Happy New Yearand best wishes for a happy, healthy and creative 2013! I'm starting off the year by joining in a popular writer's activity of 2012: The Next Big Thing Blog Hop. I was tagged by Emily Jane Trent, who appears with me in the very sexy and slinky Vixotica: Sexy Short Stories by Best-Selling Erotica Authors. Emily is the author of the Masquerade Series, a five-part tale which starts with Passion Unleashed and ends with Passion Embraced. Although it was first published in paperback in 2008, I am very proud of my beautiful new ebook version of Amorous Woman which was released this past autumn. The blog hop gave me an opportunity to share some information--including a few new secrets--about my book.
I spent several years living in Japan in the early 1980s. Immersion is such a different and fascinating culture made a deep impression on me. Amorous Woman is not completely autobiographical, but the sensual memories and the yearning to become closer to Japan are very much my own. Of course, my greatest inspiration was the many wonderful people I met in Japan: friends, boyfriends, mentors, courteous strangers.
How would you classify it in terms of genre?
Literary erotica.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Ken Watanabe as Kimura. Emma Stone as Lydia.
Give us a short synopsis of your book.
It’s about an American woman's sexual awakening in Japan as she tests the limits of love and sensual pleasure. She almost always gets an A on the test.
Can you tell us about the publisher?
The new ebook version is with Iro Books, the erotica line of Stonebridge Press. If you have an erotica manuscript set in Asia, send it to them!
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I’d been wanting to tell the story since the 1980’s, but when I was commissioned to write a book for Orion’s Neon erotica line in 2005, I finally had the chance to write it down. I spent about six months writing intensely for the deadline—and I made it! Thanks to too many cases of diet Snapple....
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
It’s not unlike Memoirs of a Geisha with more sex. Lots more sex.
Describe an ideal setting for enjoying your book.
I suggest you take a long soak in a hot tub, then wrap yourself in a silk kimono and lounge on a futon (or bed) with a flask of sake and some sushi by your side. Soft koto music is good accompaniment, although I listened obsessively to Tupac’s “All Eyez on Me” as I was writing the novel, so that’s an authentic alternative.
If I read your book, what’s in it for me?
My novel will take you on an intimate trip to a Japan few tourists ever see for much less than a plane ticket to Tokyo. I’m talking threesomes, orgies, pornographic comics come to life, passionate affairs with married men, true love and descriptions of Japanese feasts to make your mouth water. Believe me, it’s a bargain.
The Q&A is over, so what are you waiting for? Pick up a copy of Amorous Woman for your e-reader right now. If you’re looking for more delicious erotica to satisfy your appetite, check out these new works by some wonderful erotica writers:
Is that one gorgeous book cover or what? I'm delighted to announce the release of an amazing "best of" anthology erotic tales Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. My story "Dear Professor Pervert" leads an amazing line-up of stories ranging from Emerald's breathtaking "Power over Power" to Shanna Germain's stunning classic "The Sun is an Ordinary Star." If you want one beautiful volume of the creme de la creme for your library, this is it!
Hot sex with someone you love on a great big bed in one of the most romantic hotels on the planet--that's my recipe for passion in "Big Bed Sex," my story that appears in Rachel Kramer Bussel's latest anthology, Passion: Erotic Romance for Women.
"Big Bed Sex" is a story I knew I had to write the moment I stepped into the Beverly Hills Hotel in the fall of 2008 when I was on the L.A. leg of my national book tour for Amorous Woman. Followers of my blog might remember my non-fiction account, but believe me, the fictional version is much, much more fun to read.
And if that's not enough for you, the anthology is packed full of delicious treats for your heart and your libido from masters of sexy fiction like Emerald, Portia da Costa, Justine Elyot and Saskia Walker.
For more tantalizing teasers, check out the provocative book trailer and the Passion blog (with another steamy excerpt from my story), and, if you happen to be in Brooklyn on Thursday, November 11, please join me, Rachel, Emerald, and best-selling historical romance author Sarah MacLean at Word bookstore in Greenpoint for free cupcakes (to celebrate the day-after-Rachel's-birthday) and plenty of hot romance presented the way it's meant to be, in the lilting voices of its authors.
And now an excerpt from "Big Bed Sex":
I grabbed a pear from the fruit basket and took a bite of the yielding flesh, my gaze still fixed on the stage set before me.My sister had told me that the Beverly Hills Hotel was second only to the Chateau Marmont as a favorite assignation palace for Hollywood’s many adulterers.While the real movers and shakers would surely spring for a fourth-floor suite, a minor producer or supporting-actor-type had probably seen fit to blow a thousand on an afternoon’s delight in this romantic boudoir.
