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

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.

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.

Total Woman

On Sunday I went to see my love Charlie perform in a play in upstate New York. After the show, I snuck into his dressing room. When he came in, he closed the door and locked it while I provocatively installed myself on the counter. He came over and his cock was in my mouth before he was out of his costume. We hadn't seen each other in three days (an eternity when you're in love) so we were both as frisky as squirrels in Spring. Charlie bobbed like a marionette at the mercy of an invisible string connecting cock to mouth and mouth to breast.

"I shouldn't be...ohhh...I can't...oh yeah..."

He should've been striking the set. But he couldn't stop stroking me.

How irresistible is the man who can't resist me! At the sight of a perky nipple or tuft of pubic hair, blood drains from his brain to his cock, and he turns into a helpless schlmeil. I don't mean that in a derogatory sense. What happens is this: the power of biology reduces male mental faculties to the fulfillment of a primary need. As this need dominates the brain, all other thoughts, needs, and obligations disperse into confused particles of intelligence that have no place to go. Even a genius is vulnerable to this twist of nature. If he is in the middle of saying something, and I slip a strap off my shoulder, accidentally revealing my breast, he forgets the words that were on the tip of his tongue. He tries to retrieve them, but he can't even remember the subject of the intelligent stream that moments ago, flowed smoothly from his mouth. His mouth regresses to infancy, wanting the breast and nothing but the breast. I'm no scientist, merely an observer of men. I can't think of a better way to describe this amusing spectacle.

Two more points on this subject.

1. A man is far more likely to exhibit this behavior around a woman with whom he's madly in love. (More pheromones = a greater gap between the penis and the brain).

2. A woman is far less likely to exhibit similar behavior around a man she loves...because women have different primal needs. She needs to maintain a higher intelligence throughout sexual play in order to choose the most evolutionary fit father for her children. If not, she may end up with children on Ritalin (or an undesirable lover if children are not on her conscious mind). Unfortunately, too many women ignore the "intelligence" nature has provided them.

I'm not saying I never become flustered when my lover gazes at me with his soulful eyes or plows toward me with a bulge in his pants. Oh I can be a bumbling fool at times, but I feel like I can always pull back--let me rephrase that--I feel like I can usually retreat from primal lust. He may be at the mercy of his cock, but I am not, unless I choose to play the submissive. My brain is almost always in command of my pussy.

On this occasion, I felt even more in command because I was on the first day of my period, when aching uterus and horniness combine to create an empowering feeling of female-ness. Full and tingling with the heavy hormonal lightness of being, my primal body enhanced rather than diminished my mental acuity. Hence a balance of forces simultaneously inflated and belittled by the almighty, insignificant COCK.

How he squirmed in my arms! He was caught between the pleasures of me and the responsibilities to his fellow castmates, while I could've stopped at any moment. There are few better aphrodisiacs than having this kind of power over a man, especially when in public, when our actions are within the radar of people who might find out, either through direct witnessing or speculation based on clues such as a closed door or a girlfriend sucking on a strawberry with Lolita-like suggestiveness, or the flustering gestures and overly compensating transparent words of the guy who was supposed to be assisting in breaking down a theatrical set.

How vaudevillian it was when he closed the door and ran to me with an arrow in his pants, then opened the door and pulled his shirt down and stuffed costume pieces in his bag while rambling on about what he had to do next! And how arousing it was when people walked by as I teased him with puckers of my lips and undulations of my hips! We knew they must've known, or at least had guessed that something unprofessional was going on, and this knowing was all part of our act. What happens on stage is not half as interesting without an audience, or at least the possibility of a witness to the action. Whatever might have been happening in the dressing room was undoubtedly confirmed by our displays of giddy affection in the theatre--our furtive squeezes and smiley kisses, our back and forth whispers of exciting things to come...how sickeningly cute we must have appeared.

So we made a plan.

While he was finishing up his actorly duties, I would await him in the lobby, where he would meet me and we would both slip into the ladies' room to resume the unfinished business we started in the dressing room. All went well as we successfully bypassed the lone wandering theatre employee, and planted ourselves in the handicapped stall, where I promptly began sucking his cock. He was maybe three minutes away from orgasm when the distant cries of hungry actors forced us to disband and join the cast for dinner. He exited first, feigning coolness. I heard him say, "It's in the bathroom with Stephanie." Then I nonchalantly emerged to find an actor wondering about his sweater which he had given to Charlie who had brought it into the bathroom...now why on earth would the sweater be with me in the women's room? The actor must have been wondering this but nothing was said.

