Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology

by Carol Queen

  stretch one arm to mouth his fingertip wet and then circle that pleasure

  upon his nipple.

  Economy of size yields economy of movement–I like the languidness of his hands

  reaching above his shoulders, and returning to tickle at rib level,

  where they belong.

  He has short arms, which fingers just right, when I imagine him folding at the

  waist and knees to place his head at my legs’ juncture.

  I can tell how sweetly his hands frame his face, how suited they are to press apart

  thighs, how neither of us would be distracted by an excess of gangly limbs

  from the focus of his elbows angled precisely in to pull hidden skin taut

  for discovery.

  He has short arms, so he’s trained his full lips to do some things in their stead,

  like grasp the cap of a thing that needs a screwing motion to open it up;

  he need apply no wrist when he can just circle it with his mouth’s hold until it

  comes completely undone.

  He is also accomplished with his feet; he uses one to wash his ass.

  Upon learning this, first I think, “What else can he do with his feet??”

  Next I think, “What else does he do with his ass??”

  I think of when he fingers knelt to me, how I said, “You know I’m also a pro-dom,”

  and how instead of, “Why am I not surprised,” what if he said, “You think I’m

  surprised?” And then I could’ve shown restraint by simply saying, “Cheeky,”

  while lightly scratching my nails across the side of his face before letting him

  suck them inside.

  I can tell if I managed to draw him off from the crowd to dally somewhere less

  public, when he leaned by a wall I could pin his arms at the shoulders to

  hold him there; though he quite outsizes me what if he accepted it,

  my pressing in to have my way where I want?

  He has short arms, which remind me of my one high schoolmate with

  not much dangling for his, the one who was my English teacher’s son and

  therefore felt off but who was beautiful and the most streamlined

  runner on the track team, someone I saw cutting through air for hours.

  Queer lovers of mine with straight spines have said they love my back’s

  asymmetry, its sinuous twisting, and I can tell he knows how it feels

  to be a freak in one’s bones, the way others don’t.

  So little is off-limits now; I hardly want to wash my fingers that held his chocolate,

  knowing that later I’ll roam more of my body with them.

  I can tell he knows it, too, as upon parting for the night, hugging me close

  with short arms, his last murmured words are, “When you get off think of me.”

  serpent stirred

  seeley quest

  You brought the snarl out of me, beyond the curling lip and teeth wanting to snap,

  beyond the growl rumbling from my throat echoing the ones you left in my ear.

  You brought out my hungriness for as much as you could give–

  incisors clasping upon collarbone, smacked, grabbed, held in place, made

  to toss this way and that, gang-banged–you awoke how insatiable I could be.

  Even to share meals and feeling the pleasure of feeding you, then to

  find on my finger the spoor your body made later–to touch what entered and

  exited and

  stain myself with your smell lingering after I washed–it fueled me,

  the earthiness of you.

  This mouth opened as I pedaled on adrenaline across town; I sang big with

  yipee-yiy-yo-cai-yays, wanted to shriek and groan so much when with you

  that it ripped my voice to shreds–I was inspired to let myself bellow in my

  most shameless beastliness;

  just wanted to hear you get on your pillow or bike and bellow, too.

  ‘Cause I saw we’re those kinds of cancers, guarded if need be but ready to

  give up some amazing goods once that surface’s penetrated. I have that

  kind of moon

  in scorpio, all about sex and death and delving into such states of extremity,

  learning from life at the edge. You know what they say about cancers,

  how we’re just scorpios with housecoats on, just a little more into domestic

  discipline. And you knew I was born in the year of the dragon, able to go all

  subterranean and deep and dark, then sky-high style, and back again.

  These arms burned, still I rode, these haunches held over to grind into you

  burned, still I rode, days later it made accomplishing much anything

  agonizingly slow, still I rode; that desire, to write while at work and call you to

  read while you were working, too, and to steal off with toys to fuck myself until I

  could take a break from that wave of pure lust and eat and give in to my fatigue–

  that sneaking to jack off I almost never do, that dreaming your bowie against my

  body I’d never done before; I rode into and through more burn

  and still didn’t know when my craving would abate.

  Scorpion paused, flexed along its segments down to its tail, feeling the stinger

  staying in balance no matt what shifted while covering the ground, ready to

  strike if sufficiently aroused. Crab sidled up to another crab, admired

  its strong shell, kept pincers prepared to defend kin’s delicious soft parts from

  attack danced on agile legs.

  Kundalini serpent stirred from where it had lain in dormant waiting,

  and started to rise up this crooked spine.

  After you left, something at my groin gave way;

  my age or my sounds and furies or how I keep pushing through

  finally fissured tissue in a new way that needed correcting,

  and before I knew what was happening, I couldn’t call you from the hospital.

  Then it was day after day in bed, recalling my desire against the washing machine,

  on the kitchen counter, in bathrooms residential or public.

  Week after week of wondering when I’ll be able to take

  the new scar at the bottom of my belly being pressed,

  when where you once bit so sensationally at the top of my thigh won’t be numb.