Maybe it was a trick of the dusky light, but as I continued to stare, the ivory-colored quilt seemed to swell up, up into a mound, bunched just a little higher at midpoint.With a little more squinting, the shape resolved into two bodies, male and female, hips moving rhythmically, up and down.The sound of heavy breathing filled my ears, joined by a low feminine moan and the rustle of 500-thread-count cotton sheets as the ghostly couple undulated on the broad mattress.
My cunt muscles clenched almost to the point of pain.
But it wasn’t the pleasure of the starlet and her producer that filled me with such longing.What twisted my pussy into a throbbing knot of lust was the thought of what could—and would--happen on that bed if Will were here with me.
We always seemed to have extra hot sex in hotel rooms, with a special hit of shacking-up naughtiness in the budget places with the lumpy mattresses, threadbare towels and shrink-wrapped plastic cups.Whenever I could, though, I booked us rooms in rustic country inns or charming bed-and-breakfasts, because over the past seven years I’d learned an interesting fact about my husband.The bigger the bed, the better the sex, as if a grander canvas inspired him to new erotic heights.
In fact, I could plot out a timeline of red-letter days in our sex life based on the size and luxury of our rent-by-the-night beds….
Yes, I know, I used this photo in my last post, but I have a good reason for the repetition. The latest edition of ERWA's newsletter, which includes my column, Disorderly Departures: Discovery Drafts, Summertime Salad, and the Wisdom of “The Voice,” features none other than a recipe for my very July-friendly Grilled Ratatouille Salad. I also 'fess up about those funny voices I hear in my head and how they help and hinder my writing process. The really good news is that I've actually started writing scenes of my next novel, after talking about it for years, so I feel as if I've made a big step in the past few months. Novels are such a different challenge from a short story. In the shorter form, my Inner Editor gets to join in the fun from the start, but with a novel she definitely gets in the way of progress, at least in the Discovery Draft. And while you're over at ERWA hearing voices, check out the wonderfully inspiring interview with Emerald, one of my favorite erotica writers with a very lovely voice indeed.
This gorgeous photograph has a title. "Pause." And if you have a moment to pause and reflect, I highly recommend you head over to F-Stop to read Emerald's moving and thought-provoking essay, "Choice and Tyranny." Be prepared for a shocker. Emerald not only exposes herself, she sheds light on the ways the omniscient Eye of religion and other authorities hijacks our choices and in fact deprives us of a chance to make our own moral decisions in the name of pre-packaged Morality. I continue to be amazed at the courage and eloquence of F-Stop's contributors. Each week opens my eyes to something new!
Ha, it’s hard to see the word “blood” or "orgy" these days without thinking of those ever-lucrative sexy vampire stories, but you won’t find much of that here at Sex, Food and Writing. Except maybe tomorrow. But for today my post title refers to the bonds of blood. As in my family reunion. As in a big huge Catholic one. As in enough bonds there to make for one hell of a bondage story… but I'll try to be clean-minded, as my Magical History Tour continues with a trip into my family past the afternoon of August 9. (And the photo above is just a teaser about the orgy, which really did happen--in a rhetorical sense.)
My oldest sister had attended several of these annual events which had been revived about five years ago, and she knew the drill. First we had to stop at the big old Giant supermarket on Route 30 to buy our lunch supplies—a veggie tray and sandwiches for us, takeout Chinese for the boys. Then we stopped at my cousin’s place along the way to see her amazingly whimsical house and garden. Her husband is a jack-of-all-trades artist and blacksmith and we got to see his old-fashioned forge and some of the beautifully crafted hinges he was making for a construction project, among other highlights. I mention this because these creative touches and magical spaces (especially the “bottle tree,” an iron rack decorated with colored bottles and glittering old CD’s) reminded me that we can add delight and art to our lives in all sorts of simple, but effective ways. I’m wondering if some of the beautiful places I visited on this vacation didn’t inspire my very dedicated bout of fall cleaning this year—my first step in bringing more serenity and space into my life! So far, the unburdening of stuff has been very liberating for body and mind, although I have a lot more to do.
But I digress.
