Frolicsome Fun

Writing has left me, at least for now. But the fun of exploring sexuality has not--and I want to share it with you! Join me for my new project, Camp Frolic, coming to Texas in fall 2014.

Check it out at www.campfrolic.com, and don't forget to sign up for the mailing list.

Prelude in T, for Tears

Sometimes I get stuck in a rut where I can only write the start of stories. Beginnings are what I like best, don't you? Longing, and the first hints of its satisfaction? The moment before the first kiss?

Here's a story I don't plan to finish. Please finish it for me, in your dreams.
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She was wet. Again. She couldn’t help it. These thoughts came into her head unbidden and left her panties damp. Tonight it was their waiter at dinner with her sister. He had a goatee, and tattoos, and the most winning smile... Was it her fault she immediately imagined wrapping her legs around his back while he fucked her?

It didn’t matter. Kal would blame her. He’d call her a slut and she’d get even wetter at his disdain. As if summoned by her though, the bedroom door opened. Kal smiled at her and Penny’s heart melted. How had she even thought the waiter was appealing compared to Kal? His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his close-cropped hair gleamed silver in the lamplight. Penny loved his supple lips, his broad shoulders. Everything about him aroused her.

The truth was, she’d have been wet by then even if it hadn’t been for the waiter.

It was their little game, Panty Check, a ritual that took place every evening Kal could be at home. “Show me,” said Kal. He stood at the end of the bed, towering over her. She lifted her bottom and pulled down her simple black panties. Any other style was not allowed: Only plain black cotton, Kal claimed, let him properly monitor her arousal. Penny stretched the elastic over her feet and handed them up to Kal. Surely he could already see the dark mark of dampness, and the translucent streaks of dried juices.

Kal brought the panties to his nose and inhaled, a move which always embarrassed Penny. She couldn’t be sure she smelled good. “Well,” said Kal. “So far, so naughty. Spread your legs, little girl.”

Penny obediently shifted back on the bed and spread her legs apart. Kal bent one of his knees to rest on the mattress and swiped her slit with two fingers. “Soaking wet!” he crowed, holding them up to study the clear mucus against the light. Then he returned his fingers to her cunt, sliding them up and down a few times through her slickness.

“Someones been a bad, bad girl,” he said. Penny shivered.

It didn’t matter, then, that it was a game. Kal was her keeper, and she was his pet, at his mercy entirely. She was intensely aroused and definitely afraid. Some nights Kal punished her. Some nights he fucked her. Some nights he left her tied up in an agony of arousal to think about the error of her ways. And some nights he did all three.

Tonight, she thought from the gleam in his eye, he was going to try and make her cry. With thumb and first finger, he flicked her inner thigh, hard enough to make her wince. And then he repeated the motion against her clit. It stung like the strike of a match. Oh yes, tonight was the night he would keep his promise.

They’d  talked about tears for a long time, since they’d first started sharing sexual secrets. “I haven’t cried since my sister was sick,” Penny had told him. “I fantasize about it, losing control like that. But I don’t think I can get there without real physical harm, or more than I want to really allow.”

“You don’t think you can cry?” Kal had asked. “That’s too bad. Every little girl ought to be brought to tears once in awhile.” He’d promised to try and take her there someday.

More recently, he’d used the threat of making her cry to bring her to orgasm. It worked over and over again, while he fucked or fingered her, whispered words pushing her quickly over the edge. “I’m going to fuck your ass while you beg for mercy,” he’d said last night. “I’m going to fuck you hard while you weep and struggle. ” Her climax had started then, while he still muttered in her ear, “And then I’m going to make you come while tears are still pouring down your face. And you’re going to kiss me and thank me and call me Daddy.”

Tonight he was kneeling over her, grinning down. “You know what tonight is, don’t you, little girl?” He accented his next words with more finger flicks against her tender clit. “Tonight is the night I Make.” flick “Penny.” flick “Cry.” flick.

The Mermaid

“They weren't ugly then,” she said, her voice disproportionately defensive. Maybe one day  he’d learn to keep his mouth shut. It didn't do to ask people questions, here. Not that he’d really asked so much as--”Look,” she said, cutting into his thoughts. She lifted her shirt with her arms crossed, so he could see everything.  The soft brown of her areolas. The gentle curves of her breasts.The six raised, red lines above them, three on each side of her sternum, as if her ribs had burst out of her chest searching for light.

The orderlies came and took her then. Removing clothes was Not Done. He supposed the powers that be thought only insanity might cause someone to expose their flesh. He would have to wait until another day to tell her he thought her scars were beautiful. Another day, when he might find a way to inquire, without asking, of what scourge they were emblems.

The patients called her The Little Mermaid. The name seemed right to Adam.  There was something of the ocean about her. Since her very first day at the hospital, he’d felt her presence tug at him like a tide.