Charlie and I laughed at the hilarious obviousness of antics unexplained as we headed off for dinner. At the grimy Irish pub, the undercurrent of suspicion flowed plainly through the banter and jokes and Charlie's several mentions of us having just drinks and an appetizer because we were saving ourselves for a romantic dinner for two at one of the classier joints up the street.

We tripped out of that pub with sex in our bones, and laughed at the inevitable gossip we left behind. They must have been skewering us! After all, theatre people live for subtext. The idea that they were laughing about the sweater made us even hornier, as we contemplated the whereabouts of an unfinished blow-job...

Sunday Reflections

In response to some comments from one dear, dear reader I wouldn't know from a vibrating monkey ass (have we met, Emily?), here are a few clarifications about my intentions behind this blog.

1. It's true, I did very well with a word count. But that was a newspaper; this is a blog. The beauty of blogging is the absence of structure. A blogger is free to be unrestrained in content and form. A blog is the quintessence of unedited, uncensored self-published writing, which makes room for scores of grammatically messy, rambling, boring nonsense on the Internet. However, with some writing talent, a blog can be a platform for useful information, revolutionary ideas, brilliant insights, provocative entertainment, stimulating creativity and so on, that you wouldn't find in a magazine or newspaper. That being said, I'm not claiming my blog to be anything but an honest expression of my erotic experience. Having spent a year and a half churning out weekly 800-900 word columns, I am relishing the freedom to write as many or as few words as I like without worrying about fitting into a preconceived arc. Actually, my column felt rather formulaic after a while, and though I shook it up occasionally with varying voices or tenses, the structure was basically the same: opening with a story, moving into general insights related to the story, then tying it all up in the end with a witty bow that refers back to the story. That's the beauty of a column. But I write a column no more. There's a time and place for word counts. Like when they are attached to dollars.

As for the editors, with the exception of the one who fired me, they hardly ever changed a word. So if I'm being tangential, it has nothing to do with the absence of a guy/gal hovering over me with a red pen. Rather, any changes in my writing from column to blog are evidence of my desire to create a new brand of Lust Life, essays that are less restrained, more personal and...well, I'll leave it for you to judge.

2. I think what many people interpret as narcissism and self-absorption is more often than not, a shocking dose of self-awareness. How many people are truly self-aware? True self-awareness is so elusive in our world--among the hordes of people going through the motions, or living as someone else's version of themselves, or in complete denial or ignorance of what makes them do what they do (early childhood influences, traumas, culture, society, media etc.) that when a self-aware person writes something honest, many a reader will balk and say, "Ha! That's so selfish! How narcissistic! What an ego!" Why? They don't know what to make of it. They forget, or perhaps don't understand that a narcissist doesn't care about anyone but herself. A narcissist would never fall in love with anyone but herself. If I were a narcissist, I would not write so rapturously about my lovers!

I wonder...if I wrote about anything other than sex (and my sex life in particular), if readers would still call me a narcissist. If this blog were about cooking, for example, and I went on and on about the sensations flavors impress upon my tongue, and waxed poetic about the myriad pleasures of cooking from shopping to preparation to getting down and dirty in the kitchen, with the occasional sidebar on the distinct variations of chiles or the origin of chocolate, then I would probably not be labeled a self-absorbed, rambling writer, no matter how many words I may exhaust in describing in great detail, how to make the perfect Sellars souffle.

3. The main drive behind this blog (if you haven't picked up on it already), is the sad reality that sexuality in America is too often intertwined with shame and guilt and sin. It is my mission to help turn over this puritanical insentience by communicating, not only through my art and experience, but through my very being, that sex is natural and beautiful and healthy, and the suppression of it--public or private, is poison to the soul. I believe that if we as a human race were not only more comfortable, but united with our sexuality, there would be far fewer wars. Consider my blog a call for world peace! From vanilla to kink and everything in between, sex, as long as it is consensual and as safe as possible, is a positive, powerful experience that makes life worth living. And why shouldn't I ramble on about something as valuable as that?

Thank you for reading. And thank you for your comments. Now I'm going to go sit by a pool and stare at my reflection.