book Store on Sunday, but I knew I’d have the next day to relax with no “official” commitments. I would be attending an erotica writer’s gathering at D.L. King’s in Brooklyn and I was looking forward to relaxing with my fellow dirty-story divas. Contrary to the popular image of pornographers, I expected it would be an utterly proper gathering, with nary a whiff of the edgy or shocking.

Dear reader, in that assumption, I was very, very wrong.

Coming next—Does it count as attending a sex party if the action happens in another room?

New York Book Tour Diary 4: Adventures In the Flesh

By Thursday, October 16, the fourth day of my Amorous Woman book tour, I was getting used to the New York noise and the East Coast time zone, but three consecutive nights of drinking and fine dining were making me feel partied out. Still, the excitement of the trip kept me buoyant as I strolled out through the still-summery morning over to French Roast, a casual French bistro on West 11th Street for a business breakfast meeting with Yvonne Burton of Japan-US Business News, whom I’d met at the Nichibei Exchange. In fact, I was planning to have dinner at the same restaurant later that night with my erotica writer buddies after my first reading at Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “In the Flesh” series, but when Yvonne and I were deciding where to meet, it did seem like the perfect place to suggest for breakfast. Little did I know exactly how many hours I’d be spending there altogether, but again I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Business.” I’ve always been on the outside of that life. I’ve taught businessmen, been ogled by businessmen, wrote dirty stories about businessmen, even married a businessman of sorts, or at least a guy who once wore suits and ties to work and enjoyed many meals at fine restaurants on expense accounts. This was my first official working breakfast, and I wondered if I could pull it off. But of course, there was nothing stiff or formal about it. Yvonne had shown herself to be a warm, intelligent and insightful person the Tuesday night before, and she was even more fun to talk to one on one. She had a whole list of leads for me to check out for promoting Amorous Woman, but I was also glad that I could be supportive of her project, a memoir about her experiences in Japan, which would definitely rise above the usual clichés. Fairly fresh from writing my own first book (I don’t count my dissertation and the subsequent monograph), I was able to give a few suggestions about longer projects that seemed to be helpful. Yvonne’s positive energy was contagious and before long we were planning how we could promote better understanding between America and Japan through our blogs and books, one idea sparking another. It was truly a nourishing professional meeting—and I’m lucky my first, if not my last, was so inspiring.

A celebrity sighting alert--apparently Tom Hanks' son was sitting at a table nearby and he's a regular in the Village. I turned, discreetly, to see a young man who sort of resembled Forrest Gump reading a newspaper. And yes, in all of my travels, this is the closest I got to a real eyeball full of celebrity once-removed. Somehow, given my own mixed feelings about celebrity worship, it seemed appropriate. (Although I wondered briefly how much it must screw up your head to be the spawn of celebrity, famous only in the sperm that created you, but that's for another blog....)

It was late morning by the time we said goodbye and I knew I had to do something to pass the long afternoon before my first public reading at “In the Flesh” that evening. My sister had a lunch date at the trendy Balthazar in Soho, and I decided to walk over with her and do some window-shopping. The sky was clouded over and a light rain was falling, but I enjoyed seeing New York in its different guises—gray and gloomy seemed appropriate to the season.

As I mentioned before, I often came to NYC in the late 1970s and early 1980s when I was in college and even lived there for a summer, so I see nearly every part of the city in several layers: what it is now and what it was then and who I was then as I walked these streets. In those days, Soho was gritty cutting edge, now it’s a New York version of Rodeo Drive. Still, I found plenty to amuse myself as I browsed the Taschen store and bought myself one of their erotic art books (a professional necessity). I wandered through a fancy stationery store admiring the vintage-style Halloween ephemera and stopped in at “The House that Harry Potter Built,” otherwise known as the Scholastic bookstore.
Before I knew it, it was time to return to Balthazar, to meet my sister and her friend for tea. Balthazar is yet another famous place to lunch thanks to “Sex and the City” (or perhaps the trendiest predated the show, but the place continues to bustle). French bistros are not my first choice for dining, but I liked the atmosphere of the restaurant. It had a dusky golden glow that felt like Paris at Christmas, and a savory scent of fresh herbs and roasted meat filled the air. While my sister was away for a moment, I took out my camera with the intent of capturing the scene. “Put that away,” she hissed, before I had a chance to snap. “Lots of important people are here and it’s rude to take pictures.” I looked around from our corner table and saw no one I recognized (even as spawn of fame), although I’m hardly on the inside track with New York movers and shakers.
I did manage to convince her to take some pictures of me down near the restroom, which was very retro in style, including the lady who handed me a towel to dry my hands and obviously expected a tip (I did tip, remembering my faux pas with the clerk at the Beverly Hills Hotel, check out my blog post "This Place Was Made for Sex").