  After you left, a day came that pulled me to find what I could take,

  what I could off with all the ache and endurance in me.

  f t f t, I found the power of holding myself in place,

  teasing myself up, while holding stillness and openness,

  not tensing my gut or clenching as if for your cock–

  keeping from bucking as I came made me yell louder:

  feeling inside rushing up, bigger and bigger, and I rode it

  without getting burned at all.

  After you left, I got my own knife–I don’t need to imagine yours anymore;

  this serpent knows what dreams are for deferring and when the time’s come

  to rise and ride.

  [go to top]

  “we made love. How pedestrian the words look—trite, worn, practically featureless with use—but how can one better describe that which happens when it happens? that creation? that magic blending? I might say we became figures in a mesmerized dance before the rocking talisman of the moon, starting slow, so slow … a pair of feathers drifting through clear liquid substance of sky … gradually accelerating, faster and faster and finally into photon existence of pure light … as my whole straining body burst like fluid electricity into hers.”

  - Ken Kesey

  (from Sometimes a Great Notion)

  Elizabeth Rae

  Bio

  Elizabeth Rae is a professional vixen. She just lost a five year game of Battleship that she was playing t
hrough the mail. It is her greatest defeat to date.

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? I have always been a writer. Writing about sex just seemed the next logical step. The biggest challenge for me is finding a different voice that sounds genuine. In non-erotic writing, I draw less on personal experience and am able to vary voices more frequently.

  How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? It is helpful to know what parts of your story are actually erotic. You may be focused on one act, or even one word as the turning point to your piece. But when you expose it to the Erotic Reading Circle, you find that there is something very different that others found to be the hottest part of your story. Knowing where your other strengths lie enable you to turn a story a very different way.

  Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Do you have any concerns about publishing erotic work? I do not write under my own name. My “real” job is in a professional world where it might not harm my career, but it certainly wouldn’t advance my career to have it known I write erotica. It isn’t a secret to my friends, and I would love to be more open about it in my professional arena, but at the moment, it isn’t advisable.

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? What inspired it? Any caveats or unusual tidbits you’d like to share with your readers? The story is true. Except that I never got the treadmill up to 7. And the focus of the story? We’re still good friends …

  Stock Check

  Elizabeth Rae

  She just needed to sweat. It had been a week since the flirtation had started and she was wound tighter than a spring. Her skin felt too tight and too hot. Sometimes she would roll down the windows in her car, turn up Stevie Nicks singing “Edge of Seventeen,” and drive across the bridge, belting at the top of her lungs. The sting of the cold bay air would hit her constantly warm skin and her body would sing. She could imagine it was him touching her. The kiss of the wind was his lips on her neck, on her face, in her hair.

  She just needed to sweat. Yoga pants, men’s t-shirt, iPod. She turned the treadmill to 4. Searching for something loud and fast with good bass, she scrolled through her playlists, feeling her shoes hit the rubber with a comforting thud. She settled on Ke$ha and turned the volume up. Jogging felt free. She knew she was in deep lust and he was eating it up. When she would look at him with that hunger, he just smiled, knowing exactly what he was doing to her.

  It didn’t help that the flirtation was at work. A constant professional, she reveled in finding excuses to run to the basement for various items. She had become an expert at restocking the floor. She had also developed perfect timing for her double entendres as she walked past him to retrieve an item.

  Today had gone as it usually did. 4:30. There were only two more hours at work and her feet knew it. No matter the number of Dr. Scholl’s inserts she tried or Dansko arch support shoes, at 4:30 her feet needed a rest. In the cutthroat word of upscale, commission retail, one tried to take as few breaks as possible so that when Danielle Steele or Leon Panetta came in, you were the one to snag them. But even as she saw a woman walk in with a fur jacket and a rock the size of Montana on her finger, she pressed the down button on the elevator. No sale was worth putting her feet through another minute.

  As the lift arrived, she stepped in and pressed “B.” What had she seen that needed filling? Usually she would go for something in fragrance. Even if it didn’t need filled in, she could put it in backstock, making it the perfect cover. Fragrance also took her all the way across the stock room, in case he wasn’t at the desk where he typically stood. Fortunately, she didn’t have to look this time. The doors opened and she saw his blonde hair over the shelves. He was wearing her favorite shirt, too; grey, just tight enough to show off the muscles in his arms, with the word “Lust” written in an engraver’s font on his chest.

  She had started dressing for him in the mornings. On days she knew he was going to be there, she made sure she had a little more cleavage, a little shorter skirt, brighter red lipstick, a touch more perfume. It was only recently that he had started to reciprocate her flirtations, which made her more focused on letting him know that she wanted him. His head turned towards her slightly as she walked across the room. He smiled and went back to his task. He knew she did this on purpose and she suspected that he was flattered. Sometimes he would ignore her just to increase the tension for her next trip down. She grabbed a lemon verbena candle and as she turned to go back to the elevator he walked past her and brushed her hand with his. She felt a jolt rush through her and stumbled back to the lift.

