Random Memory

When I was twenty-two, I took a playwriting class at HB Studio. The teacher wore sweatpants and brought his catheter to class. He said I reminded him of some redhead actress. Katharine Hepburn or Rita Hayworth. He talked about soap operas as an example of bad dramatic writing. I presented a play called Obituary about three characters stuck in a purgatory place where they analyse their obituaries. An homage to Sartres' No Exit with no future on the stage. It was an existentialist soap opera. During my critique, I'm pretty certain he was peeing in that bag.

Anne Lister Clarification

The movie was based on Anne Lister's diaries which were discovered and decoded almost 150 years after her death. They were never published in her lifetime. That would have been scandalous!

The film was probably based on these two books.

Whitbread, Helena. I Know My Own Heart: The Diaries of Anne Lister 1791–1840. (Virago, 1988)

Whitbread, Helena. No Priest But Love: Excerpts from the Diaries of Anne Lister. (NYU Press, 1993)

"I love and only love the fairer sex and thus beloved by them in turn, my heart revolts from any love but theirs." - Anne Lister, Journals, Oct 29, 1820

The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister

I'm delighted to finally have seen the film The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister. I first heard about it in June at the Frameline San Francisco International LGBT Film Festival which I attended for a short film I wrote. I missed it then and I also missed it at Outfest in LA where I was for the same purpose in July. I had forgotten about it until an ad on Facebook caught my eye (how often does that happen??). I clicked on "The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister" and it took me to the website of the Gotham Screen International Film Festival where I discovered the film was screening on Sunday night at Tribeca Cinemas.

I couldn't possibly miss it a third time, so I called up my friend who I have a little crush on and invited her to see this movie. The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister is a BBC biopic of a woman who was the lesbian Jane Austen of her time. It has all the sentiment, manners and drama of Pride and Prejudice with the added pleasures of a sapphic storyline and steamy sex scenes.

Anne Lister (played deliciously by Maxine Peake) is an unmarried orphan woman living with her aunt and uncle at Shipdon Hall, their family estate in Halifax, England. The film opens with Anne running across hills to join her friends Mariana and Tibb at a picnic. A few minutes later we find Anne pressing Mariana up against a tree on a woodland trail, kissing her passionately and groping underneath her skirt. We understand this is not the first time they've "connected" (19th century British for hooked-up), when Mariana says, "You always kiss so well." * It seems that nothing can separate these lovers. But alas, in the next scene at Shipdon, it is announced that Mariana is to be married to the boorish aging Charles Lawton to whom we were introduced at the picnic, when an older lady emphasizes to Anne that he recently lost his wife.

Anne is livid and heartbroken. The betrayal sets the story in motion as the narrative follows Anne's relationship with Mariana: from pining without a single letter from her love and distracting herself with other women to a reuniting tryst and promise that they will live together as wives once Charles dies. It shouldn't be long, Mariana assures Anne, considering how he's ailing every day. However nature does not work in their favor. Charles remains alive and well and although Mariana admits she was foolish to marry him, Anne's patience runs out when she realizes Mariana is too ashamed and/or afraid to leave her husband. Anne finds solace and purpose in intellectual and business pursuits, activities that were considered unbecoming for a woman of her time.

What is most remarkable about this story is how open Anne was about her sexuality in 1820s rural England. She dressed in black all the time, often with gentleman jackets and hats. She documented her life in a diary, with her lesbian affairs written in code that was a combination of Greek and algebra. When her aunt and uncle attempt to find male suitors for their niece, Anne clearly expresses that she does not want a husband, that she would prefer to share her life with a female companion. She doesn't explain any further, and she doesn't have to. Her unconventional interests and behaviors are enough to make society talk and give her the nickname: Gentleman Jack. Though harassed by some, she is never really scorned for her choices. Her relatives and close friends accept her as "unusual" and she manages to live out her desires and maintain her financial independence without compromising her nature by taking a husband.

Maxine Peake, who reminds me of Katharine Hepburn, leads an excellent cast including Anna Madeley as Mariana and Gemma Jones as Aunt Lister. James Kent's directing is smooth and the production design gorgeous. The ending feels a bit abrupt, but it's forgivable in the grand scheme of the film. Anne's choice of female companion in the end was not a passionate one, but it was perhaps less a compromise than Mariana's, who remained with her husband till his death at 89, which is revealed in a tag of titles before the credits roll.

Naturally it was difficult to be a lesbian in early 19th century England, but the movie also shows us that the nature of female friendship at the time made it relatively easy for a girl to enjoy pussy and not suffer for it. Or at least not get caught. It was acceptable for women friends to walk arm in arm and even sleep in the same bed. The conjectures and gossip arise more from Anne's masculine interests and appearance than time spent wooing ladies. Perhaps if she had dressed conventionally feminine and wasn't so intellectual and bold and independent people would not have suspected she was a dyke.

In a scene in which she turns down a marriage proposal, insulting the man with her honesty, I was reminded of the scene in Pride and Prejudice when Elizabeth first rejects Darcy. I think it still holds true today that men are often intimidated by bold women. The Elizabeth Bennetts and Anne Listers of the world turn men on and off because they're honest and open and don't do anything unless their heart is in it.

If you're a Jane Austen fan, watch this movie. If you're queer, go see this movie. If you melt over stories of romance and passion struggling against the moral codes of society, this movie is for you. Can you tell I identify with Anne? Sexuality aside, if you root for characters who are true to themselves no matter what the odds, then you will absolutely love The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister.

* Don't hold me to the accuracy of that quote, it's from memory

I'm Back

So it's been a long time. Yes, I've been busy. But more than that, I just didn't feel like sharing. The idea kind of disgusted me. Exposing my personal life online. How base and self-indulgent. So what? I didn't think anyone was reading this blog anyway. Now I'm re-inspired. Which is necessary. Because I'm a writer, not a blogger. Shall I continue? One comment and I will. One word and I'm yours.

Girl on Bike

Girl on bike
wire-basket, Italian style
caught in an old-world alley way
I watch her
she rides up behind me
I, her prey, invite her
Minced conversation
who, what, knew
Then, a spin around
Magical piece of staging
Pulls me to her
As she pulls me in
I know her face
But she is more than her
I shouldn't go there
Because he is waiting
a few streets away
probably wondering
But I don't care
Though a kiss is permissible
it feels forbidden
in this cloistered passage
I move into her
Feeling without touching
Her form evaporating
out of my grasp, into my dream

A DAY AT THE CIRCUS

If he stood in the center of the ring, he had the perfect view of her pussy: the tight tangerine fabric clinging to her crotch, the tiny bulge of labia, the occasional wet spot. He was alone, practicing his new act, when she walked in and climbed the ladder to the trapeze. She untied the trapeze, clasped the bar, swung out, and did a number of positions as she swung back and forth. He followed her motions, watching her closely. He held his breath a few times. He had never seen an aerialist practice without a partner. After she climbed down, she smiled at him as she passed by. He wanted to ask her questions. Where was she from? Why was she practicing alone? But all he could do was offer her the banana cream pie he had been spinning on his finger. She dipped her finger in the cream, smelled it, sucked it slowly. Then she disappeared behind the red velvet curtains.

He found out from the other clowns that she had just arrived three days ago from the Ukraine, to join the troupe of Mongolian acrobats after their top girl fell during a show and broke her neck. That knowledge gave him chills. It made him nervous for her. He would hate to see this young and gorgeous girl fall to the same fate as the one she replaced. He would find it even more tragic because it had been so long since a woman inspired movement in his pants. Not that he was glad that the other girl was gone. It’s just that all the females on the tour were either married, lesbians, or uptight snobs who didn’t mess with clowns. Sexual deprivation had brought him to the point of lusting after the elephants. During the opening promenade, he walked behind Elsie the elephant with a cone-shaped hat on his head. The other day he was so horny, he couldn’t help imagining sticking his entire head, cone and all, into Elsie’s enormous cunt.

Thank God Yuliana came along. At least now he had a real human to masturbate to. He caught her once more before the show, talking to the Russian brother contortionists. He was in full costume this time, so he wasn’t sure if she recognized him. She smiled at him, then turned back to the Russians and giggled. The brothers went away. He smiled back, aware of his cock growing. She tilted her eyes down, then up again to meet his white-ringed eyes. Could she see the bulge in his baggy clown pants? She said, “I lieek clowns,” in a heavy accent, and giggled again.

What music to his ears! He wanted to touch her right then. He wanted to wrap his arm around her tight little ass and pull her toward him, pressing her against his cock. But the show was about to start, and if he had done that, he would’ve come in his pants for sure. She would tell the Russian brothers who would leak the story to everyone else on the tour. No, he wouldn’t want to risk his reputation or his job. He would let her make the first move. She had to. After all, she stuck her finger in his pie. She likes clowns.