By now it was time to head back home and get ready for my exciting erotica-reading evening. I planned to wear my “lucky” cheongsam, but the gray sky made me opt for jeans for travel with the dress wrapped safe and dry in a plastic bag. Oral Sex Night at “In the Flesh” was really the heart of my trip. I’d been wanting to be part of the event for so long, plus I would be sharing the microphone with some wonderful writers: Tish Andersen, Heidi Champa, Emerald, Tsaurah Litzky, Michelle Robinson, Daniel Maurer and Fiona Zedde.

Best of all, I’d be meeting some of my favorite writers, not to mention super-cool people I’d gotten to know in cyberspace—Jeremy Edwards, Helia Brookes, and EllaRegina. The cyberbuddies (Heidi, Emerald, the Jeremys and I) planned to make a real party of it, meeting first at Moby’s teany café on Rivington Street in the Lower East Side. This was a part of New York that had not undergone gentrification since my early days. The decaying tenement buildings, signs in Chinese, and garbage twirling down the alleys took me right back to 1979 when my sister lived in a loft on the Bowery (I may blog about that, too, later. There was much material for an erotica writer there!)

Teany was, well, teeny, and it took but a moment to spy Jeremy, Helia, Heidi and Mr. Heidi sitting at a long table right inside the entrance. Before long EllaRegina joined us, and low and behold, she does look exactly like the Washington Square Arch in a dusky fog, there and not there, a disembodied voice as humorous and eloquent in life as it is on the page. Emerald, on the other hand, made her entrance in a stunning emerald-green satin dress, as sparkling and lovely as a good erotic tale, prompting me to retire to the restroom (which wasn’t too icky) to change into my blue satin gown to keep her company in the glossy clothing department.

What can I say about finally meeting in the flesh fellow writers with whom I’d shared the pains and pleasures of the writing life so intimately online? Well, perhaps it is best described in this way—there was one split second when we were strangers in the traditional sense of the word, meeting for the first time. But a moment later, it’s as if we’d known each other in the old-fashioned way forever. The conversation flowed smoothly over trendy iced teas and in the blink of an eye, it was time to head over to the aptly named The Happy Ending Lounge so we could claim seats before the crowds descended.
Fortunately we did beat the crowds and staked out prime spots right next to the microphone on the red faux leather benches and red-upholstered barrel-like seats surrounding the tiny tables. Happy Ending Lounge is the perfect setting for reading erotica—shadowy booths and low lighting, a long curving bar, all in all the sexy nightspot of New York legend. I made the rounds with my erotic fortune cookies and bookmarks, as did the other authors with books (I suspect the clean up crew had piles of the swag to recycle). A few wonderful cyber-friends from other writing groups had made the trek into the city—I got to meet Don Capone, Russell Bittner and Robin Glasser in the flesh as well. By start time, the place was packed, with people sitting on the floor and crowded around in the hallway.

I was feeling a bit nervous before the reading as I always do, my “game” mindset, but fortunately, the readers who came before me distracted me from my own worries. The lovely Emerald read her mesmerizing story from Tasting Her, “Rain Check.” Her smoky voice was a perfect match for the give-and-take dynamic of the story of a woman who is slowly seduced into a luscious oral encounter. But don’t take my word for it. You can see and hear Emerald read in her lovely green dress on Youtube!

Another highlight for me was hearing Tsaurah Litzy read from “Tony Tempo” in Tasting Him. I’ve been a fan of Tsaurah’s work for many Best American Erotica’s past (I’m not sure if she is the author with the most published work in the series, but she’s a strong contender for the title). Her prose is always full of humor and pizzaz, but in the flesh, she is an amazingly theatrical and riveting reader. It would have been a tough act to follow, but fortunately, there was an intermission for the audience to freshen their drinks—and perhaps have sex in the restroom if “Second Date” from X: The Erotic Treasury is any indication.
I came next, so to speak, and read the hot spring scene from Amorous Woman, which involves oral pleasures with a twist. For some reason, my intro which sets the scene from the novel was edited from the Youtube tape, but you can get the “flavor” of the reading. I have to say it helped a lot to have my “posse” cheering me on with their smiles and friendly faces.