Our next stop was the family reunion itself at the hall of a picturesque church situated on a winding country road. Corn fields all around, the sense of rural community—it was definitely a trip into the past. Family reunions of yore were usually at parks in the summer or church halls in the winter. I could go on and on about my extended family, but I’ll try to keep this brief. First, the food culture. Although aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins and all greeted each other warmly as we arrived, lunch was clearly serious business and all the families sat down with their own brood and shoveled down the chow with grim determination. Most of my relatives had brought homemade things—the Smith family traditional roasted chicken or baked beans in a crockpot or some such hot lunch dish. We sat in our corner eating the fontina and roasted veggie sandwiches, and I recalled that my cousin who arranged the event said we could probably share in the other relatives’ food since we were the official “traveled the farthest” attendees. But really, that would have involved circulating from family to family with an empty plate and a hungry smile, so if you’re ever invited to the Smith family reunion, I definitely recommend bringing your own lunch.
When we’d finished our savories, people started wandering over to the potluck dessert table and the visiting began. I was also interested to see about half of the offerings were store-bought and the other half—including my pecan cookies—were homemade. To my amusement and delight, the homemade items disappeared rapidly, while the packaged goods languished untouched. Clearly my extended family knows how to indulge in sweets! A real highlight was two big dishes of rice pudding baked from my grandmother’s recipe by my cousin, the organizer of the reunion. He’s taken this as his duty to preserve the iconic family dish, which I think is very cool. Grandma Annie’s rice pudding was served at every Sunday dinner, not as dessert but more as the sweet part of the Pennsylvania Dutch sweets and sours menu. I usually make a Danish-style rice pudding recipe with gelatin, rum and whipped cream, but this version is nostalgia itself—cooked rice mixed with eggs, milk, fake vanilla (if you want to do it like Grandma) and a bit of salt. Pour it in an enameled dish, dust with cinnamon and bake in the oven with the roast chicken. The result is a soft, mildly sweet rice layer with the thinnest band of yellow custard on top. It’s very good and very satisfying in a down-home way, and I’m thinking I have to make it myself sometime, for the sake of tradition. I think it would be great as a breakfast dish!
Anyway, as I said, I could go on and on with the family stories and maybe later I will tell you how my sense of myself as an outsider was clearly formed to some degree by my relationship with my extended family (who all still lived in the same town, while my mother couldn’t wait to get out!). Suffice to say now, I have a new heroine in terms of aging gracefully, my Aunt Betty who will be ninety in a few weeks. Not only is my aunt active, smiling and beautiful (you’d confuse her for 70), her mind is amazingly lively. She told me she’s starting to write her memoirs and I encouraged her strongly because I would love to read them!
The other interesting thing about the reunion was that everyone told me I looked just like my mother. This is actually a huge compliment, so it’s not that I minded, although of course we were all sad that she couldn’t be with us. Interesting though, that on a trip that was all about ghosts, I was suddenly a ghost myself.
Kind of uncanny. But as you know, such poignant, strange moments are very nourishing for my creative mind. So, the afternoon went by quickly for the chatting, benevolently haunting adults and very slowly for my kids (who distracted themselves building Legos with some distant cousins), but finally we had to make our exit as we had an exciting event to attend in the evening. On the way back to our hotel, my sister drove us past my grandmother’s house at 113 Oxford Avenue in McSherrystown. Here’s a picture, but the house looks nothing like my grandmother’s place as I knew it beyond the same address and the same general arrangement of porch and windows. The red shingle siding is gone, as is the trellis on the front porch, the porch swing where I spent hours daydreaming and making up my earliest stories, the Victory garden in the back. I can only imagine that the inside with its steep staircase and dusty old-fashioned rooms was gutted. In this case, the past was not waiting unchanged for my fond return!
Okay, enough of the past.
Now we get to the good part: the grand gala erotic writers’ dinner at La Cucina in Hanover! First, a special thanks to local eroticist extraordinaire, Craig Sorensen, for choosing such a yummy restaurant and making the arrangements. Once Herr Doktor and I walked in and sat down at the long table, I felt as if the restaurant were our personal party joint—not that we read aloud from our most recent BDSM-themed stories or anything, but we talked freely as the BYOB wine flowed (thanks to Jeremy Edwards, Helia Brookes and Marina St. Clare for bringing some delicious fruits of the vine). In fact, this was another reunion with Jeremy, Helia Brookes, Heidi Champa and her husband, Emerald and Craig, DeDe and Cyn Sorensen (who took the photo at the top of this post), all of whom I’d met before. However, it was my first in the flesh encounter with Erobintica and Marina St. Clare, who’d driven down from die-hard Yankee country especially for this event.