He ran to the bathroom to release the cum. It took only a few strokes. He came just as the first chord of the band started up. As he marched behind Elsie, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Yuliana, that is. He delighted in the sensations of his cock growing and shrinking to the complete unawareness of the audience. It was like riding a low-grade orgasm; the pre-show ejaculation allowed him to control the arousal as if his cock were a club of fire he was balancing on his nose. If it got to be too hot, he just let it fall.

His act came right after hers. He brushed by her as she flitted off stage. “Are you doing zee pie now?” she whispered in his ear.

He nodded like a dope, wondering how he was going to make it through his act without bursting. He had to have her. He couldn’t take it anymore. But the show must go on.

The pie-spinning, stupid jokes and antics the director scripted for him, and the audience volunteer bit became a blur of unprofessional sensations. When he stuck his finger in the pie, he imagined he was sticking his finger in her. The cute girl he pulled from the audience gave him a hard-on because she was about the same height as Yuliana, with the same auburn hair. But it was Yuliana who got him through the show. The warm vanilla breath lingering on his skin and her sexy accent sent the plates spinning without a single glitch.

His cock was hard as he took a bow and deliberately tripped into the pie. He thought, if clowns wore tights, he would need a steel cod-piece to keep his cock contained. Baggy may not be sexy, but they let you get away with things that would be embarrassing in tight pants.

He was headed to the dressing room to change when he felt a hesitant tap on his shoulder. He turned to find her smiling at him like a child waiting expectantly for a treat.

“You have more pies?” She asked.

Seeing no one nearby but the show-dog trainer, he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the storage area down the hall. He opened a tiny refrigerator in the corner. He pulled out a pie.

“Usually they’re filled with shaving cream,” he said. “But I prefer to use the real thing. It costs the circus more, but they let me do it, because I’m the only clown that feeds the pie to unsuspecting audience members. They love it.”

She dug her hand into the cream, scooped out a big glob and thrust it into her mouth, smearing her face in the process. He wasn’t sure whether he should be aroused or appalled. Was she kinky or just weird? Before he could make an assumption, she tilted up to kiss him. She gave him a sloppy kiss, smearing pie over his clown smile, then wiped the cream off his face with her hand and fed it to him, letting her finger linger in his mouth, twirling it around his tongue before pulling it out. That was his cue.

He pulled her toward him for a deep kiss, slipping his fingers between the crotch of her costume and her thigh, to feel her slit. It was dripping wet. He rubbed her gently and rapidly, making little circles on her swollen clit while pulling her onto his now rock-hard cock throbbing beneath his ridiculous purple pants. She pulled him down slightly with an almost possessed look in her eyes, saying, “Eat me, please.”

Then suddenly she slipped on something, and they both collapsed to the floor. The other trapeze girl flashed before a wave of horror crashing over him. He looked down to find Yuliana planted ass-down in the pie, which she had knocked off a shelf on her way down. The shocked doll expression of her face cracked into wild laughter.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. He started to pull her up, but she resisted. He let her pull him down and guide his face toward her pussy. He kissed the moist fabric, then slowly peeled it away. Oh God, it was like diving into a dessert! Her pussy was so sweet, and it wasn’t from the pie, though she seemed to enjoy the squishy, creamy wet feeling on her ass and thighs and pussy. She squirmed as he licked her, rubbing her clit with his red nose now and then. At this point, nothing seemed weird, because they were in a circus after all, and she was sitting in a banana cream pie. She moaned as she guided his head to the rhythms of her pleasure. It didn’t take her long to come. She didn’t make much noise, but writhed in the cream, arching her back like a contortionist.

She looked down at her cream-soaked costume. “I’m mess,” she said, with a mix of pure observation and delight. Then she unbuttoned his pants and pulled his cock out.

“Ohh...” he moaned. “It’s been so long...don’t be alarmed...if I come...in 2 seconds...”

She gave it a few strokes, dipped her hand in the cream and rubbed it all over the shaft. Mingled with her juices, it was slimy enough to work as lube. She licked the creamy concoction, then lightly teased the head with her tongue. Oh, suck it, please suck it, he thought, although he didn’t want to rush her.

She needed no command. She put it in her mouth and sucked the tip while stroking the shaft with one hand, pulling on his balls with the other. “Oh God, oh God, Jesus Christ, fuck Barnum and Bailey...Ahhh!” He couldn’t hold it in any longer. She pulled her mouth away and stroked the cum out of him, making him squirt onto her and into the pie. He collapsed next to her and they leaned against each other in silence for a few moments, allowing their breathing to synchronize as it slowed. Then she stood up, examining her wet, cream-stained costume. She looked worried. He spotted a piece of glittery fabric hanging from a rusty hook. He pulled it down and wrapped it around her. She smiled, kissed his nose, and skipped away.

He put his satisfied cock back into his pants and zipped up. He was a mess as well but he didn’t care. He cleaned up the floor with some paper towels, then stared at the pie. He stuck his finger in and tasted it. It couldn’t have been better if it were fresh.

BEYOND THE PALE ARTS FESTIVAL, AUGUST 1-7

Edgy, Dangerous and/or Erotic!

Kiss Unrequited

I wanted to kiss her last night. But I didn’t, of course, I couldn’t. Why didn’t I? Because I wasn’t supposed to. Because it’s antithetical to everything that I committed myself to: Charlie and our sexually exploratory but non-polyamorous relationship. I didn’t want to kiss her. But my knee wanted to touch hers, my hand wanted to rub her neck, my arms wanted to pull her close to me, casually, playfully. When she turned to say something about the music to me, whispering almost, and I smelled the pungent sexy cigarette breath, my mouth wanted to taste her. Even though I know that if I were to go there and continue to go there, unabashedly following my desires, in two to three months time I would be repulsed by that breath. Just as I am sometimes repulsed by the fat of Charlie’s belly. This will pay off in the end, I think. This restraint. The choice to be reasonable. “Desire has no reason…” I heard myself saying to her as I, in my spinning brain, leaned my face into her neck, my pelvis pressed against hers in the dark red corner of Stonewall bar. The place that spawned freedom for the gays: this is where I wanted to kiss her, but didn’t.

When we said good-bye, in her embrace I could feel her instinct to pull. When she kissed my cheek, it was almost a default that her lips landed there. We’re both faking it terribly.

So I went home and watched “Grey Gardens” which I won in the raffle. I tried to forget, to pat myself on the back and convince myself that I did well to resist temptation. It will pay off, this struggle, it will be worth it, she will thank me for it in the end, when she’s in love with someone who doesn’t have a man in her life. Yeah, sure, it will be worth it when I’m living as a recluse with my mother and eight cats, regretting all the things I didn’t do. Slap me for writing that. But he comes home in the middle of Grey Gardens, I look around at the mess our apartment has become, and the possibility doesn’t seem too far from reality. I, after all, enjoy being alone. I’m three cats away from being a cat lady. I have not yet achieved the artistic success I desire. So I could be that eccentric prancing around an old house with a scarf on her head, thinking I could still be on Broadway, if only they could see me now. Maybe she’ll make a documentary of me and I’ll get famous anyway as a caricature of myself, as drunk drag queens impersonate me in piano bars thirty years later.

Why didn't I kiss her? Because she wants what so many lesbians want: a relationship with a woman who isn't tied up with a man. In my case, that man happens to be her friend. They've known each other long before he and I met, long before I was an adult. And the funny thing is, he practically orchestrated this dramatic sex triangle. He encouraged me to go out on a date with her and do whatever I want. I said, "Sure, why not?" without expecting anything. She didn't have any expectations either. He wasn't expecting, but hoping this arrangement might lead to a threesome. None of this would've happened if she hadn't drunkenly kissed him and said some things that gave him the impression she was interested in playing with both of us. I was not there. He came home and told me. Then he set us up. On our date, she practically denied ever having any interest in being with him. "No, it's just a fantasy. I do not want to have sex with Charlie. Charlie's my friend."

I went back to her place. Still no expectations. Though I said in the elevator, "I think we should at least make out." I had to get even. More than that, she was sexy. And I was on fire with possibilities. Possibilities that live in the land of no expectation.

Is it any surprise that we had sex, after all this anticipation of nothing, but possibly something? It was good, not great, as most first-time encounters are. She was nervous, unsure about the situation. "What am I doing sleeping with my friend's girlfriend?" I had to convince her it was okay. So it was not great, but intense. It had been a long time, over a year, since I had a one-on-one sexual experience with a woman. Maybe it was the refreshing newness, maybe it was the weirdness of the situation, maybe it was her oral devotion, her unflagging determination to make me come, that made it more than a casual one-night-stand. Then later, in the nest of sweaty sheets, we shared some things about ourselves. She saw me laugh, acknowledged it as something sweet. "When I first met you, you had an edge," she said.

It's true. To most people I have an "edge." Most people don't see the side that Charlie knows so well. But in a moment, without intending to, I let her see it.

I didn't realize how intimate we were until I saw her a week later. She had been on my mind, but I thought it was inconsequential, a natural lingering that would fade after a week of sex with Charlie. But when I saw her again, I held her for a while. I felt the buzz of seeing a new lover after the first fuck. The kind of buzz that makes me want more, not only sexually, but mindfully, emotionally. I wanted to discover her. Polyamorists call this phenomenon New Relationship Energy or NRE for short.