I’m always relieved after my performance is done, so I could just sit back and relax and enjoy Heidi Champa’s sultry voice reading “This Just In” about some intriguing behind-the-scenes action in a newsroom. I’m a big fan of sex at work scenarios and this one definitely pushed the right buttons for me. Since the story appeared in Tasting Him, you might guess what sort of buttons or rather zippers were pushed for the satisfied characters.

When the official reading was over, we all got the chance to mingle and meet the other writers and friends. Don Capone and I posed for our official Zoetrope photo (yes, Don, the camera does add a few pounds).

Then we were off to the after-party at French Roast. The temperature had dropped just enough to creep under the deep slit of my dress. Maybe winter was coming after all?

The waiter guided us to our private nook in the back of the restaurant—the ideal hideaway for dirty story writers to talk shop, complete with our own restroom in the corner tucked behind a red velvet curtain. Before we ordered, I changed back into my jeans and Cirque du Soleil shirt from Las Vegas so I could really kick back. We ordered red wine and our fashionably late dinners. I tried the vegetable plate, others ordered the pasta, although EllaRegina’s was too cool and she asked the waiter to warm it up by “asking a dragon to blow on it.”

Laughing and bonding in a way only smut scribblers can (you know, I think we really do have more fun than most people), we took a group portrait. EllaRegina is that ineffable architectural form hovering above us—you can see her if you squint really hard. Jeremy is doing his impression of the blank page and Helia, as always, is riveted by the written word.

What can I say—I had a great time and took full advantage my chance for a tete-a-tete with everyone. Suddenly it was 2 am and most of our party had to head back to hotels. I was still jazzed, plus my “hotel” was a five-minute walk away, and as EllaRegina maintains her monumental duties twenty-four hours a day, we decided to stay and finish up the second bottle of Malbec.

A young waiter who hailed from Georgia told us, nicely, that we had to move to the main restaurant, which meant I was sitting one table over from where I “networked” with Yvonne some eighteen hours before. Day Donna and Night Donna, different yet the same. It all seemed so profound at the time.

EllaRegina and I had no shortage of artistic topics to discuss, but by four or so, I realized I needed to have some more food or I’d be sick. So we called over the waiter and ordered Caesar salad and French fries—what was I thinking? All of that oil—I should’ve ordered French toast or something. I think we sort of flirted with the youngster in attendance, but I maintained enough cool not to give him advice about my days as a green girl in NYC as my drunken tongue was tempted to do. I did however, feel a rather terrifying fellowship with those middle-aged guys in their cups who say provocative things to fresh-faced waitresses. I didn’t do it, but I can see how it happens.

Caesar salad at five in the morning. It was a first for me, and although I’d pulled all-nighters for party purposes a few times in my life, it had been a long time (probably the night Herr Doktor and I drank several cups of real coffee at night while staying with friends and we stayed up all night talking in their guest room bed, which was fun until about 11 am the next day). EllaRegina walked me back to my lodgings, but I realized that my brother-in-law would already be up and ready to start work. So I took out my contact lenses and weaved over to my sister’s house where I collapsed face down on her sofa. A slightly disreputable and very provocative literary reading, an all-night party in a bistro that paid homage to the Left Bank, passing out in a drunken stupor in my day clothes—I was definitely well on my way to becoming a dissipated Greenwich Village native. And it only took a few short days in New York City.

Coming next—Brunch with Emerald, the secret lives of taxi drivers and more literary boundary-busting at Bluestockings.

New York Book Tour 3: Restless Adventurers and Celebrity Sightings

Wednesday, October 15. The early morning weather was warm and sunny again on the third day of my Amorous Woman book tour. Joining the subway commuters, I took the 1 train to the bottom of the island. Walking briskly down to Castle Clinton at the very tip of Manhattan, I purchased my steerage fare and flashed my paperwork at the ticket collectors. The next stop was security, then, properly scanned, I joined the growing crowd of travelers as we were herded into the waiting area. As the minutes ticked by, we were pushed closer and closer together by the swelling number of passengers. People and voices of every nationality surrounded me—a group of Japanese businessmen, an Italian family, some Australians, high school kids with a Midwestern twang.