Now, as I’m sure most readers of this blog are aware, getting to know someone in cyberspace is very different from the traditional way you had to do it before technology transformed human interactions forever. In the old days, you approached a new friend from the outside in, but in blogland it’s really from the inside out. I first “met” Erobintica and Marina through the progressive blog dinner, and I’d had the pleasure of reading their stories, blog posts and emails discussing the writing life. So I “knew” them in one sense and yet I’d be seeing them for the first time.
Not that I was nervous, just I was reminded what a novel situation this was in the course of human history. I mean, sure, you could befriend someone through letters in the old days, but this was different.
And yet, it’s also interesting that it took about one second to process the face and smile, link it with the internet relationship, and suddenly it’s as if I’d had coffee with Marina and Erobintica many times, as if we’d discussed the eroticist’s experiences in person instead of through emails. Yep, it was pretty much instantaneous—cool how the mind works. Also I have to say I’ve never liked a person in cyberspace and not slipped right into warm friendship when I’ve met them in person. It could be that erotica writers are just very cool people—which is certainly true! But there are so many cautionary tales of Internet persona not being what they seem--the most obvious being men who pose as women to lure unsuspecting males into cybersex. Yet for me, the cyber-café has always been a fairly trustworthy way to get to know someone.
So, having connected and reconciled the real people with the Internet personae quite effortlessly, we all proceeded to feast and make plans to bring enlightenment to the world through smart stories about sex. A kind of benevolent global warming campaign, if you will. In the meantime we dined heartily on focaccia, salad, and various pasta dishes. Jeremy recommended the gnocchi from his past lunch with Craig, and being a big fan, I ordered that dish and thoroughly enjoyed it. But dessert was the best part for me. Erobintica had brought down her famous homemade chocolate cake with tangy chocolate frosting (I hear the secret is using some of the extra buttermilk in the frosting), so we all got to sample a moist, chocolately slice along with another tin of my pecan cookies I’d kept away from my devouring relatives.
Yes, we were all delightfully sated on pasta and sweets, but as erotica writers, we were more than ready for another round of fun, so we headed back to Jeremy and Helia’s hotel room for an orgy—of conversation, you dirty-minded readers, please! I will admit the topic turned to hotel sex and wild adventures we’d had within the oddly liberating confines of a rented room. But the physical manifestation of our verbal pleasures, as we lounged about on the beds drinking wine from plastic cups, was not especially provocative, unless you count Emerald’s boots!
These are pretty wild, don’t you think? A hotel sex story in the making all by themselves!
To conclude this delightful evening, Herr Doktor came to collect me a little after 11 pm (he was checking on our boys who’d hardly noticed we were gone since they were given unlimited Game Boy time) and I bid my writer friends a temporary adieu as we’d be breakfasting together the next morning. I can’t vouch for what happened after I left, but it may show up, transformed into fiction of course, in some future story? I know I’ll be watching the erotic anthos for group sex romps on hotel beds involving plastic cups of red wine and a few pieces of chocolate cake….
I’ll conclude by saying it was real delight to gather with so many cool, creative people who share an open-minded sensibility about eroticism. I hope we can do it again sometime—I think we all felt the same way. Perhaps in Italy with Isabel Kerr in 2012?
Next time—are the Amish really clueless or just plain perverted?
So, believe it or not, there’s more to tell about Day 2 at Gettysburg. An action-packed day indeed, and perhaps it’s not a coincidence that the second day was long for the soldiers in the Civil War battle, too!
Following an afternoon playing my own great-grandmother before a nineteenth-century camera, evening brought yet another opportunity for time travel—we met the lovely Emerald and her partner in adventure, Rick Write, for dinner at the historic Farnsworth House. My oldest sister was also joining us as she was already in town for the family reunion the next day. It was indeed a thrill to see Emerald, and in a way it’s as if we’d just seen each other a month rather than almost a year before (at In the Flesh’s Oral Sex Night). Talk about tricks of time!
Because our reservation was at seven, we had some leisure to walk around the town, which was feeling very much like home to me now. When I first arrived, my mind was buzzing with hazy memories from my many visits, but it seemed as if they were coming into focus. I could really appreciate the place in a new way, and I wonder if my writer’s way of taking in the world had something to do with it? In any case, although I don’t live close anymore, Gettysburg felt more like “mine” than ever before in my life. Not quite sure why, but it was a good feeling.
Our first stop was a gallery of a Civil War-themed artist (whose name I forget, but it’s right there near the square). Apparently he was known for his historical accuracy in portraying battle scenes, although my fancy was taken with a very romantic and surely anachronistic tableau of a southern belle kissing her officer lover among the magnolias, while the rest of the couples at the ball looked on approvingly. Voyeurism, exhibitionism, a suggestive group-sex dynamic, and all in extravagant costume (how do you do it in the garden in a hoop skirt?)—there was much fodder for an erotic story, but then my eyes are always open to new material.