But I don't want a new relationship! Or do I? She doesn't want to have a threesome with us! Or does she? She can't seem to handle being with me in any way that involves him, whether he's physically present or not. And Charlie, my love, doesn't like the idea of me longing to be with a woman without him.

Where does that leave me? Pondering a kiss that never happened, in the grey gardens of my mind.

Hitachi, My Love

What did you do on New Year's Eve? Mine was pretty uneventful. I used a vibrator on stage while singing in lingerie. Man, I really got to get a life.

For my last Forbidden Kiss performance on New Year's Eve, I re-wrote the lyrics of the song "Freddy, My Love" from the musical Grease, which I sang as an homage to my favorite vibrator, the Hitachi Magic Wand.

HITACHI, MY LOVE

Hitachi, my love
I love you more than words can say
Hitachi, my love
(Please) stay plugged in as I squirm away
Thinking of you can make the day so much better
Playing with you makes my pussy so much wetter
My roomate’ll flip cause I came all over her sweater

Hitachi, my love…

Hitachi, you know, abstinence makes me feel so blue
That’s ok though, your pulses makes me lust for you
My clit will have a hard attack when it catches
That change of speed with the part that attaches
Oh how I wish I knew a girl who loves snatches

Hitachi, my love

Don’t keep your magic from me
I thrill to every vibe
Your buzzing’s kinda funny, but honey, it feels fine
I treasure all that humming, your size is really stunning
They say you can be numbing, but I’m cumming for the 5th time!

Oh, oh, oh, oh!

Hitachi, you’ll see, I’ll use you on a girl someday
And I will be wearing my roommate’s lingerie
Thinking about it my twat’s throbbing already
Knowing when she comes home, we’re bound to be ready
To make her cervix spray all over her silk teddy

Hitachi, my love…Hitachi, my love!


Also check out my performance of "Orgy Etiquette," a column I wrote for New York Press.

Enjoy!

CARNIVAL OF DESIRE

He had never been to a party like this before, an Eat-In that is. He had been to other erotic parties with me, but he was a One Leg Up Virgin. It was a few days before Halloween, so the theme, Carnival Masquerade, was fitting. My boyfriend and I were dressed to the sixty-nines for a night of erotic delight. In the lobby sprinkled with rose petals, I slipped off my trench coat and slipped on long pink evening gloves. We both put on our masks, the final touch. A single masked woman, who had arrived at the same time, complimented our costumes. We took the elevator with her and learned that it was her first time as well. Hmmm.

The elevator opened to a reception fronting a coat-check. We checked in some of our things with the sexy coat-check girl. (Why don’t all sexy coat-check girls wear lingerie?) Then we began exploring the space. It was black and red with gothic furniture, various racks and machines, whips and paddles, cuffs, straps and ropes hanging from hooks on the walls. We guessed it was either a dungeon or an apartment belonging to one kinky person. Yet the feeling in the air was sensual and mysterious. As always, One Leg Up goes over the top with the aesthetic spread of fresh fruits, veggies, cheese, breads, and chocolates, a classy counterpoint to the S&M décor. In my humble opinion, my masked love was the hottest guy there, and I felt sexy in my black corset topping a pink and white furry skirt that opened in the front like two curtains parting to reveal the window, the hot pink panties, the star of the show.

My show, that is, for him. If others want to watch, they may, as long as they make me feel good. They’ve already bought tickets and are entitled to a performance, although no one is obligated to perform. I have the power to withhold my theatrics from critics and hecklers. That’s the beauty of an Eat-In. There is no obligation to do anything other than respect your fellow performers and audience members.

It had been a long time since I attended an Eat-In, so I was reticent at first, standing near the food, observing guests hiding behind their masks. Like most sex parties, a One Leg Up soirée gives people the freedom to check out sexual prospects, without the fear of offending someone or feeling that the gesture is inappropriate to context. The whole point of an Eat-In is to pursue your desires and act out fantasies in a safe environment. If you cross the line of respect (touching before asking), there will probably be someone eager to teach you a lesson with a well-deserved spanking.

I received a proper spanking (just because I wanted it, not for lack of respect) on a beam-like structure called a horse. My spanker (I’ll call her M) was a professional domme who knew what she was doing with a paddle. She was so friendly and considerate that I felt as though I was in the presence of a doctor or professional masseuse. I trusted my body in her hands more than I trusted any other stranger I encountered at the party. It goes without saying that Palagia (the founder of One Leg Up), has a knack for hiring professionals. Earlier in the evening, Palagia suggested I tie my love onto a swinging table suspended from the ceiling with chains. M taught me the ropes (pun intended), and introduced my love to nipple clamps. He didn’t get the pleasure at first. Then I fondled his balls as the lovely masked sprite from the elevator appeared behind him, and he seemed to forget the pain.

The Sprite had been holding our attention since we arrived. She was pretty, hungry, fresh, and ALONE. We surmised that she would be open to playing with a couple, and as the party was dominated by heterosexual couples and I was not interested in any men other than my horny prince, I broke the ice with a strawberry. The idea came to me when I was feeling like a fish out of water, having been so long away from the scene, standing next to the fruit, hesitant and almost indifferent about approaching anyone. I was feeling out of the loop of lust. Then the strawberry gave me an idea. It wasn’t so much that I desired her. I didn’t want to leave disappointed. I especially didn’t want to disappoint him. My satisfaction didn’t matter so much. I had been to dozens of orgies, and this would not be the last. I could’ve gone home without a taste, but I didn’t want to taint his initiation into the world of One Leg Up. I knew that once I committed myself to a simple physical action, lust, desire and juices would follow in flow.

“I have an idea,” I said. “Follow me.”

Tease him with ambiguity. We walked into the room with the swinging platform. A muscular dude with a low-hanging cock tucked into a leathery pouch of a g-string was splayed against the wall. Various couples were scattered around the space. I was delighted to see a lone lesbian couple playing on the platform or swing or whatever it’s called. The butch was sitting on the swing, big breasts heaving beneath her black button-down shirt, her lover wedged between her legs. The butch reminded me of my ex-girlfriend. Then the feeling washed over me—that desire for women that soars beyond mere curiosity. I turned to the Sprite.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m having a problem and I was wondering if you could help me.” I looked away, feeling awkward and out of practice.

She smiled.

“I have this strawberry and I want to eat it, but it’s too big for my mouth. Will you help me?”

My Prince stood behind me, watching, letting me drive the action of the play. She smiled as I offered her the strawberry. Then she took it and fed it to me. She got my gist. The strawberry passed back and forth between our mouths several times. The dance had begun.

A little later, we found her playing with the dude with the pouched cock. He had been standing against this large metal X on the wall, stroking his cock since the party began. He had been hired as part of the live entertainment, but seemed to be thoroughly enjoying his work, licking something off the Sprite’s chest. We stood casually next to them, fondling each other. She turned around and presented us with a jar of chocolate sauce made specifically for skin. She dipped her finger in it and frosted my Prince’s nipple. We both licked it off him. X-man retreated into the background. Then the Sprite, the Prince, and I spent the next several minutes frosting and licking each other: breast, nipple, navel. I’m not sure what we enjoyed more—making a mess or cleaning up.

It wasn’t long after this human fondue experiment when Palagia blew her whistle to announce “undies time.” The fact that everyone must strip down to underwear at the same time is a unique part of the Eat-In. You could probably refuse if you want, but if you were shy about wearing nothing but undies among beautiful strangers, then you wouldn’t be at this party, now would you? At an event where nothing is structured, where etiquette is understood (hopefully) and unspoken, you can always count on undies time to bring everyone together. Maybe you’ve had your eye on someone since you arrived, but you haven’t had the courage to let her know you’re interested. Now you have an excuse: “I love your panties,” you could say.

I’m shy in some ways, but when it comes to communal stripping, I’m one of the first to start. In this case, something inspired me to turn it into a show. Maybe it was the sight of my Prince and the Sprite, already demasked and disrobed, sitting on the swing. I slinked into a sensual dance, unhooking my corset slowly as if I were doing a burlesque routine. The furry skirt took at least five minutes to leave my body; before I abandoned it, it became a flag for an imaginary bull, a veil for my eyes, a mink stole for my Prince. With my hot pink panties in full view, the party was now underway…

The Sprite became our girl of the night, drifting in and out of our space, leaving, but always coming back. There was an unspoken agreement to take care of each other; our connection was sealed. The rest was foreplay. She came and went, came and went, and finally came for good against my thigh, as I sat on my Prince’s lap upon a gothic throne in the corner of the master bedroom. She stood before me and moistened my thigh with her juices, letting out a sweet moan as I squirmed in my seat. Then he fucked me on the chair. Not bad for two virgins.