Other people noticed her too. Over dinner he heard mention of her misbehavior. “Showed her tits to Adam here, didn’t she?” gloated Linda. He bent his head further over his plate. He hated being looked at. That was one thing he liked about the mermaid. She always seemed to be looking into the distance. Her blue eyes were cloudy. He’d sometimes wondered if she could even see at all, but she never bumped into anything so he assumed it was just that her thoughts were far away.

Time went slowly at the hospital. There weren’t enough walls. Adam had to move a lot to stay out of sight, and sometimes moving too much made people look at him. His preoccupation with the mermaid distracted him a little. She wore pale blue shoes. It was safest to look at feet. It didn’t attract attention unless he stared. He looked all the time for her blue shoes, and if he found them, rested his eyes there until he had to move again.

“You want to know,” she said one day. They were sitting in the common room, their battered chairs close but not too close, lest the orderlies separate them. Intimacy was not encouraged, no matter how innocent.

When he looked closely, he saw that her shoes were really a paisley pattern, a faded swirling wash of green and blue and white. The leather was deeply seamed, thirsty for polish. They had the lugged black sole worn by English street kids, but instead of laces they had green ribbons, which must have been pretty once. Now they dragged, dirty and knotted as the mermaid’s hair, tattered as sea kelp.

“You want to know,” she repeated, her voice mocking. “You wouldn’t believe it. Nobody does.” Adam focused on her lips, parched and cracked as mudflats at low tide.

“I’ll believe you,” he ventured. He wanted to give her a sign of his sincerity. A reassuring touch was out of the question. He tried a small smile.

The mermaid laughed. “You just want to get in my pants,” she said, and got up.

The next time she came near him was days later, at lunch. He was surprised. The mermaid usually sat with the mutterers. Maybe she thought their endless murmur sounded like waves. Maybe she just liked to be left alone. Adam was in his usual seat, half hidden behind the disused piano, left side to the wall. Linda sat across from him, as she often did. She liked to torment people.

Adam squirmed with anxiety. He wanted to know the mermaid’s name. He used his left arm to make a little wall in front of his face and ducked his head to hide from Linda. At last he blurted out, “What’s your name?”

“Emily,” the mermaid told him, between mouthfuls. It was grilled cheese for lunch. Adam wondered if Emily ate fish; they’d had fish sticks yesterday. But that made no sense. She wasn’t really a mermaid. He snuck a glance at her. She didn’t seem to notice, though Linda did.

“Sit up straight, Adam,” Linda said in her prissy voice. Adam fled.

Saturday night was movie night. Adam sat on the floor behind the pool table, listening to explosions and exclamations from the speakers in the next room. The mermaid - Emily, he reminded himself - came and sat beside him. Away from the stench of the cafeteria, he could detect her faint, briny aroma. They sat quietly for a little while. From this nearness, Adam could see the dirt caught in the creases of her blue shoes. Quite suddenly, Emily grabbed his hand.

“Do you promise?” she whispered, holding his hand tightly. There was only one thing she could mean.

“I’ll believe you,” Adam answered.

“They weren’t ugly then.”

“They aren’t --” Adam started, but Emily cut him off before he could finish.

“They were gills,” she said, “for a little while.” Adam kept silent. It made sense. Her scars were gills. Of course. She lifted his hand and pressed it to where one red line crossed her clavicle. The sea rose up in him then. He heard the cry of gulls. For a moment they dove together through deep water.

Her voice brought him back. “You can’t burn down anything underwater,” she said.

“Or drown it,” Adam ventured. It must have been the right thing to say, because she squeezed his hand again before letting go.

Writing Exercises

I've been at a writing workshop/retreat this week. It's been a great experience, and opened my eyes to a lot of possibilities. Here are some random, not sex-related exercises we did with synesthesia. I've never been much at description, so this whole exercise really excited me.

Biting into a Peach

A marching band goes by in the street and I can smell the flowers in every lapel, the float covered in gardenias. Pennants wave, a toddler runs laughing after the piccolo player, juice runs down my face sweet as the temporary princess waving from her garlanded seat in the parade.

Reaquaintance

The sound of grinding gears. I’m touching your skin and the sensation is as faded as the red and blue of your tattoos. It weighs no more than smoke, and is as bitter. There’s a blank between us where there ought to be 1,000 memories. The sound of tearing paper.

Standing Near You

Makes me feel like I’m humming along with the radio while I cook us all dinner.Your nearness is heavy like cream poured swirling into coffee.  Your scent is oatmeal cookies plumped with raisins, rough with oats. I will capture this smell in a box. Later, I’ll open it and find it full of buttons.

Austin, Rally of Texas,  5pm, 110⁰

Motorcycles roar, busses groan and sigh. I’m hungry enough for a hot dog—spiced meat pungent as sweat. There’s concrete blistered with old bubble gum under my feet. Bikers in burning black boots go by. In the blazing blue sky, pigeons glide, hinting at breezes.