After a stop at a funky cafe for some iced tea, it was time to head over to the inn. I’m a sucker for historic dining experiences, although I know the food at such places is seldom tops in quality. It’s usually decent, however, and of course, a meal is more than just food. Add in some pewter, heavy silverware, candlelight, waitresses in long dresses, caps and frilly aprons, some hovering ghosts from the past (and of course charming contemporary company) and you’ve got a dining experience to transport you to another time.
There’s a lot of history (and plenty of ghosts) at the Farnsworth House. The oldest part of the house was built in 1810, and the brick structure where we dined was added in 1833. Original walls, floors and rafters remain intact—they don’t build ‘em like they used to, that’s for sure! A family named Sweney lived in the house during the battle, but some Confederate sharpshooters also took temporary residence in the summer of 1863. It’s believed one of them shot the bullet that killed teenager Jennie Wade, the only civilian to die in the battle. The south side of the house, facing the battlefield, is riddled with over 100 bullet holes from those bloody July days. The current owners began to restore it to its 1863 appearance in the early 1970s. They named it after Union Brigadier General Elon John Farnsworth who led an ill-fated charge against the right flank of Longstreet’s forces after Pickett’s Charge failed. I don’t think of the battle lasting beyond that debacle, because it doesn’t in the telling, but the Farnsworth Inn commemorates later seldom-heard casualties of the battle.
After dinner, the plan was to corral the party to attend a presentation of ghost stories in the inn’s basement “Mourning Theatre.” I definitely have an appetite for ghost stories and ghost tours, although, like a hot fudge and brownie ice cream sundae, I prefer them as occasional indulgences. When we’d visited with our older son in 1996 (the time we took the first picture), Herr Doktor and I went on one of the two lantern ghost tours offered at that time. Now you can find a ghost tour advertised on (almost) literally every block. It would be hard to choose, except with some local’s recommendation—or perhaps they’re all similar? While I’m comparing ghost tours to food--I seem to compare everything to food, don’t I?--I’d like to add that I like mine with a mildly creepy flavor rather than the grisly end of the spice rack. Actually, what I really enjoy about ghost stories is how they make me think about the way the human mind works. Urban legends are the same in this regard. Ghost stories have such a broad appeal because they tap into our deepest anxieties and even hopes, so that picking apart such a story is a way of digging deeper into the human psyche. Besides which, ghosts stories are usually good, suspenseful yarns in themselves and I’m always looking to steal good tricks!
I have a pretty bad memory for jokes and stories, but a few of the terrible tales we heard on that earlier ghost tour have stayed with me for over ten years. At the risk of going on and on, I’d like to share them here and see what you think.
The first ghostly visitation occurred in one of the historic houses along the main street in the town. The innocent resident bought some figures of famous officers who served at the battle and set them up on her mantel as decoration. The next morning she came down to find them rearranged. No problem if she had children who’d played with them, but—she lived alone! Confused, she rearranged the figures in her preferred order and went about her business. The next morning--to her surprise and growing horror--they were changed around yet again in exactly the same way. After doing a bit of research, the hapless Gettysburg homeowner discovered that her chosen way to display the figures was historically inaccurate and some unseen hand was fixing them to reflect the way things really happened during the battle. I believe the denouement was that she decided to leave things as they were and the ghost kept his peace.
Creepy, huh? I can just see that earnest, slightly annoyed ghost strategist putting things right just round about midnight.
The next story is a bit more grisly. Some years ago two men got into an elevator in a Gettysburg office building and pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator began to move, but not up. Instead it was going down. Again not a big deal except—there was no basement in this building! Exchanging worried glances, the men waited in silence as the elevator slowly descended and the door slid open. Their jaws dropped. Because suddenly they were gazing out at a horrible scene: wounded men groaning, severed limbs piled high beside the bloody surgical table, and a horrible stink of rotting flesh filling the air. The man with more wherewithal stabbed the “lobby” button and the door closed on the frightful tableau. When it opened again, they were back in the present day. Later they learned that the building was constructed on the same site that was used as a battle hospital by the Confederates.
Enough to send a shiver down anyone’s spine.
To tell the truth, this grim tale occasionally pops into my head when I’m riding an elevator. I’m not sure I have the perverse appeal all worked out in my own mind, but there is definitely something creepy about elevators (anxiety about technology is a common theme in urban legends and supernatural tales). You get into this little box, wait, the door opens and you walk out into a different place as if by magic.