The night dissolved into sweet kisses and whispers between me and my Prince. We stayed until the lights turned on. Our Sprite was gone. No more naked bodies entwined in orgiastic bliss. No more music. No more masks. As the leather was being wiped down, we marveled that just an hour ago, the carnival of desire was in full swing. It seemed as though we were departing a dream. I’m looking forward to my next erotic adventure. Next time I won’t be so shy.

FORBIDDEN KISS READING SAT NIGHT! (OCT 11)

Sorry I've been away for a while...I'm a schoolgirl again, and schoolgirls have to do serious things like go to class, read books, do homework and make movies. Even naughty schoolgirls! Seriously, grad school takes up a lot of my time, so unfortunately this blog takes a back seat. But it's not going away! My posts may be shorter and less frequent, but just as committed, my darlings. Meanwhile, I'm doing this sexy reading on Saturday night! I'll be performing a period piece about Gatsby sex on Governor's Island.

Cheers...
Stephanie


FORBIDDEN KISS
The Erotica Series

Saturday, Oct 11 at 8 pm

Stage Left Studio
438 W. 37th Street, 5A, NYC.

Performers include
Cheryl King, Alithea Howes, Ruby Marez, Delrita Doyle, Carl Kissin, Chris Hoyle, Marlene Nichols, Stephanie Sellars, Brian Longwell,
and the Bitter Poet

Tickets $18, available at www.smarttix.com
Use discount code KISS... Read More to get $5 discount.

"Cheryl King, Artistic Director of Stage Left Studio, created this theatrical erotica series in September of 2005. Cheryl hosts this show, and begins each evening's performance with a brief selection from classic erotica, such as DH Lawrence, Anais Nin, Colette and other great writers.

She then introduces, in turn, artists presenting either original or existing works. These include, but are not limited to, poetry, spoken word, scenes and monologues, dance and songs. Forbidden Kiss shows celebrate the glory of the body, its sensuality, its beauty, and its astonishing capacity for pleasure."

Bonds of Love

Remember when my ass was blue?

While Charlie was prancing around Vienna with supermodels and gay movie stars for the annual Lifeball aids benefit, I went to a Chemistry party in Brooklyn. Like I said in a previous post, it had been a long time since I attended a sex party by myself. It was the perfect time to go, with Charlie out of town surrounded by hot models. I gave him freedom to seize any sexual opportunity that came up in Vienna, and he in turn gave me his blessing to go to Chemistry and “have a great time.” I must admit it’s far easier to handle his solo sexcapades when I have an equally exciting distraction.

The Chemistry people used to host sex parties in a grand loft way out in Brooklyn, but they lost that space due to legal complications or rent or something similarly unpleasant. The party I attended recently was the inaugural event at their new location, which also happens to be way out in Brooklyn (though in a different neighborhood). After a long, irritating commute via the L train, a shuttle bus (because the L train was mechanically challenged that night), the G train and a sketchy walk along deserted garbage-lined streets, I finally arrived at the unmarked metal door that opened to Chemistry.

The first thing I saw after climbing the dank, concrete staircase was a set of prison-like bars separating the foyer from the main space. How appropriate for the theme Caged Heat. Those bars were the most interesting piece of décor in the place, which had, at first glance, the damp, rotting appearance of a basement dungeon. Directly in front of the entrance was a red-painted room with mattresses on the floor where I could see a few couples in the heat of sensual play. The other guests were sprawled out in the main area, standing, dancing, talking, or on their way somewhere with drinks in hand, just like at any ordinary party…although by the looks of their outfits, any half-aware person who walked in would’ve guessed that this was no ordinary party.

I went straight to the bathroom to change into my Caged Heat costume: a tight pink and black leopard teddy with garters, black fishnet stockings, a cat tail, cat mask, and knee-high black leather boots. The bathroom was a hole in the wall that barely locked with a hook and string, but like Clark Kent in a telephone booth, I transformed from my understated stylish self to Super Sexy Cat Woman.

From the bathroom I made a beeline for the snack table and filled myself with pita chips as I observed the scene. I recognized a few people, but most of the faces I had never seen before. Looking exclusively for female prospects, I saw no one who made my tail twitch with desire. Although nothing exciting was happening in that room, I recognized an acquaintance standing near the bars, twiddling a flogger. I had seen him tie up women at other events and I knew he was good--highly skilled and experienced in the art of ropes and BDSM. I said hi and told him I might ask him to tie me up later. I said “later” because I had just arrived and needed to warm up. I wanted to scope out the rest of the premises to see if I might come across anyone worth a mingling. So I went up the creaky wooden staircase lit by a single bulb hanging from a dusty beam on the ceiling, to a narrow second floor where a bar was set up. I got a drink from a cute bartendress then stepped out onto the roof--cracked, dismal, with not much of a view, to check out the tent set up for outdoor play. One mattress filled the tent, but no one was inside.

I slinked back inside and down the stairs. A few female faces caught my eye, but not enough to inspire me to talk to them. Instead I fell into a conversation with a guy who asked me if I was bisexual. Yes…and was I there by myself? Yes…and might I be interested in playing with his girlfriend? "Where’s your girlfriend?" I asked. She’s over there, the blonde one, he said, pointing her out. She looked okay, but I couldn’t see her face. Possibly, I said. As I usually don’t like being propositioned by men looking for threesomes, I let the conversation meander into more neutral territory. So we talked about what we did for a living and sex parties in general. Had you been to Chemistry before? Yes, several times…you? Talking began to feel extraneous. I was far more interested in my friend over by the bars. No women were stirring my juices. Now was the time to stir my own.

I excused myself, saying, “I’m going to get myself tied up.”

I walked over to my friend and said, “I’d like you to tie me up now.”

“How do you want to be tied up?” He asked.

Just hearing that question turned me on. Having seen him in action before, I trusted him completely. Trust turns me on. He was attractive and familiar--that turned me on. His cool and steady voice turned me on. His professionalism turned me on. From the moment I put myself in his hands, totally at his mercy yet completely in control, I was turned on.

I turned to face the bars and clasped my hands around the cool metal as he began to slide rope around my body. He asked me exactly how I wanted it, talking through every step. As he looped the rope around my torso, knotting and tightening along the way, my muscles tensed and relaxed in complete submission to the process, and yet I felt powerful holding onto the bars, as though I were offering myself in a sacrificial ritual. As the rope encircled my breasts, I wondered if it would’ve been better if I had removed my teddy, but I like maintaining some modesty in an exhibitionist scene. Besides, the swish sound of rope gliding along satin was erotic music to my ears. Ropes slipped between my legs, one on either side of my unexposed labia, and found their ends in a knot somewhere along my back. It was exciting to feel the tightening, the pulling, the gliding, without seeing exactly what they were doing. (Yes, they! I sensed that more than two hands were creating this web of submission; Mr. Ropes had an assistant.) Even if I had removed my mask, I wouldn’t have been able to follow every movement with my eyes. Part of the pleasure of confinement is surrendering oneself to mystery.

After most of my upper body was confined in an intricate web, Mr. Ropes asked me how I wanted to be tied to the bars. I requested both wrists and legs. When all was secure, he picked up the flogger and lightly swished it on my ass…smooth, graceful, silky thrashes that warmed my blood. There was no pain at this stage, just sensations washing over me like a warm bath or prickly grass or a Swedish massage in the sun. I don’t know how many minutes passed before I felt pain. The swishing gradually intensified…faster, harder, more concentrated. Warming became burning became pain became pleasure. The pain dissolved into pleasure with the aid of a large vibrator rolling over my body and…what’s that? Are those hands? Vibrating hands? I looked down and saw a gloved hand gliding over my body with just the right amount of pressure. How surreal. Where did it come from? Did I ask for that? It didn’t matter now. I had asked for the vibrator. With all these sensations blurring together I was beyond permission. Although I am a stickler for permission when playing with strangers at parties, there is a point in SM play when submission takes over my brain. As long as no one is hurting me more than I can tolerate, as long as no one is touching my sexual parts with bare hands, as long as no one is attempting to penetrate me without asking, I’m okay. I trusted my handlers. They were good. They knew what they were doing. And they knew what I wanted.

They knew I wanted to be punished, but they also knew I wanted to come. “Make me come with the vibrator,” I said.

I peered through the bars and saw Charlie watching me. Though he was thousands of miles away, I saw him there, stroking his cock. Several people entered and looked at me. I lifted my cat mask so I could see better, not so they could see my face. No one stayed and stared. They smiled and nodded and moved on. Even when a friend of mine showed up in a sexy cop uniform, she stopped only briefly to speak some naughty disciplinary words before she was on her way. I’m glad she didn’t stay. She was too familiar. I wanted the illusion of Charlie in front of me. I wanted the trance of sensation out of time. I wanted the soft lips of a perfumed stranger…

So many hands and sensations, so much stroking and burning, that I didn’t realize when she started touching me. I noticed a shift in caressing. At first I thought that my handlers had lightened their touch and traveled up toward my neck. But this new touch was softer, more earnest. I thought maybe it was a female I knew, maybe my sexy cop friend. Then suddenly she was kissing me. No, I don’t know these lips. My mask was back over my eyes and I was kissing these lovely lips and I couldn’t even see her face. I didn’t even know her name.

