Sex, Lies and Nancy Friday

“Of course I came, darling. Twice!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can we believe in anything anymore?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow, look what she’s doing!”

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

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

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

“Awesome tits.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viva Sexual Fantasies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viva the Amorous Picnic!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside Viva: The Pictorials

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanna See My 'Stash'?

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

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

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

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

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

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