But what if you walked out into a different time as well?
It’s surely a question for us all to ponder, but all of these ghost stories are making me hungry. So let’s get back to dinner. After a waiting a bit in the bustling entryway of the Farnsworth House, our party of seven was escorted to our long table in what was probably the original dining room of the house. The cups were pewter, nicely cool and heavy in the hand. Real candles flickered all around. Perusing the nineteenth-century menu was a great deal of the fun—in keeping with the time meat dishes were prevalent. Emerald and Rick stayed true to the times by ordering the house specialty, game pie, and steak, respectively, both of which were reportedly tasty. I had scallops—simply braised in butter and quite nice--and Herr Doktor tried for the chicken pot pie, but it was sold out and he got so-so crab-meat stuffed salmon instead. As is usual in such places (this is true of Williamsburg taverns as well), the side dishes are the most intriguing parts of the menu. I’d give highest marks to the custardy cornmeal spoon bread that was served in little cups, although the Sally Lunn bread was disappointingly dry. The green beans boiled in ham broth were as nostalgically limp and salty as my grandmother used to make, but the pumpkin fritters were delectably spiced with cinnamon and wouldn’t have been out of place with a side of ice cream. I left most of the beans and polished off my son’s fritters quite happily (cause he thought they were weird--I'm not that bad of a mother!).
But of course, conversation was the best condiment. Rick is a history buff and had lots of interesting stories to tell about the Civil War period, a topic very much on my mind. We also got to talking about food preferences, and Emerald and Rick shared their very intriguing idea for a restaurant catering to couples. Their menu would have three sections. On the left would be a list of dishes aimed at the traditional female preferences—salads, seafood, light meals. On the right would be the traditional meaty, manly fare. However, the middle panel would have the house specialties, which blended the two in a new marriage of flavors.
I thought this sounded really cool.
Having experienced this man food/woman food split on dates (although Herr Doktor and I have pretty similar likes and dislikes after 24 years together), I thought such a melding of gendered cuisines would certainly provoke interesting date-night discussion, and possibly encourage a satisfying meeting of the appetites in preparation for another sort of intimate encounter later. Food as foreplay indeed!
Although tempted by the shoofly pie on the dessert menu, I was full enough to pass this time, figuring there’d be plenty of opportunity to indulge in Amish Country (and boy was there ever…). The kids ordered ice cream, which arrived scooped high in pewter bowls, and the adults chatted on into the evening, thereby missing the ghost story presentation at the inn altogether. This was probably good since I was really the only one who was genuinely enthusiastic. My kids thought they might get scared and I suspect Emerald was just being polite when she agreed to come along. So, everyone was happy and unhaunted when we walked out into the night, dodging knots of tourists strolling by with their lantern-toting ghost tour guides.
We said a not-so-sad goodbye to Emerald, for we’d be seeing her again the next evening for the Erotica Writer’s Bacchanalia, which was sure to be the scandal of Hanover for decades to come (and hopefully inspire annual reenactments).
Stay tuned next time to discover what happens when a bunch of dirty story writers get together for a big bash!
Well, as you know, I've been on the road for the past two Spicy Sundays. But fortunately, I was able to get internet access to stop by Bad Ass Kona's for a smokin' celebration of rosemary and meals of seduction on August 9 and then celebrated the joys of poppy with summer salad, pumpkin muffins, and sexy transitions over at Emerald's.
Today we celebrate our penultimate Spicy Sunday at P.S. Haven's place with an ode to salt. There's a very salty recipe for big, fat pickles and lots of mouthwatering prose, including a brand-new story written just for this party! As you might expect, the discussion topic is equally intriguing and is sure to get your mind all juiced up with savory ideas. It certainly got me thinking about my erotic obsessions and just how far I'm willing to go. (P.S., Ranch Dip makes everything taste better).
So come join us for some salty bites and conversation on a lovely green isle in the Atlantic. And don't forget your favorite pickle!
My sister sent me a link to a New York Timesarticle on Gloria Vanderbilt (age 85) and her new novel, Obsession: An Erotic Tale published by Harper Collins.
The NYT article is full of amusing quotes. For example, Vanderbilt's son is CNN newscaster Anderson Cooper (I didn't know!) who says: “The six most surprising words a mother can say to her son are: ‘Honey, I’m writing an erotic novel.’ But actually she’s pretty unique, and there’s not much she does that’s surprising anymore. At 85, whatever she wants to write is fine with me.”