  Work made it more dangerous. Work made the tension more delicious, and made even the most mundane comment a terribly important conversation. Work made this touch third base.

  As she rode the elevator back to the first floor, she felt herself blushing and tried to control herself. The last thing she needed was the rumor mill starting up about her personal life.

  The music pumped in her ears as she thought back to that touch. She pushed 5 on the treadmill and started to run. She just needed to sweat. She wanted it to be with him. Rolling around in bed, heavy breathing, fast movements, exhaustion, shower.

  He had cornered her in the towel aisle yesterday under the guise of helping her find what she needed. As she bent over to get a turtle- embroidered towel from the bottom shelf, he stood behind her. There was never anything outright filthy said. She felt his eyes on her ass in her black pencil skirt, which she had bought with him in mind, and lingered for a moment after she found what she needed. He hadn’t moved when she turned around. He just stood there staring at her. She smiled as she felt her eyes darkening with a hungry look.

  He backed away from her, letting her take her towel and leave. It had been like this for a week! She pushed 7 on the treadmill and felt her heart race. Sweat started to pool at the base of her neck and the small of her back. Her hair clung to her face around her temples.

  He would text her for hours in the evening, keying her up all over again. She found sleep impossible. She had tried masturbating but found that even though she got off, it wasn’t satisfying. At least not satisfying enough to turn her brain off and get to sleep. She had even resorted to calling her phone fuck buddy who managed to give her one night of repose. But it wasn’t what she wanted.

  Exhausted, she turned the treadmill off. She was drenched, but she felt amazing. Expending even the tiniest bit of this energy he was pumping into her settled her. She walked to the bathroom and turned the shower to its hottest setting. She peeled off her workout garb, tossing it to the floor, and stepped into the steam. For a moment she simply stood in the hot water. Her skin turned pink and she exhaled slowly.

  It hadn’t been enough. She put her face in the shower’s stream and her mind drifted to his hands. She saw them pulling aside the shower curtain and stepping in behind her. She felt the heat of his body coming close to hers. She felt the weight of his hands on her shoulders, rubbing down her chest and settling on her breasts. She felt his lips kiss the sweat off her neck. She felt his stiff cock pressing into her ass and her nipples perked. She put her hands in front of her on the shower wall, bracing herself as she bent over slightly; she wanted him inside her. Finally beyond the walls of work, he took charge and pulled her hips back onto him hard. His cock popped inside her, a sudden rush of relief and heat washing over her. Finally. She started to move back and forth on him, the water rushing between them on every thrust. She bent over further, aiming his cock at her g-spot and pushing back against him hard. He gripped her hips, moving faster against her, the sound of wet skin slapping in the air. Water ran in her eyes, her mouth, her ears. She felt her cunt tighten around him, the orgasms coming in waves. His hands dug into her flesh, pulling her back harder each time. A moan escaped her lips as she shook with another rush of blood to her extremities. She felt him cum inside her, holding her tight to him. They breathed in unison, both trying to catch their breath.

  As she turned the shower off and pulled the curtain
back, she knew she would be able to sleep tonight. She wrapped a towel around herself, and collapsed into bed, alone. She had just needed to sweat.

  [go to top]

  “Write the story that you were always afraid to tell. I swear to you that there is magic in it, and if you show yourself naked for me, I’ll be naked for you. It will be our covenant.”

  - Dorothy Allison

  Jack Fritscher

  Bio

  Dr. Jack Fritscher, founding San Francisco editor- in-chief of Drummer and pioneer SOMA leather historian, has authored 100s of stories and 20 books: Leather Blues (1969); Lammy Finalist, Some Dance to Remember: A Memoir-Novel of San Francisco 1970-1982; his memoir of his lover, Mapplethorpe: Assault with a Deadly Camera; and his Gay San Francisco: Eyewitness Drummer, The Sex, Art, and Salon of Drummer Magazine, winner “Best Book,” National Leather Association (2008). He has received two “Lifetime Achievement” Awards from the Erotic Authors Assoc. (2007) and Pantheon of Leather (2014). JackFritscher.com

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? In 1953, when I was 14, I began writing about locker room and gladiator “stuff” that turned me on and made me hard while I was writing it. I wrote to the same literary standards I was learning for penning my non-erotic fiction and features in high school. Erotica differs in that one of its physical purposes as art is to make the reader cum. When I was editor of Drummer, I accepted and rejected writers on that masturbatory basis, and the subscribers called out for more. Erotica is CPR for non-erotic writing. Erotica is as essential to the heart of GLBT culture as Rap is to the soul of Black culture.

  Do you write under your own name? When I sold my first poems, stories, and articles to magazines in 1957, I used a pen name because I was a Beatnik and thought it was cool and didn’t realize the implications. By 1965, I wised up and exited “out” of that “scribbler’s closet.” Why credit an imaginary person for my writing?