I lifted my mask. She was delicate and dark. Pretty, yet androgynous. Asian, I think. It was hard to tell with her flesh inches from my face. “Who?” I stuttered. “Whose hands…was that y—” She covered my mouth with her hand before I finished.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.

I surrendered to her lips for a few more moments. Then she was gone.

Meanwhile, the vibrator was steady between my legs. It had been there for a while, but they kept missing the spot. Adjusting was a challenge. I didn’t have much space to move. My joints were starting to ache. But I had to come. I just had to!

“You can stop flogging me now…continue lightly…then stop,” I said.

Now that I was feeling more pain than pleasure from the beatings, I knew it was time to stop. At this point it occurred to me that I might have some bruises. But that was of no immediate concern. My immediate concern was to make the conditions ideal for me to achieve an orgasm.

Through my peripheral vision, I saw a woman watching me with great focus. She was pretty and femme, and she stared at me with lusty eyes. I beckoned her to come closer. She came, and without any introduction, we kissed. Slowly we leaned in. Sensually our lips pressed together. Her lips tasted sweet, like an artificially flavored cocktail.

“I would like you to make me come with the vibrator,” I purred into her ear.

I alerted my handlers. They handed it over to her and she placed it on my pussy. She would surely make me come, I thought. When it comes to vibrators, women know best. We kissed passionately as she moved the vibrating ball around my clit. I surrendered to her, but I wasn’t close to coming. Whenever I approached the first stage of ascent, the vibrator moved and I was back at square one. As hot as she was, after several minutes of this, I decided that I had to take control of this instrument.

They untied my arms and she remained my muse. I didn’t want this to end without climax. Whenever a doubt popped into my head, I pulled myself back to the buzzing, to the idea of inevitable apex, to her lips.

But kissing her was not bringing me any closer to coming. I had to put all my focus, all my energy into the instrument in my hands. Ironically, the more I focused on my goal, the more I surrendered to her in the moment. I ran my free hand through her hair, pressed my lips against her chest, now drenched in sweat. I pressed my cheek against her chest and pulled her close to me as I exploded a million miniscule beads of ecstasy into the universe.

When it was over, I kissed her and looked into her eyes. “Thank you for staying with me,” I said. She smiled.

They untied my legs and released me from the web. The untying was just as submissively arousing as the tying, but it was a different kind of surrender. I surrendered to reality. I caved in to the relief of allowing my body to return to its natural state.

Although I was still buzzing and almost bowlegged, I couldn’t have been more satisfied. I walked over to the middle of the room and chatted with a friend about the 1920s porn being screened on the wall. A girlish woman tittered with excitement while watching her friend fuck a moustached man on a picnic blanket. The fast motion and giddiness made it seem silly, but I found the scenes erotic. The naturalism of it turned me on—the big bushes, the real breasts, the scraggly clothes, and stockings, oh the stockings. Yes, I was turned on, but more in my head than in my body. Now that the pleasant burning sensation in my ass was fading, and I had no other sensations or movements to distract me, it started to hurt. I rubbed my bottom and it was tender to the touch.

I hobbled over to a ratty couch and sat. Ouch. Suddenly I felt like an old woman with arthritis. God, am I going to be blue, I thought.

The pain lasted two days. Sitting was a bitch. It throbbed and throbbed all that night and the following day. When Charlie came home on Sunday, I pulled down my pants and showed him my welts without saying a word. Then, as we made love, I narrated my experience to him. I told him how he was on the other side of the bars the entire time. I told him how the women mysteriously appeared, and that once I was released from my prison, they were gone. As if they were fantasies. I related every detail, every feeling, every sensation. Then he told me about the two glittery gold-painted models he smooched and the gay celebrity who wanted to get into his pants. I felt as if I was there. I was in two places at once. So was he. As we plunged into each other’s memories, we bonded on another plane where our separate experiences became one. Later, as Charlie rubbed arnica on my poor, blue ass, I couldn’t have been more grateful for the pain.

Encouraging Words

Dear Readers,

Sorry I've been away for a while! I've been traveling a lot this summer, adventuring in Japan for two weeks and now finishing up a week in Utah before heading back to the sexy city...I'll start posting again next week. Meanwhile, I would like to share with you a kind letter from a fan.

"I hope you don't mind this "fan letter." I've been an avid reader and supporter of your work since your first New York Press pieces. It was important to me to write this because I know from your essays and blog posts how sensitive you are to the kind of criticism that has been coming at you lately. I find it astonishing that people could think for a second that you are arrogant when you respond so thoughtfully to words obviously intended to be hurtful written by someone without the basic courage to reveal his or her identity. To be honest, in a similar situation I would have responded in kind, with the literary equivalent of a raised middle finger. You were decidedly more classy and composed.

I could praise your work a lot more, but you don't need it. Your writing makes it clear that you know your own worth. What's truly sad is that these anonymous hecklers spend their time attempting to tear you down for supposed "arrogance" instead of investigating the source of their own unhappiness. Honesty is what we all need most, and from the very beginning you have always delivered that to your readers.

Thank you for always sharing yourself so honestly."

--Darcy F.

Thank you Darcy! Stay tuned for upcoming stories on exhibitionist bondage and Part 2 of Sunday in the Park with Charlie. Also mark your calendars for a Sex Debate on Sept 28 starring yours truly. And watch The Fold!

Lust Always,
Stephanie

On Attractiveness

Recent criticism from an anonymous reader inspired me to ponder the nature of attractiveness and ego. This is not the first time I received commentary accusing me of self-absorption and / or arrogance, particularly when I write about the topic of attractiveness. Some people seem to think that because I describe unattractive people at sex parties and acknowledge my own attractiveness, that I’m an egotistical snob. I can be a snob about certain things. I’m not going to deny that. I’m especially a snob about style, art, and culture. And grammar. Don’t I have impeccable grammar? As for the ego—it exists in everyone. So why not embrace it?

Ego is a problem when it blinds one to others; one becomes obsessed with oneself to the point where others don’t exist as more than mirrors to that person’s ego. A truly egotistical person is obsessed with proving one’s talents and abilities to others, and is so wrapped up in this mission that she is incapable of seeing people for who they are (this, too, is subjective; I mean the egotist is incapable of seeing others more objectively, without the self projecting “What can I do to make this person worship me? Me? And Me?”), making it impossible for her to give anything out of compassion or selflessness. The egotist is incapable of genuine generosity. The egotist is unattractive.

When I describe my attractiveness, I feel like I am outside of myself. I step outside of my ego and observe the effect I have on others. If people are drawn to me for whatever reason, I am attracting them. Therefore I am attractive. They may be attracted to my looks, my personality, my energy. It doesn’t matter what it is. If I were famous, I would attract certain people solely for that reason. If I brought drugs to a party, I would attract others for that reason alone. The point is that attractiveness boils down to either an innate quality or something you possess. People either want you or they want something you have. Simple logic. That’s one level of attractiveness.

The other level is subjectivity. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That’s the most wonderful cliché in the world. It means you could be the ugliest person in the universe and someone will find you beautiful. But if you’re ugly and mean, the chances are slim. Unless you run into a masochist. But the masochist may be attracted for egocentric reasons; only the most disgusting people turn him on because deep, deep down he hates himself. When I say someone is unattractive, that means the person is unattractive to me. Why is it arrogant to admit that? And why is it arrogant to acknowledge one’s own attractiveness? This seems to offend a lot of people. It’s such a taboo to say, “I’m hot and I know it.” Yet it’s okay for women to gripe about their weight or say, “I’m ugly” because it inspires compassion in others. You want to say, “No you’re not. You have a lot of attractive qualities…” You feel sorry for them. How sad! Such victims of society’s high standards of beauty! You want to be the Mother Theresa of American pageantry, reach out and say, “That’s not true. You’re not ugly unless you say you are. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” But when someone, especially a woman, acknowledges her beauty, how quick people are to tear her down and scream, “How dare you! How self-absorbed! That makes people who are less attractive than you feel bad!” Do you think I’m so one-dimensional that I must boast of my beauty to prove something? The embracing of one’s finer qualities is not always a reflection of conceit. The nature of the self and attractiveness is fascinating to me and it gives me pleasure to observe these elements of human nature at play, in others as well as in myself.

So now you think I’m a bitch for knocking women who complain about their looks. As an honest writer, I must anticipate such reactions. And I feel compelled to point out that attractiveness has more to do with energy and personality than appearance. But to deny the importance of appearance is inauthentic. Not to mention ridiculous. Naturally, I’m attracted to beautiful faces and gorgeous bodies. But not every beauty is beautiful. Out of all the people I’ve dated, only a few have been physical beauties. I’ve had sexual encounters with men many women would call unattractive. Older men. Flabby men. Men with bad teeth. But there was something, or several things I found attractive about them, and therefore deemed them worthy of my sexual generosity.