(Actually my sons would not be surprised at all, but they're probably better for it.)
The description of Obsession makes it sound very much like another classic erotic tale that begins, and ends with "O." There's an orgy mansion, plenty of BDSM paraphernalia, a cache of raunchy letters discovered in a "Frank Lloyd Wright-like architect's" personal effects after his death. Oh and some interesting activities involving "mint, cayenne pepper, and a fresh garden carrot."
Sounds like one of our blog tours.
I have mixed feelings about all of this. Vanderbilt is a cultural icon and so does that make it "okay" for a major publishing house to sully its list with her dirty book where others are soundly spurned? Does the resemblance to The Story of O elevate this work to an acceptably classic level perhaps even as it reaffirms the cliche of what literary erotica is--gotta have whips and an orgy mansion where an elite can enjoy the pleasures ordinary folk are not allowed? Fresh from the humiliations of my own efforts to promote erotica, I can only wonder at the industry's willingness to give Vanderbilt full literary and publicity honors. On the other hand, does the publication of such a book open the door to other writers who "dare" to tackle eroticism and "activities of a sort that readers of The New York Times are usually shielded from"? Or do we have to be octogenarian celebrities, freakish and therefore safe, both in terms of sexuality and profit (it currently stands at #461 on Amazon)?
Sadly, I suspect the latter is the case.
Anyway, I haven't totally processed this and so my blog post is somewhat half-baked, more of a question to anyone stopping by about how they feel about this and the issues not so explicitly named: that mainstream publishing uses sex to titillate but rarely delivers, for example. I may read Vanderbilt's novel, if it makes it to my library, which is an interesting question in itself. I'm sure I'll write more on these topics later, but to end on a high note: while I always cast a jaundiced eye toward the publishing industry, I really admire Gloria Vanderbilt for writing this book. Emerald had an interesting post by a less famous octogenarian about her erotic life which moved me deeply. We need more of this and if the first knock on the door comes wrapped up as a celebrity freak show, but opens the way for others, it may be a price worth paying!
Most of you know our summer vacation plans this year include a trip to Gettsyburg, Pennsylvania, for a family reunion on my mother’s side, which will involve several thousand aunts and uncles and cousins. The highlight of the trip, however, will be an erotica writers’ soiree on August 9 at a delicious Italian restaurant recommended by Craig Sorensen. Heidi Champa, Jeremy Edwards, Emerald and Erobintica are planning to attend, and a few others mentioned they might be able to make it (don’t want to shout out until plans are firmer). The more the merrier, so please consider joining us for a living, breathing erotica anthology!
Being the nerdy types that we are, Herr Doktor and I decided to devote a few evenings to a screening of the movie Gettysburg to help our kids get more out of the upcoming trip. Both of them are really enjoying the soft history lesson, and indeed the movie is very well done, if almost as long as the Battle of Gettysburg itself. The acting is first-rate and I was especially drawn to Jeff Daniels’ portrayal of the professor-soldier Colonel Joshua Chamberlain who held Little Round Top with his brilliant strategy (and received the Congressional Medal of Honor for it). Seldom is a “hero” played with such a low-key, down to earth subtlety in Hollywood. It makes me want to read more about the historical figure…not that I don’t have a million books on my to-read list already.
Anyway, after Gettysburg, we’ll be heading south for more family visits, and I was reminded again that if we lived in the 19th century, our family would indeed be divided, sister against sister, cousin against cousin. My sister married a Virginian, I an Illinois native. Her husband’s great, great, great…[insert a few more greats]…grandfather was a 19 year old private in the Confederate Army, one of the soldiers who followed Pickett in the deadly charge across the open field on the third day of the battle of Gettysburg—although apparently, he survived to sire descendents. Herr Doktor’s kin who were in America at the time were affluent lawyers and judges who could pay others to fight for them, but their loyalties lay with the Union.
My brother-in-law is a Civil War buff and knows just where on the battlefield his forefather waited for the charge to begin. I’ve yet to have his guided tour at the historic park where my mother played as a child, but perhaps some day? I do have a wonderful photo he had taken at a Civil War reenactment of himself in a Confederate sergeant’s uniform, holding his baby son on his knee. He has a beard, so the effect was uncanny—exactly as if he had gone back in time to be his own forebearer. A year later, when my first-born was about the same age, we happened to be in Gettysburg, and I made it my project to have a twin photo taken of the Land-of-Lincoln side of the family. It was hard to get the same authentic look from the tourist trap photographers, but we finally found the best photographer in town (thanks to a family recommendation) and they were very willing to help us get an “authentic” look.
