Gettysburg, Day 3: Blood and Orgies

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?

The Magic of Gettysburg

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!

Behind the Scenes at a Reunion

Whew, the things that happen in hotel rooms! I notice everyone is looking a little…heated. Best to order in some cooling cocktails and supper, the kind of meal you might enjoy at a college reunion dinner. Having just been to my 25th college reunion, the menus aren’t bad these days: grilled salmon with a mango salsa, a salad of haricots verts and cherry tomatoes, rice pilaf. For dessert—Devil’s food cupcakes and cheesecake, naturally. It’s fun just to check out all the people chatting, catching up on what's happened over the last such-and-such years. The body language alone speaks volumes. Yes, I’ve heard all kinds of interesting things happen at class reunions, but never really got a close-up view.

Fortunately today in Suite 69 Heidi Champa is going to give us a glimpse into one such meeting after-all-these-years. I had the great pleasure to meet Heidi in person and read with her at Rachel Kramer Bussel's “In the Flesh” last October. Her story “This Just In” in Tasting Him (you can enjoy the reading on Youtube!) pushes all the right buttons for me, not to mention, the short and oh-so-sweet “Lights Out” in Frenzy. But I know, you’ve had enough appetizer. The main course is hot and ready. And special thanks to Nikki Magennis for snapping this photo of the incandescent proceedings from her window. Enjoy!

Reunion by Heidi Champa

My heart nearly stopped as he strode towards me, and I tried my best to act casual. Sipping my drink and looking away, Ethan brushed against me. I expected him to keep going, but he stopped, pretending to look at an old yearbook next to me on the table. I felt him press something into my hand, and I flooded with heat as he walked away, leaving the scent of his cologne behind. I couldn’t breathe.

Finding the bathroom, I locked the stall, finally feeling safe enough to open my hand and see what Ethan had given me. It was a plastic room key and a tiny piece of paper. I unfolded it, and it said, “Room 1534, 15 minutes.” My body shuddered. Ethan wanted me in his room in 15 minutes. I strode to the elevator, trembling and quaking inside, my face already flushed with excitement.

I slide the card key into the lock, waiting for the green flash to appear and signal me into the room. The cool air hit me as the door swung open, the room dark and untouched. The only sign of Ethan was a suitcase on a chair across the room. If I closed my eyes, I could smell him in that room. My mind was on overload, waiting for Ethan. He had left me changed all those years ago. There was no way to stop the intense mix of fear, anticipation, lust and excitement coursing through my body at that moment.

The minutes seemed to pass so slowly. Finally, I heard steps in the hallway, the click of plastic in the door lock. I held my breath as Ethan emerged through the door jam, his stride confident. The room remained dark and the shadows that fell across his face made him look rough and dangerous.

“I was surprised to see you here.” His voice was just as low and hard as I remember. He cut such an imposing figure. Just looking at him was flooding me with wetness. “I wasn’t going to come, but I figured what the hell. You came here hoping to see me, didn’t you?” Unable to manage actual words, I just nodded.

“Get up. Let me look at you.” I did as I was told, rising to my feet slowly. He stepped towards me, pushing my hair back from my eyes. Just as I relaxed into his touch, his hand tightened in my hair, pulling my head back harshly. Crying out into the dark room, I relished the pain, feeling the familiar surge of heat between my legs in response.

“What do you want me to do? Tell me, Diana. I want you to say it.”

I gasped again as his hand tightened a bit more. His eyes were bright, even in the dim light. I realized at that moment that he needed this as much as I did.

“Spank my ass. I need you to spank me, Ethan.” He grinned, releasing my hair. Turning me roughly, my hands landed on the bed. Ethan kicked my feet apart, pushing my skirt up my thighs. His hands ran up from my knees, moving my skirt up to my waist. The only things between us now were my pantyhose and thong, both wet from my pussy. I could feel him behind me, and I waited. His hands ran over my ass, smoothing over the nylon that covered my trembling flesh. Suddenly, I felt the material ripping and tearing away from my skin. The sound rang violently off the walls, filling the silence that had sat between us. I could feel my pantyhose in tatters at my ankles. My thong didn’t survive his assault either. My ass was now exposed, the cool air of the room raising goose bumps on my skin. I knew his eyes were on me, devouring me. But I needed to feel his hands; I needed him to touch me.

My hands dug into the bed, and I nearly jumped when I felt his hand come to rest on the small of my back. The other traced lazy circles across my skin, teasing me just like he used to. I held my breath, and closed my eyes. Time stood still for the next few seconds. And, then the familiar rush of air preceded the exquisite burst of pain. It took all I had not to scream out, to fall forward on the bed from the force. It was as if ten years of pent up energy landed on my ass in that spank. It was heaven.

Two more spanks followed and this time the scream did come. I didn’t care who else in the hotel could hear me, I couldn’t contain the feelings anymore. I could feel my wetness on my thighs and a slight sweat break out on my forehead. The spanks kept coming, in his unusual rhythm. My heart was pounding and I could feel the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes. Suddenly, he stopped. I felt, for the first time, how my flesh tingled and radiated heat.

“Stand up.” I moved away from the bed. I turned and saw him setting his tie aside, his jacket already off. His fingers then moved to my blouse, making quick work of the buttons. He stripped me naked, replacing my shoes after the pantyhose were gone. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted his lap. That smirk I loved was on his face. I draped myself across his knees, my nipples rubbing against the wool of his pants.

“You don’t mind if we don’t go back to the reunion, do you? We have a lot of catching up to do.”

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.

"Back Door" Eroticism and a Night to Remember

Thursday October 16 at the Happy Ending Lounge. The bar was packed, the erotic words were flowing sweetly as was the wine and spirits. Best of all I was surrounded by friends, some of my very favorite erotic writers and wonderful people—Heidi Champa, Jeremy Edwards, Emerald, and EllaRegina. Yes, it was a longtime dream come true, I was in the flesh at Rachel Kramer Bussel’s renowned erotica reading series “In the Flesh.”

The theme was oral sex in honor of the release of Tasting Her and Tasting Him, two juicy anthologies from Cleis. I have a story in each, but I was on tour for my novel, Amorous Woman, so I took that topic with a twist, reading from the infamously steamy hot spring scene where the protagonist of Amorous Woman learns all about a new—and forbidden!--erogenous zone thanks to the skillful tongue of an anthropology professor. (God, I love professor sex!)

I know, you wish you could have been there, but if you couldn’t make it or just want to relive a memorable evening, check out the video of my performance below. Rate it and leave a comment if you’re inspired, but ignore the jumpy editing at the beginning (my novel plug was excised!) Then, when you’ve (re)discovered your own new erogenous zone, head on over to hear the lovely Emerald read about an explosively satisfying tryst in the park and talented newcomer Heidi Champa take sex at the workplace to new and titillating heights.

It was definitely a night to remember!