Finally it was our time to board, but occasionally the wake of some passing boat or ship would set the vessel rocking so hard, we had to stop and wait. When I was on the boat, this roll and pitch was enough to make me queasy—a taste of seasickness that was all too real. At long last the 10 am group was all on board and we steamed off across the river on our journey back into history.

I have to admit my heart soared at the sight of the Statue of Liberty across the water. In fact, everyone on the boat seemed riveted by the vision, and the decks of the ships were standing room only, with all of us holding our digital cameras over our heads to get a good photo sans the body parts of fellow passengers. Her torched glowed golden in the morning light and she looked so strong and confident—girl power at its best. It struck me then that I’d just sampled a mini passage to the Golden Land of America: waiting amidst a jostling crowd of foreign strangers, enduring stomach-wrenching rough seas, and finally, glimpsing Lady Liberty at the end of my journey.

I’d wanted to visit Ellis Island since it opened some years ago, but my New York visits since had mostly involved family celebrations. Free time was dedicated to the Nintendo Store or the uptown museums. Since this was my one free full day in the city, I thought I’d take advantage of my temporary independence to indulge in some historical sightseeing. After all, my next novel will be very historical, so a book tour was a good time to look to the future as well.

Most of my shipmates disembarked at Liberty Island, but I’d already climbed the Statue back in the day when you could go all the way to the crown, and the present-day limited access seemed somehow unsatisfying. I also guessed, correctly, that an earlier visit to Ellis Island would be quieter. Tourists to Ellis Island follow roughly the same path an immigrant would—disembark, enter downstairs where your luggage would have been stowed (and where you can check your backpacks now), then trek up the stairs to the Registry Room, the famous grand hall that processed 12 million new Americans.

The restored hall was mostly empty at 10:30 am, perfect for picking up the faint whispers of its many ghosts. I stood at one of the podiums where the immigration officials interviewed new arrivals and imagined earlier times when this very spot was the scene of so much hope and anxiety. Then, as my guidebook had recommended, I stopped in to see the film about the Ellis Island experience. It was a good introduction, because I hadn't been sleeping well, I dozed off a bit in the warm darkness. But a talk from a park ranger was a good introduction to the galleries, which were next on my agenda.

Some highlights were the statue of Annie Moore (1877-1923), a young Irish girl who was the first immigrant to be processed at Ellis Island. She was a modest mirror of Lady Liberty, human in scale, but just as brave and symbolic. A little internet searching today unearthed this interesting tidbit about the real Annie Moore.

The museum was a labyrinth of exhibits: rooms where the immigrants changed their money from the old country, bought train tickets, were questioned to weed out the legal or political troublemakers. It was interesting to note that when the immigration official asked “do you have a job waiting for you?” the proper answer was “no.” This is contrary to what you’d say these days, of course, but the government was trying to protect immigrants from sleazy types who basically lured them over as indentured servants. I had to wince at the shoe button hook, an implement that was used by doctors to turn up the eyelids of newcomers, especially those from southern Europe, to check for trachoma, a common eye disease there that had not yet reached North America. (I wonder how many poor souls came down with conjunctivitis from the examination?)

As I wandered in and out of the rooms on the third floor, I became aware that the cavernous Registry Room was now almost frantic with the echoes of the tourists coming in from Liberty Island. But the roaring echoes seemed appropriate as well. After all, it took a certain restlessness and courage to make the trip to an unknown land. Our ancestors were people who were willing to give up what they knew for the uncertain, and the Ellis Island descendants of today were certainly displaying the same (loud) enthusiastic desire to seek out the new and be on the move.

It was rather ironic, then, to step into the “Silent Voices” exhibit, which had photos and artifacts from the abandoned Ellis Island in 1954, before it was restored to its current glory. This was the most moving and memorable part of the museum for me. The rusting, broken basins, crutches, metal bedsteads with crumpled blankets, a mold-covered piano, an ancient cash register, signs reading “maintenance,” “tickets,” “release office,” “social services.” I think these decaying objects were so poignant because they had been part of the real Ellis Island experience. The polished marble and thoughtful exhibits were great, but these homely, forgotten objects had been the real witnesses to the history being made here.