That’s what you see here, although it really doesn’t have the same haunting magic as my brother-in-law’s photo. (Wish I could show you that one—maybe in Gettysburg?) But it’s not a bad counterpart. Unlike most tourist men, who choose to pose as a general, we also went with the more realistic rank of sergeant. And in both photos, the bald one-year-old baby boys look equally annoyed, even on the verge of tears, as if they disapprove of their daddies going off to war.
I was also a big Civil War buff as a child, due in great part to the fact I visited my grandmother in Gettysburg so often. The wax museum there was one of my favorite places in the world. I always felt as if I was literally stepping back in time to spy on these momentous events, and I remember one particular Friday evening when we stopped at the museum after dinner with Grandma (usually I had to wait until Saturday). No one else was there, just my parents and I wandering through the dark corridors in the company of John Brown, Robert E. Lee and U.S. Grant. I can still conjure that hushed, wondrous feeling of time travel. Indeed, I’m looking forward to taking my children there in August, and to getting a new photo taken of the whole family at a tourist trap photographers. This time, though, we may be more playful, and promote Herr Doktor to general!
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.”
Today's storyteller in Suite 69 is the lovely Emerald and get ready for some glittery, tantalizing fun. First she'll tease you with a scene in a hotel elevator that will have you breathless to find out what happens next. Then you'll realize total satisfaction is not quite within reach because this excerpt from "What We Do" is on the verge of release in Swing!: Adventures in Swinging by Today’s Top Erotica Writers. Not that there's anything wrong with teetering on the edge, when the wait itself is so pleasurable!
In keeping with our hotel conference theme, I invite you to the breakfast buffet that room service has just delivered. We have our classic conference menu (according the Herr Doktor, who is very familiar with these things): a fruit tray with melon, pineapple, strawberries and grapes; muffins and bagels with individual tubs of cream cheese, a pitcher of orange juice covered in Saran Wrap (which we might put to good use later); and urns of coffee, decaf and hot water for tea. While you're nibbling your muffin, and admiring the entrancing photograph by Nikki Magennis take a nibble of this titillating tale:
"What We Do" by Emerald
“Hold the elevator please,” Jackson called as we hurried to the open door.
Immediately I saw my cute young professional inside. I squeezed Jackson's hand and met his eyes. Jackson followed my glance as I sent a sidelong glance to the young man on my other side and then grinned at me.
“Here for the conference?” Jackson asked the object of my attraction, sidling over beside him without moving me any further away. “I'm Jackson Blake,” he said, offering his hand and explaining his position with the company sponsoring the conference.
“Seth Harris,” Cute Young Professional said somewhat uncertainly, glancing at me quickly before turning back to Jackson. “Yes, I'm actually just an intern, but my company wanted me to come for the experience.”
They talked about their respective workplaces as the elevator door opened at the lobby floor. The other occupants exited. The three of us followed suit and paused in the elevator corridor.
“This is my wife Victoria, by the way,” Jackson said heartily.
I stepped forward and shook Seth's warm hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Seth seemed slightly uncomfortable as he smiled back and then looked back and forth between Jackson and me.
“Yes, she decided to accompany me even though I told her how busy I was going to be,” Jackson continued with a smile. “They've got me working 10-hour days here. I imagine it's not nearly so busy for you though, Seth? Maybe the two of you could get together some day while I'm off working.”
I barely smothered a laugh of surprise. Seth looked nervous, which I found understandable, and said, “Uh, well -”
“I know Victoria gets pretty hot and horny all day up in our room all by herself. She loves fucking in hotels. Maybe you could stop by sometime when you're free during the day and take care of her.”
Poor Seth looked like he was about to swallow his tongue.
Jackson smiled at him. “Our room is 719. Just call up during the day if you're interested.” He offered his hand again, which Seth shook mechanically. “Nice to meet you.”
I offered my hand too and gave Seth's a squeeze, trying a warm smile to snap him out of his shock. Then I turned and followed Jackson, leaving my cute young professional standing dazed behind us.
Well, I'm hoping young Seth has a few surprises of his own in store...more, more, more!
If you're in the mood for a fearlessly feline erotic tale, check out Emerald's latest at Good Vibrations Magazine. As you can expect with Emerald's stories, "Cougar" is hot, poetic and sizzling with the spice of female empowerment, but it goes just a little deeper. And don't we all--even young, callow men in perpetual heat--like it deep ;-)?
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?
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.
