Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology

by Carol Queen

  Did she actually purr after saying that? Kathy wondered. She tried to focus but her mind kept wandering off, too afraid to believe in what was happening. But she knew a butch-cue when she heard it!

  Still grasping Kathy’s shorts, Stiletto-babe maneuvered her back against the wall in the space between the two blue recycling bins.

  “Can you kneel down?” she asked. She knew women like Kathy, years of softball behind them, could be arthritic and she didn’t want to make any assumptions. Kathy dropped to her knees with barely a whimper.

  From this lower vantage point, Kathy could see each taut calf muscle firing as Stiletto-babe worked to maintain her balance. OK, Kathy granted, maybe there was something athletic to simply standing in those things.

  Stiletto-babe set her purse carefully atop the recycling bin and—reaching down with both hands—lifted the hem of her tweed mini- skirt just a few inches but it was more than enough to reveal the neatly trimmed but decidedly wet fur of her pussy.

  Kathy gasped in horror. This was, in point of fact, not her forte. Her skillset lay in her hands, not on the tip of her tongue. But the smell of stale popcorn mixed with the tangy sweet allure of Stiletto-babe’s crotch in a way that Kathy couldn’t have anticipated. Like her yeast-topped popcorn from before, she dove right in.

  Mixing a healthy dose of her own saliva into this foreign wetlands, she explored with long strokes up one side and down the other. She nestled her chin in for good measure, just to spread the juices evenly over her face, and then returned to nibble delicately on the oyster-like nub of Stiletto-babe’s clit. She licked flat like a steamroller over the whole of Stiletto-babe’s pussy. She pointed her tongue into a probe, exploring each flap and fold. She grasped the thick outer lips between her teeth and flicked at the trapped hairs with her tongue, sucking the flesh deeply into her mouth. Gaining confidence, she hummed, happy in her work.

  Stiletto-babe wanted to straddle her, sit right down on top of her busy mouth, but she knew that would make it hard for Kathy to breathe. Instead, she balanced carefully, clinging to the grimy wall in front of her for support. Her hips were rocking and she started to moan.

  “Put your tongue inside me,” Stiletto-babe commanded.

  Kathy followed instructions well. She had already tasted the slight shift, the silvery tang that had started to leak from inside, and sensed that Stiletto-babe was close to coming. She plunged her tongue in as deep as it would go.

  Stiletto-babe was thrusting deeply now, forcing herself down onto Kathy. She wanted to be filled, to be touched all over. Risking an almost certain fall, she took a hand from the wall and twisted hard at her nipples, each tug releasing a guttural wail.

  Kathy licked and plunged with all her might. She could barely breathe as Stiletto-babe descended upon her, moving faster now, bucking with abandon.

  Stiletto-babe was so close now. “Just like that … and don’t stop!” She felt the bottom drop out of her uterus and she knew she could count down from there. Five, four, three, two, one … and she exploded, clenching her thighs tightly around Kathy’s head, clinging precariously to the recycling bins for support.

  Kathy could neither see nor hear, for she was buried deep in Stiletto-babe’s crotch, but her other senses were strong. She could feel the wetness drip down over her chin and she could smell the strange mélange of cum and vintage tweed.

  Stiletto-babe stepped back, smoothed her skirt down and tucked in her shirt. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a compact and some keys, dusted a little powder onto her flushed cheeks and then dropped the compact back in the purse, clasping it shut with a loud snap. She slid its strap up to the crook of her elbow, where it swung quietly as she paused and looked down at Kathy, still on her knees. Sighing, Stiletto-babe took Kathy’s chin in her hand and said, “Thanks cutie, that was swell!” She blew a kiss over her shoulder as she strode up the alley, the click of her heels echoing thunderously off the walls. With her key, she unlocked the gate (as she’d done so many times before) and stepped out onto the busy sidewalk. Tossing her head back, Stiletto-babe pivoted on one slender heel and strode off. Meanwhile, back in the alley, Kathy struggled to her feet, grinning as she listened to the newly pleasant sound of high heels fading into the distance.

  [go to top]

  Dorothy Freed

  Bio

  Dorothy Freed was born in New York City and became a San Francisco transplant in late 1975. She is an artist turned writer, who earned her BFA at Syracuse University. She currently enjoys life in a coastal Bay Area community. Visit her website at DorothyFreedWrites.com.

  Mini-Interview

  Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? Yes, I write in multiple genres: memoir, fiction, and personal essays—and about all aspects of experience, from inspirational stories to ones about dogs. Several years ago I decided to tell all the stories inside me that want to be told, in the way they want to be told.

  How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? The ERC is an invaluable part of my writing process. It differs from a “regular” writer’s group in that I am reading my work to like-minded individuals, with no limits placed on the subject matter I present.