Ellis Island got me thinking about my own immigrant ancestors. I only have any sense of the background of one, my maternal great-grandfather, Peter Hufnagel. One of my mother’s cousins was a genealogy hobbyist and researched the family history—I’m not sure why he ignored Catherine Hufnagel, sexism perhaps or she was too much of a mutt to unravel her many ancestors? Anyway, Peter came to the US from a town near Frankfurt in the 1880s to escape conscription into the Prussian Army, which is as excellent a reason to come to America as any. He arrived before Ellis Island was opened and settled in southern Pennsylvania farm country along with many of his countrymen to establish what we now know as “Pennsylvania Dutch (Deustch)” country. He was reportedly a stern, strict father who liked to read his paper in peace in the parlor on Sunday while his wife and children did all the necessary chores for Sunday dinner. However, I’d also heard that he was the man his neighbors would turn to when they had a letter to write to the old country. Until I heard that story, I’d assumed my interest in writing came solely from my father’s side of the family—a motley bunch of poets and mad(wo)men—but perhaps old Peter had some literary skill as well?

The trip back to Manhattan was even sunnier and warmer than the morning journey. The view of the city’s skyline from the boat was truly majestic—a symbol of American energy in itself. The southern tip of the city is where its history began and I noticed an out-of-place, old church near the subway station that had a Federal Era feel to it. Some day I knew I would be back to this neighborhood for more touring, but for now my Ellis Island journey had tired me out.

I arrived back at my sister’s place in late afternoon, and we both headed up to Bed, Bath and Beyond to look for room-darkening shades for my sister’s friend who had a new baby. Distracted by the many offerings of this New York branch of the familiar chain, I was jarred back to attention by my sister’s nudging. “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“Wallace Shawn. That’s like the fourth time I’ve run into him and he always give me such a warm smile. You’d think we were friends.”

Darn, I’d missed him and he was nowhere in sight! I’m a big fan of My Dinner with Andre, and would have loved to catch a glimpse of a real New York literati. My sister lived on the same street as Sarah Jessica Parker, but I had no real interest in that sort of celebrity gawking. But Wallace Shawn? That would be cool. Alas, Wally had disappeared.

Later that night, my sister and her husband took me to dinner at their favorite local French restaurant, A.O.C. at 314 Bleecker Street. The owner greeted my sister with kisses on the cheek and gave a warm welcome to me, but I’m glad to say our waitress was appropriately snotty to give the place an authentic Parisian air. My sister told me she’d once seen Keanu Reeves here, and he was even more gorgeous in person. But Keanu must have been having dinner with Wallace Shawn that night.

More red wine, more grilled fish and salad. Of course the meal was wonderful, but I was told to take a pass on dessert. We had to get back to watch the last Obama-McCain debate—the one where Joe the Plumber rocketed to his undeserved fame. Our debate evening was sort of an amusing coincidence, because we’d watched the first one together in LA. Champagne on both occasions made it easier to watch, and when the debate was over, we all got our reward for enduring Joe the Plumber—a sampling of orgasmically chocolately desserts from Bouchon Bakery. I stop by the original Napa branch of Thomas Keller’s Bouchon whenever I go to Wine Country, but I’d never tried their most sinful treats, only the breakfast pastries, crusty breads and airy French-style macarons.

These glossy confections were as wickedly delicious as they look here. I ate heartily, knowing I’d need my energy and courage for the most demanding part of my book tour ahead. Three readings in four days awaited me. Many people told me I was crazy or at least admirably ambitious to be packing in so many events. But I’d like to think I was just carrying on the restless, bold sense of adventure that made American what it is. (And you thought I was just a sleazy pornographer….)

Next: A meeting with some real celebrities, plus my very first power breakfast

New York Book Tour Diary 2: Japan and Mad Men Avenue

October 14, the second day of my New York Book Tour for Amorous Woman began with a gentle earthquake rumbling beneath my bed. California girl that I am, it took me a moment to realize this was the subway, the A-train that I’d taken in from the airport the day before, perhaps? My first night in NYC had been a bit restless. I was not yet used to the sounds of the urban forest: the sirens, the Village merrymakers passing on the sidewalk just feet from my door, the clanking of dumpsters at dawn. The Beverly Hills Hotel had roused me with the sound of crickets—but I didn’t mind waking early.