On the other hand, sex parties are playgrounds where people explore their sexual fantasies. You may be in love with a plain Jane or Joe, but the characters in your fantasy look more like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. (Neither of whom I find very attractive, by the way. Maybe it’s due to media overexposure. Or because their aura of perfection is boring to me. Anyway, that says something about the relativity of physical attractiveness.) So you and Jane go to this party and are naturally drawn to the guests who look most like your fantasy couple. Do you bother to get to know the pock-faced girl and her pot-bellied date? Most likely not. In other contexts you might make the effort, and after getting to know them, find them attractive. But not at first glance. At sex parties, there isn’t time to get to know people and develop crushes based on extended interactions that allow their attractiveness to expand and grow on you. So why waste time on getting to know people at a sex party? Of course I want to feel some kind of connection and feel safe with the people I choose to play with, but the point is to find people who appeal to my fantasies. Because I’m not there to look for a mate. Unless I’m among friends, I’m there to seek pleasure without any expectations to see these partners again.

Even after acknowledging the superficial nature of orgies, I feel I am open to people who don’t physically fall into my usual standards of attractiveness. The usual, for me, includes dark haired, dark complexioned handsome men with gorgeous dark eyes, men who mysteriously straddle the fine line between hyper-masculinity and feminineness. I don’t have a height preference—anywhere between 5’4’’and 6’ appeals to me. I like men who are in shape, lean and toned but not super-buff. With women I’m generally attracted to super-femme beauties that exude masculine energy as well as tomboys and butch dykes with pretty and/or cute faces. Androgeny is hot, regardless of gender. I like petite women with small breasts, but I’m also drawn to larger, voluptuous women with big natural breasts because they are such a contrast to me. I’m far more tolerant of body fat in women than in men; large women can be sexy, whereas large men are simply large. In both sexes, clear skin, nice teeth, great smiles, and balanced features are constant winners. Those are my physical preferences. There are always exceptions.

Sometimes it surprises me who I end up offering myself to. Since I desire connection and I want to feel safe at parties, after evaluating physical attributes I move on to the following: hygiene, energy, and attitude. Within a few minutes of interaction I have a pretty good idea whether someone is open or prude, honest or inauthentic, intelligent or vacuous, respectful or rude. And it doesn’t take more than ten seconds to determine whether the subject has washed his ass at least once in the past two days. Are you relatively secure with yourself? Do you know what you want? Do you have integrity? Are you interesting? Are you sane? If so, there’s a good chance I’ll overlook your less than stellar physique, your bald spot, your crooked nose. In exchange, you may find substance behind my pretty face. But if you want to fuck me for my looks, I don’t blame you. That’s what fantasies are for.

Did I say I was pretty? How dare I! I must be self-absorbed. When I shared my concerns with a fellow artist, he said, “That’s a criticism? I would take it as a compliment!” After further discussion, I came to the conclusion that any artist who creates from the well of personal experience is bound to some degree of self-absorption. Oscar Wilde said, “…the realization of oneself is the prime aim of life, and to realize oneself through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain”. He also said, “To become a spectator of one’s own life is to escape the suffering of life.” There is nothing objective about being human. So I look at myself “objectively” through the eyes of others. My intention is not to escape suffering, but invariably when I step out of my narrow self-perception, I feel more open and connected to the universe.

Unfortunately, I also happen to be sensitive to criticism (especially when it’s an attack on my character), so I obsessed about the anonymous critic who wrote these comments. Is it someone I know? Maybe it’s someone I met recently, possibly a writer I met at Yaddo (because the comments were so well-written). My fellow artist suggested that this commentator is probably female, because how often do men complain about women who shamelessly acknowledge their attractiveness, especially one who writes openly about her sex life? And if this commentator is a female, she’s probably insecure or jealous or envious or all of the above, and projecting her ideas about self-image onto my writing. Then again, maybe the person is a dirty old man getting back at me for snubbing him five years ago.

Whoever you are, I’m glad my Club Tantra experience got you so riled up. That means I’m doing something interesting with this blog. But arrogant! Please. Maybe if you knew how ugly I felt for years, that I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was eighteen, and that at my high-school reunion, a guy said snidely, “Since when did you become gorgeous?” you would read my words differently. Maybe now that I’ve revealed these secrets, you will understand why I embrace my attractiveness. And it’s not because I’m beautiful, dammit! It’s because I’ve learned to accept myself.

One more thing: any reader who chooses to call me arrogant and self-absorbed and doesn’t have the dignity to identify herself (or if she knows me personally, doesn’t have the balls to speak to my face) deserves to be spanked. I’ll gladly do the honor and hope she enjoys it.

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged 5

After the porn scene, Charlie and I wanted to be alone. We returned to our original room, which was still empty. The side of the bed that we had claimed earlier was just as we had left it. While we were making love, Mr. Sputter Mouth and his date barged in, talking obliviously as though they were in a mall and had wandered into a new store. Do you think they cared that they were invading our space? Charlie and I, in perfect synchronicity, kindly asked them to leave. They did, without even the suggestion of an apology.

A few moments later, Anton popped his head in and informed us that the closing circle would be starting in a few minutes. No rush, he said, just letting you know. We didn’t mind. I revved up my engine and we came with enough time to rinse before returning to the main room.

The remaining guests were gathered on the floor. Anton led the closing Puja, an informal discussion of the evening’s activities with complaints and suggestions encouraged so that Club Tantra could continue to evolve. I made a point about the lack of condoms and such, which Anton accepted with agreement and understanding. “I don’t know what happened there,” he said. He seemed to have forgotten this minor detail in the rush of preparation. At least the catering was well done, I thought, as I nibbled on a mini turkey sandwich. To make up for the latex oversight, I give Club Tantra four stars for their fine selection of food and wine. Charlie suggested that the opening Puja include interaction between the women and men separately. That way everyone would be introduced to both sexes. Good point.

Although the party was officially over, Anton encouraged us to stay as long as we wished. There was plenty of space for sleeping if anyone wanted to stay overnight. We had no intention to stay over, but we weren’t quite ready to leave.

So we mingled with Blondie and her man. She was a Queens girl, accent and all. Charlie was fascinated with her nipples; they were enormous. The piercing makes them grow, she said. I winced when she told us that she was planning on piercing her clit, which meant she wouldn’t be able to have sex for a month. She was sexy in a trashy sort of way, although I found her boyfriend uninspiring. They were going to go into the other room to shoot a scene. Did we want to come?

Although I wasn’t really in the mood for more live porn, I went along, because, well, how often am I presented with this opportunity? The pornographer allowed us to shoot again. They wanted their faces shown. They were even skankier than we thought! (I respect the porn industry, but these improvised scenes were a bit too sleazy for my taste.)

When I gave up the camera, Charlie and I started making out. She leaned over me so I could suck on her tits. She wanted to lick my pussy. As tempting as it was, I refused. I told Charlie later that I didn’t want to take the risk, recalling her spitting and ungloved ass-fucking earlier. Seasoned swingers as they were, they didn’t seem to be very conscientious about safe sex. Who knows how often they get tested? I would have considered being more sexual with them only after having a frank discussion about their STD status. Even then, I would have demanded a dental dam. It was hot though, fooling around with her while she was being filmed. (Charlie and I remained off camera, so don’t even try to find us online!)

The pornographer eventually asked us to leave, for our presence was beginning to disrupt the shoot. We weren’t at all offended. We found an empty room, made a dry spot for ourselves, and had one last lovemaking session to wrap up our Club Tantra experience.

So the party as a whole was far from Tantric. Would we go again? Sure. Club Tantra has enough for any sexual adventurer to enjoy: tango, Puja, sexy surroundings and a fine host. Add some safer sex practices, screen the members, and save the cameras for another party. Otherwise, I would call it something else, like Club Kinky, or Last Tango in Porn City. As long as the organizers are open to improvement, Club Tantra may evolve into something I would be proud to frequent. I wish Anton and company the best in creating new possibilities for group sex in the city.

Grade: C

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged 4

A room of our own. It didn’t belong to us. Nothing was familiar. Anyone could have walked in at any moment. And yet we owned it. We owned it. We owned it.

We owned it because we were there. Not resentfully there like the girl who disappeared. Not fearfully there like the woman who painted her face. Not almost there like we were in my bed a few days before. No. We were both there. Same time, same place. There.

Time for another adventure. From the corridor of lust, we peeked into another room. The pornographer we met earlier (before the tango lesson) was shooting a scene between Kinka and the blonde in garters. Our host was assisting with this amateur Penthouse performance. Someone handed him a dildo and a leather strap-on. He helped Blondie put on the harness and adjust the dildo.

Is it clean? I was waiting for someone to produce a condom. Wishful thinking.

Blondie spit on Kinka’s pussy. There was blood on the sheets. Spit and blood and various other excretions. No gloves. It was like watching an abortion in a third-world country. And it was all being captured on film for this guy’s website. Charlie and I watched in disgusted fascination. In spite of the sordidness we were witnessing, we liked the pornographer. He was focused and professional, intelligent and down-to-earth. He asked me if I would shoot while he adjusted the lighting.