  Do you write under your own name? The name, Dorothy Freed, is a pseudonym chosen to spare my sons and grandson any potential embarrassment involved in having the world- at-large know that their silver-haired, sixty-nine-year old mom and grandmom writes about the sexual side of life.

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? My story, The Gambler, is creative non-fiction, inspired by my an erotic involvement with a professional gambler many years ago.

  The Gambler

  Dorothy Freed

  I met Jerry, the gambler, on a sunny August afternoon at Bay Meadows Racetrack. I was standing near the finish line, breathing in the smell of sweaty horses, combined with cigarette smoke, beer, and plenty of dust, while checking out my fellow gamblers, who were mostly men. The day at the races had been planned with a friend from work, who’d canceled at the last minute. So I’d come alone. And why not?—it was 1977 in the San Francisco Bay Area—repression was out, freedom was in. I was thirty- three, single, and dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure, after ending a dull ten-year marriage.

  In spite of my cheering, my horse came in dead last. “Damn!” I said, irritably, crumpling my losing ticket and tossing it in the trash.

  And that’s when I met him; the well-dressed, black hunk who’d been watching me for the last three races, taking in every detail of my long, wheat-colored hair, and pale, smooth skin. He caught my eye and smiled boldly—all the proof I’d ever need that black is beautiful. I was glad I’d worn heels that day, and the green velvet pants that showed my full, round ass to perfection.

  “Have you picked some winners today?” I asked, starting up a conversation, and he pulled a fistful of tickets from his jacket pocket, in response, and said a little smugly, “I’ve been betting horses for a living for many years, baby. It’s my business to win.”

  I looked him over carefully, from his polished leather boots to the tightly wound ringlets of his Afro, stopping along the way to check out the expensive wool slacks and sports jacket. His silky white shirt was open halfway down his chest, revealing curling black hair and smooth, brown skin. He had full lips and even, white teeth. And dimples; I’m a pushover for dimples. I told him I’d never met a professional gambler before and was sure he had interesting stories to tell. He suggested we discuss his profession over dinner—which sounded like a winner to me.

  I bet along with Jerry after that and won money all afternoon. As we placed our bets, cheered our horses to the finish line, and collected our money, little electric shocks of excitement zapped back and forth between us, a promise of more to come. I gave him my phone number before leaving the track and drove home, happily speculating on what he’d be like in bed.

  ***

  We met for dinner in San Francisco, at seven the next evening, at the Hyatt Regency across from the Ferry Building. Dinner was
a heady combination of delicious food and mounting sexual tension that had my nipples standing at attention for the entire meal.

  After dinner we retired to the spacious, lushly carpeted suite Jerry called his Bay Area home. While he poured Chardonnay at the bar near the refrigerator, and set the radio to an FM jazz station, I sat cross- legged on the plush, brown sofa facing the front window, looking out at the darkened sky and night lights of the city. I was thinking about how getting it on with a new lover is always a gamble—and hoping this one would pay off with some great sex and, maybe, a new friend.

  Jerry joined me with two crystal glasses, and we sat, side by side, chatting, sipping the cold dry wine, while exchanging meaningful glances in anticipation of what was to come. He surprised me by inquiring whether he would be my first black lover. I told him he would not and asked why he wanted to know.

  He said he was curious because some white chicks really dig black men—hadn’t I heard the saying, “try black, you won’t go back”?

  I told him that sounded catchy, but it was the other rumor that intrigued me.

  “You mean the one saying black men are hung like horses?” he asked, grinning.

  “That’s the one,” I purred, staring with meaning at the sizable bulge in his slacks.

  “Yeah, baby, I sure have heard that there rumor,” Jerry said, nodding his head. And with a look promising I wouldn’t be disappointed, he stood up, took my hand and led me to the spacious bedroom—and the giant, satin covered bed.

  ***

  I stood near the bed, my heart racing. Currents of excitement coursed through me as Jerry removed my clothing, piece by piece, in a lazy strip tease. He smiled when I was naked, looking me over for a long, slow minute. Then he bent his head, kissed me deeply, his full lips pressing mine, his hot tongue exploring my open mouth. I responded eagerly. We kissed for a long time, my erect nipples rubbing deliciously against his chest, until I felt my legs give way beneath me and dropped to my knees before him, staring up into his eyes. Reaching down he unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock.

  Rumor or not, it was enormous, and hard as a brick. I reached for it eagerly. It was the color of rich, dark chocolate, and felt hot and silky smooth in my hands. I licked lightly at its head, breathing in his sharp, musky scent; lapping at the delicate droplets of precome seeping from its tiny, mouth-like opening. I ran my tongue up the shaft, and made the fluttering movements around the rim that I’d learned from experience made a man lose his mind. For a grand finale, I relaxed my throat with the ease born of practice, took the whole thing in, and just sucked. (Linda Lovelace, shove over).