I had a busy day ahead, beginning with lunch at the Rockefeller Center office of the person who made the entire Japan-related part of my tour possible, Hiroaki Sato. Sato-sensei—who prefers Hiro, but deserves full honorifics—was known to me (though he wasn't aware of me) long before Amorous Woman. If you’ve ever read Japanese poetry in translation, it’s likely you’re reading the work of Sato-sensei. Most recently he published a gorgeous and varied volume, Japanese Women Poets, which is an amazing journey through thirteen centuries of female poetic masterpieces. But Sato-sensei is also a columnist for The Japan Times and a businessman. Most importantly, he has the open-mindedness, humor and generosity to help a new novelist with a dirty book to promote. Sato-sensei introduced me to the Nichbei (Japanese-American) Exchange, a group of Japanese and Americans in the New York area who met regularly to network and discuss culture and business. His introduction was also responsible for my dream-come-true reading at Kinokuniya in midtown. None of this would have happened without his kind influence. This is a fact.

Dressed in my business suit of black slacks and tweed jacket, I walked up to Rockefeller Center. Again the morning was warm and summery, without that extra intensity of scent one must endure on a real summer day. I passed the New York Public Library with its famous lions, walked by a film crew doing something—a movie or TV show?—and lots of New York shops, bodegas and restaurants. On the way, I stopped in at a place Sato-sensei had recommended: a Japanese sweet shop called Minamoto Kitchoan at 49th and 5th Avenue. The shop was seasonally decorated for Shichi-go-san, the autumn festival to bless children aged seven, five and three (odd numbers are lucky in Japan). Better still, it was full of autumnal treats made with chestnuts, sweet potatoes and sweet bean paste. I bought a selection for my family from the sweets that had a longer shelf-life and a chestnut daifuku for myself (a fresh "great luck" sweet that had to be eaten that day), sad that the “frequent buyers card” would be of limited use to me!

Then I headed over to Sato-sensei’s office for a bento lunch with him and his assistant, a charming young woman named Natsuki, who had just moved to New York. Over grilled salmon and rice, we chatted and I asked Sato-sensei to autograph my copy of his translation of Takamura Kotaro’s A Brief History of Imbecility. This was a text I’d used in my past life as an adjunct professor of Japanese literature—who would have thought I’d meet the translator under such circumstances one day?

When lunch was over, we said our temporary good-byes, knowing we would all meet again that night for my presentation to the Nichibei Exchange at a tony law firm on Park Avenue. I decided to return to Greenwich Village via Madison Avenue in honor of “Mad Men.” A few blocks later, I passed the Roosevelt Hotel at Madison and 46th, where Don Draper was exiled by his wife, Betty, when she caught him having an affair with a client’s wife (unbeknownst to Betty, that affair was only the tip of the iceberg, but she felt she deserved total fidelity—which of course she did).

Snapping a few photos, I wandered on, musing over the phenomenon of “Sex and the City” tours—which kept my sister’s neighborhood thriving--and wondering if there would be a “Mad Men” tour some day. As I neared Grand Central Station, the traffic slowed to a standstill, fifty horns honking at once—the symphony sounds of New York (I’d heard that’s illegal, but it wasn’t stopping the honkers). I noticed a huge gathering of police outside one of the exits, but strode on—this was nothing unusual for Manhattan, no doubt.

Passing the New York City Science and Industry Library, a poster for an exhibit there caught my eye. “Not A Cough in a Carload: Images from the Tobacco Industry’s Campaign to Hide the Hazards of Smoking.” On Madison Avenue, with Don Draper’s ghost hovering, I thought it was practically my duty to stop in for a look at the work of fiction writers who actually get paid good money for what they do. And indeed, the exhibit was good for a wry chuckle--although dark as well, because my father died of smoking complications--at the way ad men had reassured smokers that cigarettes weren't so bad, or at least some of them were better than others.

There were testimonials by doctors who smoked a certain healthier brand, celebrities assuring us average folk their brand didn’t make them cough, and best of all, ominous ads showing the blimp-like obesity of people who’d stopped smoking.

And what the hell does "toasted" mean anyway?

I was soon surfeited on the ad men's sinister magic and started on my way through the gorgeous afternoon, where more surprises with a Japanese flavor awaited. In Madison Square Park at 24th and Madison, I noticed some interesting structures perched in the trees. It turns out they were part of an installation of treehouses by Tadashi Kawamata, and indeed the varied construction made me pause and think about the natural and art and what it all means. Yes, my New York trip was artistically nourishing all around! With a few hours to pass before my talk, I proceeded to Washington Square Arch, the home of “Lonely Onanista” EllaRegina, but I couldn’t stop to chat because the monument was surrounded by construction. So instead I browsed through the NYU bookstore and pretended I was taking various classes in journalism, theatre, Japanese history and classics. Fortunately for my expense account, I didn't buy any books!