No faces. Breasts. Pan the torso. Thighs. Close-up on the dildo going in and out...

Charlie shot some scenes as well. We weren’t the least bit aroused. Not our idea of tantra, but nonetheless an experience to be embraced. Now I can add pornographer to my resume. I guess I won’t be running for City Council next election.

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged 3

After the massage, Charlie and I wandered through the corridor of lust, peeking into the rooms prepared for play. We walked into an empty room. Half the bed was soaking wet. We suspected Mr. Vinyl and his girlfriend (who was wearing the same dress, in white) were responsible for the mess, for we heard some butt-whacking, pussy-clenching screams earlier.

As we surveyed the room, we noticed there were no condoms or lube or any safe sex supplies in sight. Of course we brought our own necessities, but what a turn-off! Such accoutrements are standard protocol at every reputable swinger / public sex event. Their absence here was a sign that something was amiss. Still, we were here. So we covered the wetness with pillows and melted into each other on the clean part of the bed. Then we made love, healing our bruised hearts in the soft red glow of that unfamiliar room.

As we were basking in each other, Mr. Hunky and his girlfriend walked in. He asked if we minded.

“Not at all. Please stay,” I said.

We warned them about the wet spot on the bed. Then we cuddled and kissed while discreetly observing the newcomers. I watched them as they stood at the edge of the bed, undressing. He was soft-spoken and admirably considerate, alternating between seducing her and pacifying her nerves. She hardly uttered a word and never smiled. She was silent as he lowered her down next to us. They had beautiful bodies, classically ideal male / female archetypes. Her pleasantly tan skin shimmered in the rosy lighting. I observed her silence, the contours of her self-conscious form.

As he kissed around her pussy, he said, “I love it when you shave.”

Although I am not a fan of bald pussies, his preference and desire for her shaved twat turned me on. Her nervous submission turned me on. I wanted to experience something with them.

Just then the other young couple walked in and asked if they could join us. “It’s okay with me,” I said. Charlie added his non-verbal consent.

No one else responded. But it didn’t seem okay with her. The new couple began making out in a corner. A vague discomfort permeated the room. A few minutes later, they were gone. I’m not sure what happened. Mr. Hunky may have said something. Or maybe they left of their own accord because they didn’t feel welcome. People come and go at orgies, and it’s not always clear what makes them move. It boils down to communication and energy. Sometimes a change in energy is enough to make a point.

Charlie and I were on the same wavelength; we knew, without a word, that we had to initiate slowly with them. Mr. Hunky was far more amenable, but it was up to her. It was up to her and me. It’s always up to the women in group-sex situations. She opened her eyes and looked over at us a few times. So virginal in her curiosity! So unspoiled by the scene! She needed nurturing from a soft woman’s lips, the lips of someone who accepted her trepidation and allowed her to hold the reins in her silent, submissive way.

“May I kiss you?” I asked, kneeling next to her at a respectable distance.

She looked at me and nodded. Her kisses were soft and sweetly wet.

“I like the way you kiss,” I said.

She didn’t smile or react in any other way. She was so passive; I wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling. I wanted to move onto her breasts, but she closed her eyes and disappeared. I reclined to our side of the bed and relaxed as Charlie licked my pussy.

I watched them closely, even when I wasn’t looking. I watched them with my body, aligning their rhythms to my own sensations.

If I focus on someone else’s sexual experience, I am able to manipulate my own progression as a mirror to what I am witnessing, similar to the way in which a cerebral fantasy can direct one’s solitary journey through masturbation. In this case, I was focusing on Mr. Hunky’s experience. She was merely a vessel for his pleasure as I imagined his lust for me. Or maybe I didn’t imagine it. We had an intense connection during the Puja. Now our eyes connected again as he was fucking her and Charlie was bringing me to orgasm with his tongue. In my sexual mind, Charlie had become an aid for my connection to this stranger man. It wasn’t about Charlie and me. Nor was it about the female statue at my side. It was all about this beautifully subtle, soul connection between Mr. Hunky and me. We knew and understood each other completely in those moments, and nothing else mattered. I whispered a few standard lines to Charlie, while looking askance at Mr. Hunky. “My pussy is so wet…” and “It feels so good…” Mr. Hunky, in turn, uttered a few comments about her: “I love the way your pussy feels…”

Our consideration for our partners stopped when our conscious selves were no longer in control. No matter what we said or did, our partners weren’t included in the energy exchange that flowed through his hand clasping mine. It was as though he was fucking me, not her! I wanted to come for him. I offered my fingers to his mouth and he sucked with passion. Our eyes locked as orgasm ascended from the depths of my being…

“I’m coming…watch me come!” I said to him, squeezing his hand.

Afterward, we looked at each other. He smiled at me. I looked down at Charlie and thanked him. I looked back up at them and noticed that she had ceased responding to his thrusts. She had seen something she didn’t want to see.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” He asked her in his soft, considerate voice. “Do you want me to lick your pussy?”

I don’t remember what else he said, but I’ll never forget the stone-cold look on her face. I’ll never forget how deliberately she extracted herself from him, how stoically she walked over to her clothes and started dressing. He followed her and tried to placate her, tried to find the source of her distance. He knew what it was, I’m sure, but he wanted to hear it from her. “Talk to me,” he said.

It was sad to watch this scene. She was so removed that he couldn’t bring her back. But she wasn’t really there to begin with. He gathered the remainder of their clothes and escorted her out. A few minutes later, he returned alone.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “She’s…never done this before…”

“That’s okay…I understand,” I said.

“It’s okay,” Charlie concurred.

Poor Mr. Hunky. How much more considerate could he have been?

“It was nice meeting you,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Then he left us to ourselves, to imagine the silent conversations that would inevitably ensue between them.

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged 2

After the Puja, a few experienced couples went off to get freaky in the bedrooms down the hall, while most people sat around the main space, waiting for something to happen.

Charlie and I sat on the floor next to Mr. Hunky and his girlfriend, with the intention to gauge her interest in women. I tried to initiate contact with her, but she cowered close to her man. She appeared uncomfortably shy and ambivalent about being there. I suspected that he had convinced her to try this out, but once she arrived, the reality was far too strange and intimidating for her to relax and be present.

Anton produced some massage cream and said, “Somebody could make use of this rug…any one of you lovely ladies?” Guess who took up that offer? As soon as I sprawled out on the faux animal rug, the energy in the room shifted. Anton had been massaging Anya on a table. He came over and offered to massage my arm, while Charlie massaged my ass. When I turned over on my back, I felt many eyes scanning my flesh. Mr. Sputter Mouth asked if he could join. “No, thank you.” A few more men made offers, which I promptly declined. I requested Mr. Hunky to massage my leg. Then I asked Frenchie, who seemed unassumingly hungry for attention, “Est-ce que tu peux masser mon pied, s’il te plait?”

Those who were not directly involved in my massage seemed otherwise inspired by my initiative. Although I was in my own world, I sensed observation and movement around me; people were either enraptured by the scene unfolding before them, or beginning to create their own scenes. Charlie informed me later that everyone in that room was focused on me. A balding new-agey guy spilling fat from his open robe gave me a huge compliment: “It’s wonderful watching you and your man interact…you’ve got something magical between you…it’s beautiful.”

I always attract attention at sex parties, without much intention to do so. Ego aside, I am aware of the effect of my looks, my actions, my choices. I’m aware of my power to create a scene that will naturally transform into the most exciting attraction at the party. Maybe it’s because I do things that others are afraid of doing; I take initiative when I seem to be a wallflower and people are shocked at my unexpected boldness. Maybe it’s because I’m not obviously doing it for them, even though I know that my actions will be noticed. I am fully aware, but at the same time I don’t care. Perhaps that’s what leaves them in awe. If I were to act as though I were performing, I imagine they would be less interested, and possibly even annoyed. I would be quite the critic if I were watching myself perform to get attention.

The same thing happens when Charlie and I are at a party together. It seems that everyone wants to play with us. Maybe it’s because we are often among the most attractive people present. More than that though, I believe it is our comfort with each other, and our combined sexual energy that make us so desirable. We are, individually, highly sexual beings. Together, the dynamic is magnetic. People want us with envy. We turn down many requests. We are there for our own pleasure with the intention to find a couple or a woman or two who satisfy our eyes and complement our energy. We are there for each other; everything else is candy. And we eat only the finest truffles.

More to come...

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged

The word “tantra” inspires visions of breathing through the chakras, full-body orgasms and spiritual oneness with a partner. So when Charlie and I set out for a night at Club Tantra, we expected to fuse our breath with some sexy people, exchange spiritual energy through sensual touch then make love in an orgiastic mass of soul-buzzing bodies. Instead, we got a tango lesson, bad hygiene, and amateur porn. Not that the evening didn’t have its tantric moments. It just didn’t quite live up to our expectations.