The First and Only Time I Played Spin the Bottle (and I didn't even get kissed)

It was cold in the basement. We’d been naked for the photo shoot, but most of us had tossed on coats or boots or even a few clothes as they’d herded us down the stairs. Prospective buyers were touring the studio. It wouldn’t do for them to see thirty rowdy nudes cluttering up the space.

In the basement, our nascent intimacy, born of being posed tangled under lights for hours on end, seemed to fade. We stood or sat in awkward cliques. Some people were old friends and lovers, but many of us had just met. Someone passed around a bottle of wine. “I’m finishing it off,” announced Rachel, throwing back her head and gulping dramatically. Then she waved the empty bottle in the air. “You guys, you guys, we should play spin the bottle!” She was practically dancing with delight at her inspiration. Under her full-length black anorak, her naked breasts nodded in agreement.

There was no hesitation. In moments, we’d gathered in a large circle, the bottle placed in the middle. “Who goes first?” someone asked, and Rachel said she’d spin for it. The bottle spun and pointed at a short young red-head, naked but for her Sorel boots. She spun and won a kiss from a tall blond man she seemed to know. They french-kissed in what seemed a comradely sort of way. We all cheered, and he spun the bottle with a flourish.

This time the bottle pointed to a willowy, dark haired woman, wearing a sarong around her waist and black lace-up boots. “Spank or kiss?” she asked the blond man.

“Oh, spank, of course,” he answered. I was surprised to see him walk to one of the basement columns and brace himself. The dark haired woman pulled down his boxers with a snap, and delivered four sharp, violent smacks. Then she stroked his reddened skin with her slender hand. She had an air of command mixed with a delicate grace. I was smitten. She spun the bottle and I longed for it to land on me.

The bottle rattled on the concrete floor and slid to a stop pointing at a handsome young man I hadn’t notice until now. Unlike most of us, he had on both a shirt and pants, though his white oxford-cloth was buttoned incorrectly. I later found out his name was Emil. “Spank or kiss?” my new ideal asked. Emil opted for a kiss. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him with movie-star abandon. There were whistles and applause. Emil spun.

This time the bottle landed on Jay, our host, a man famous for his sexual exploits and the subject and center of our naked photo extravaganza. Jay did not wait for permission. He strode across the room and took Emil in his arms. His kiss was, if possible, more dramatic than the one that had gone before. Emil kissed him back gamely, arms outstretched as if to express his surprise. Jay’s hands splayed across Emil’s trousered ass and ground his pelvis against Jay’s naked crotch. While Emil was still reeling from this initial assault, Jay sank to his knees and began unbuttoning Emil’s pants.

I had the perfect angle on the action. I could see Emil’s face in profile, laughing with surprise, and his cock, half-hard, appearing and disappearing as Jay’s head moved back and forth. It was clear Emil was not among those of the party inured to the novelty of public sexual hijinks. Jay sat back on his heels. “Ever had your cock sucked by a man before?” he asked.

“Never,” said Emil, the member in question sinking back into its place.

A voice called from upstairs. We were cleared to return to the photo shoot. Our circle dissolved and we trooped back up the stairs. It was time to resume being naked for the camera instead of each other.

A Change In Perspective

This one isn't sexy. Sorry.

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She’s the same age I was. It’s hard to believe. I have plenty of memories from before I was 7. Episodes and glimpses. But at 7 I begin to remember whole chunks of time. I remember what it felt like to be me.

A friend said the other day, “Do you feel like you are still seven on the inside?”

No, I do not. At seven I felt fully formed. There was nothing childish about being a child. I felt like an adult then, as much as I do now. That is, I felt complete.

This is why it surprises me so much to see my daughter at this age. She’s so small. She knows so little. Her bag of tricks for handling life’s obstacles grows daily, but it’s still extremely limited. Yet inside her, I imagine, she feels vast. She lacks nothing. She is conscious of being completely  herself.

“Tell me about when you were my age,” she asked one day. I found some things to say, though not easily. My memories of that time are largely sad and fearful stories. Contemplating those stories, I for the first time saw them from outside myself. I imagined my daughter in my place. And the horror of them deepened, until I was looking into an abyss of my childhood.

I was so small when those things happened. Vulnerable and baby-sweet, flower-fresh.

If anyone did those things to my daughter I would kill them.

Surprise!

I wrote a book. I even had it professionally edited. Apparently, I misuse the word "towards" a lot.

I'm pretty crazy excited. Here's what my Amazon page looks like - I feel so official! God I hope my future employers don't Google me. 

So, yeah, you can buy my excellent book on Amazon, or throw me a more substantial share of the purchase price by buying it from the printer, Create Space.

The book includes 11 stories, some of which are currently available on this blog. I took a few of the stories down (sorry) and others have never been on this blog. I think you'll like it.