Back at my sister's apartment--my dressing room--I ate my "great luck" sweet and rehearsed my upcoming lecture. Primping a bit to look professional, I hit the streets again, walking to the meeting at the law firm on Park Avenue. There was more security, more swanky business surroundings, all such a foreign scene to soccer-mom me, more foreign than Japan really. The conference room where the Nichibei Exchange meets is a grand affair, all marble and leather, where “important” things are done and decided. I felt out of place, but then I thought, what’s more important than talking frankly about sex and stereotypes between the US and Japan? Lydia, my Amorous Woman, has taken me to some surprising places and this surely rubbed shoulders with Dr. Suzy’s pad to top the list. Although, of course, there were no rocking chairs with sex toys attached in plain view (I didn't check the closets--that part came later!)

To start off the meeting, we went around the room and introduced ourselves. There were fifteen in the audience, and all were impressively eloquent about their interest in Japan and their current careers. Japanese, Americans, Asian-Americans, each had come to love a foreign culture in their own way, but they were all “my people” in spirit. Inspired by their example, I pretended I was erudite and knowledgable, too! Then, because I was speaking to an audience who knew Japan intimately, some more intimately than I do, I focused my talk on the specific ways I borrowed from Ihara Saikaku, the 17th century author of The Life of An Amorous Woman. I then went on to mention some of the stereotypes Westerners have of the Japanese and how I handled them in my book.

To make a long talk shorter, I basically argued that the West sees Japanese women as “geisha” and Japanese men as workaholic businessmen and/or sexual perverts. Then I talked about how I tried to show independent female characters, as well as kind, self-controlled and genuinely sexy Japanese men.

An example of the first was Lydia’s best friend, Chieko, who writes ladies’ comics, that is, sexually explicit comics aimed at a female audience that were a boom in the early 1990s. This character is based on interviews a friend of mine did with real ladies’ comic artists as well as some very non-geisha-like students of mine. In terms of male “perverts,” I admitted that I did include a shibari (artful) bondage scene—figuring this was practically a requirement in a book about sex in Japan--where the Japanese man ties up Lydia and then proceeds to take advantage of her helplessness BUT in an unexpected way. He uses the opportunity to tell her what he really thinks of her!

Sometimes I played to stereotype, as with Kimura, a wealthy playboy who frequents hostess clubs, the tsu of Saikaku’s age, but again I try to humanize these characters. For example, with Kimura, I try to show how his motivations arise from his impoverished childhood during the war and how this was played out in his attempts to feed and take care of Lydia. As an example of my strategy, I read the scene in the restaurant with Dr. Shinohara, who is a very appealing and wise older man, not to mention very sexy!

When the formal part of my talk was done, we had a very thoughtful question and answer period where we all shared experiences and ideas, kind of a more formal version of the many evenings I bonded with fellow gaijin over beer and bar snacks. Many people bought a copy of the book and I made plans to meet later with a delightful business consultant, Yvonne Burton of Japan-US Business News—more on her later! Afterwards, Sato-sensei treated me and Natsuki to a Japanese dinner at Asuza of Japan in midtown at East 44th and Fifth Avenue. We ate small-plates style: smoky yakitori, steamed egg custard, grilled octopus, a spicy Korean boiled dish, chicken with shiso, miso soup and plenty of good sake. We chatted about money, sex, Japan and America (Natsuki had gone to college in West Virginia of all places), and had a wonderful time. Relaxed and fortified with rice wine (actually it’s a rice beer, but that’s info for Japan nerds), I even spoke a bit of Japanese to the mama-san on the way out, thanking her for the delicious dinner. It was almost as if I were back in Japan….

Sato-sensei and I shared a taxi as far as his apartment, gliding through the neon-lit canyons in a happy haze. Walking the few remaining blocks to my “hotel,” I was stopped by a tourist asking for directions. “Is the Village Vanguard around here?” I was about to say I was a tourist, too, but I happened to turn my head and see the Vanguard sign glowing in the darkness to my left, just like on those Miles Davis CD’s. “It’s right over there,” I said casually, as if the Village were my home. And for that moment, it was.

Next: a real trip into the past, chocolate orgasms, and a celebrity sighting