The tango lesson, though not tantric, was a beautiful introduction. Anton, the founder of Club Tantra, and his partner, who I will call Kinka, demonstrated the Argentine tango, which is arguably the sexiest dance in the world when done well. Watching Anton and Kinka dance was incentive enough to learn the sensual moves. Anton, who is also a former professional dancer and dance teacher, taught the basic steps. It was a wonderful opening act - not only did it stir up sensuality between the couples, it loosened our bodies and promoted social interaction, prepping us for the more intimate Puja.

The Puja is a sort of spiritual ice-breaker in which the participants connect through body language and communication exercises. Following the dance lesson, Anton and his lovely assistant Anya, dressed in a red lace body-suit, picked up a couple of mics and instructed us to form two concentric circles—women on the inside, facing their male partners on the outside.

To paraphrase Anton: “Look at your partner, gaze into your partner's eyes and feel all the love you have for him or her, send him or her all your love and gratitude that you are feeling in this moment…now men, look at your partner, take her in, and notice something about her body that you haven't noticed before...now ladies, notice something about your man that you’ve haven’t noticed before...” Dimple on my nose? You know, your earlobes are attached. I never noticed that. Wow.

The Puja continued with the rotation of men. With each new partner came a new exercise. Some were more inspiring than others (both partners and exercises). For example: “Find something attractive about your partner...then compliment them on that attractive part.” Nice and easy if you’re facing someone attractive. Or: “Touch your partner, stroke them, whatever you feel, however you want...” I don’t want to touch this person! Nor do I want him to touch me! Of course we didn’t have to touch the person, but the suggestion encourages people who may not think to ask before touching. Charlie and I agreed that this idea was ill conceived for making people feel safe among strangers (i.e. lecherous men).

Many of the Puja connections were forgettable, but a few left lasting impressions on me…

“The man standing before you is the man you've been waiting for your whole life...he can give you all the love you've ever desired, everything you’ve ever wanted and needed from a man, he can give you, everything you’ve ever wanted from your father, your brother, and your lovers…you’ve been waiting for him your whole life, and now he is here right in front of you.”

The man standing before me was at least 30 years my senior, so the father part was believable. Although I had no sexual attraction to him, I was somehow able to put myself in a state in which I believed all the things Anton suggested he was to me. It involved looking at him in a way so that I wasn't focused on one eye at the expense of the other. (Notice, the next time you make intense eye-contact with someone, that your eyes tend to go back and forth between that person’s eyes, seeking clear vision. However, if you allow yourself to gaze without manipulating your eyes through the uncomfortable blurriness, you can see the whole person.) This is called soulgazing. The eyes of this man who I had never met before, told me a story of loneliness and longing. I felt that he either had a wife who died, or that he never had a woman look at him the way I was looking at him. His eyes were wet. I felt profound love and compassion for him in those moments. I was everything to him and he was everything to me. Then we rotated and I never saw him again.

Charlie and I exchanged stories. I told him about the guy in a tight vinyl corset dress. I had to find one attractive part of him and say something about it. He was pasty and goofy-looking, with crooked teeth and blond hair all over his body. After he told me in expressive eloquence that I was beautiful with lovely features and gorgeous skin, I said matter-of-factly, "You have nice legs." This was all I could say, after looking him up and down. That was the truth. I meant it, in spite of his effeminate pose and clownish, expectant grin. He did indeed have nice, muscular legs. I appreciated them and silently wished him all the pleasure he desired that had nothing to do with me.

Then there was the guy who couldn't shut up. He had to comment on everything. "You look great...you're gorgeous...really...is this your first time here? Great, great, you look beautiful...love the outfit...it looks really sexy on you…did you come with your boyfriend? He’s a lucky guy…have a great time..." It was uncomfortably clear that he was overcompensating for his social awkwardness. I forget what we were supposed to do with each other, but whatever it was, he sputtered through it with forced interjections, as if he felt the need to impress me with compliments. As if he believed simply being there with me wasn't enough. It would've been enough for me. It would've been more than enough. I was as present as I could be, but by the time he moved on to the next poor woman, I had had enough.

Charlie told me about his experience with a woman who was so uncomfortable she couldn't look at him for more than two seconds at a time. She was overweight and unattractive, but physical flaws were the least of her problems. The issue was her red lipstick stretching so far beyond the lines of her lips that she looked like a scary clown. But even more disturbing than her poor make-up skills was the way she darted her eyes around in frenetic frenzy. They were supposed to look into each other's eyes. She was incapable of doing so. It turned out she was Mr. Sputter Mouth’s date. We couldn't help imagining the dysfunctional nature of their relationship. We didn’t imagine it for long.

So there were some unattractive people at this event. That’s what happens when there is no screening process at a sex party. If you pay to become a member of Club Tantra, you’re in. The lack of selectivity is great for diversity (a roomful of supermodels is far less interesting to me), but it risks creating an unsafe environment. Physical attractiveness is not the problem--that's subjective. I'm referring to people's energy and behavior. In unscreened group sex situations, you can't trust that everyone has the integrity to respect personal boundaries, even if rules are presented before the fun begins.

So we used our own screens to filter out the inexperienced, the disrespectful, the inauthentic undesirables, leaving us with two prospective couples in our age range:

1. A cute blonde in a pink and black garter get-up and her Latin boyfriend.
2. A poetically handsome hunky guy and his shy, sandy-haired Eastern European (or Russian) girlfriend.

I connected with the handsome hunk during the Puja, when for a few minutes I became the woman of his dreams. There was one other person who I was mildly interested in—a single French guy—young, cute, and quietly normal. I was interested in him for linguistic reasons. I could whisper les gross mots to him and no one else would understand. They would say to themselves, “Wow, she speaks French. That’s sexy.” Then they would want me even more. And to be perfectly French, I wouldn’t offer them one little morceau.

Charlie was also attracted to Kinka—cute, sweet, sexy and a little bit dirty. I knew her and felt connected to her through Anton. She was keen on both of us…a sprightly little flirt.

The Puja closed with the mutual feeding of aphrodisiac chocolates. After going through all those men, I was thrilled to be facing Charlie again. Charlie, my love! It seemed like we had just returned from parallel trips that we embraced and endured separately to grow as individuals and come back more grateful than ever that we have each other. I gazed into his eyes. Then he licked chocolate off my nipple.

To be continued...

Sunday in the Park With Charlie

Sexually speaking, there are two types of people - those who have fantasies and those who live them. It is certainly easier to be in the latter category when you have a partner who shares your sense of erotic adventure. So when I told Charlie I had been fantasizing about being taken by him in a natural setting such as a park, taken from behind in broad daylight as I lean against a tree with my dress up over my ass, while people are picnicking unaware beyond a cluster of bushes, invisible but near enough to hear a muffled orgasmic moan, he said, "Mmmmmmm...let's make it happen."

I had it all planned out in my head. We were going to a 1920s Lawn Party at Governor's Island on Sunday. I knew exactly what I would be wearing, and I knew that he would be looking dapper in rolled up shirtsleeves and parted hair.

Ragingly horny beneath our Gatsby-like decorum...we take a stroll, arm in arm, in search of a discreet patch of grass where we may satisfy our desires. We find the perfect place just when I realize I have to pee from all the wine and lemonade I drank at the picnic. Alas, there are no public restrooms. Just as I'm about to tell him I'm going to do it behind the tree, he grabs me and kisses me passionately. When I break away I feel some pee escape. Giddy with love and vague intoxication, I hold up my dress and let it go, releasing a hot stream right through my vintage black lace panties. Although I didn't mean to wet myself, I'm not embarrassed. I like the way it feels, and I like it even more because he's watching me and seems to be enjoying my performance. I can tell from the bulge in his seersucker pants. When I'm finished peeing, he approaches me and slips his hand between my legs. He rubs the wet silk over my pussy and moans as he begins to stroke himself.

I back up toward the tree. He turns me around and pulls my panties down to my white stocking calves. The next thing I'm aware of is a wet knob of flesh rubbing against my ass. I know he wants to be inside me. My pussy is aching for penetration. The risk of someone or several someones strolling our way, along with our covert style of public pleasure arouses me even more than if we were doing the same thing privately naked at home in our bed. So I bend over and push him into me and he fucks me ravenously as I use the tree for support. Maybe he pisses on my ass before he enters me. Maybe I play with myself and come with my cheek against the bark. Or maybe he finds the angle cumbersome or someone almost sees us, so he pulls out and whisks me around. Through discreet whisperings of desire, we find a more secluded spot in a thicket where he lays his jacket down before I collapse on the grass bed. There he screws me in a passionate frenzy, our rhythms reflecting every erotic moment we have lived before, in another time, another place, another body. We may be the stars of a vintage silent porn film that a 21st century libertine will watch at a sex party in 2008. He thrusts me into ecstasy and a few moments later pulls out and shoots his timeless load all over my cunt.

Chronology and details may vary, but in every version of this fantasy, one thing never changes: my stockings and shoes never come off.