  I sucked him like my life depended on it, until he’d had enough and led me to the bed, laying me back against the pillows. I felt the mattress move slightly under his weight, when he sat down next to me, sliding a hand between my legs, and whispering, “Baby, you’re so hot!”

  Slipping two fingers inside me, he explored my dripping vagina—moving around the opening at first, caressing my swollen outer lips, tugging them gently, then parting my inner lips and delving deeper inside. The exquisite sensations made me moan with pleasure, and roll my hips around on the bed. When I was ready, more than ready, he bent and went down on me, pleasuring my clit with his knowing mouth and tongue. I moaned steadily, as he continued—licking, sucking, nipping lightly at my aroused pussy with his teeth. His fingers teased my tight little anus which opened and closed in response to his touch, like a tiny, hungry mouth.

  “There, exactly there” I gasped, and, man among men, he stayed exactly there. My excitement mounted, overwhelming me until I came, hugely, crying out with pleasure.

  Jerry entered me then, plunging in with abandon, holding my wrists over my head, making me feel I had no choice in the matter. He could tell I liked that by the way my hips rose up to meet him, and my inner muscles gripped him, squeezing down.

  His cock felt enormous inside me, wonderfully, painfully hard. I wriggled beneath him, beside myself with delight, grinding my clit against the base of his cock. Raising my legs I wrapped them around him, hanging on for the ride as he pumped me fast and hard, His heavy balls slapped deliciously against my ass. Finally, panting with pleasure and mindless with excitement, I exploded, moaning, into a thousand fragments of pleasured flesh—and lay flushed, breathing hard, and completely satisfied.

  ***

  “I’ll be here at the Hyatt for most of the summer,” Jerry said. We were side by side on the plush brown sofa again, exchanging smiles. We chatted like old friends in the morning sunlight, devouring the eggs, toast, and hot, strong coffee delivered by room service. “Will I see you again, Dorothy?” he asked, and smiled, with that cocky, confident look a man gets when he knows he’s satisfied his woman.

  “You can bet on it,” I said, turning to kiss him lightly—thinking, any man I can laugh with and come with is a big-time winner to me.

  [go to top]

  “Erotic means ‘in relation.’ Erotic is what those deep relations are and can be that engage the whole body – our heart, our mind, our spirit, our flesh. It is that moment of being exquisitely present.”

  - Terry Tempest Williams

  Ember Eli

  Bio

  Ember Eli is a gender-fluid shape-shifter, whose passions include exploration and facilitation of ecstatic experiences; giving and receiving service; and building family networks with humans and other animals. She brings a queer leather sensibility to her teaching and writing, and finds sharing story to be a potent means of both unraveling and re-weaving. Ember is captivated by the eroticism of quiet control, and loves unleashing characters who find themselves changed by love, lust, dubious intentions and chance encounters.

  Mini-Interview

  How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? There is tremendous power in being in a space with overt permission and invitation to share erotic writing. Such permission provides a counter- balance to lifelong cultural messages against such writing and speaking. The value of a “regular” (i.e. closed, time-limited) writing group with a focus on sex—such as Jen Cross’ Declaring Our Erotic workshops—is that the format creates safety and spaciousness for exploration of writing about sex. For me, one value of the Erotic Reading Circle—which is drop-in and ongoing—has been that it allowed me a gentle step out of the cocoon of a closed writing group. Sharing my writing in that setting felt like a deeper level of risk, and experiencing my writing being positively received there felt empowering. Another value of the Erotic Reading Circle is exposure to erotic writing with a wide range of writing styles in various genres.

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? In my erotic writing, my characters are frequently confounded by an unexpected, intense attraction that calls them to some form of transformation. Sometimes I write from the point of view of someone struggling to reconcile an out-of character attraction; other times I write from the catalyst’s point of view. I am fascinated by shifts from stasis to movement, and I enjoy exploring how the dynamic nature of sexual energy can propel people towards accelerated change.

  Tone

  Ember Eli

  I notice everything about my prey, because in the details of who they are lies the secret to how to take them down.

  She had bows on her pumps. Pert, perky bows. The light crimson was an exact match for the buttons on her blouse and the horizontal line on her off-white handbag. The color was picked up again in her lipstick, but not in her earrings. Those were simple, bone-white like her blouse. Her clothing was spotless. Even her shoes had no more than that morning’s specks of dust. Everything about her, from the bows to her hair to the way she walked—and later, spoke—was crisp.

  I insinuated myself into her presence by pretending I was lost. She gave efficient directions, allotting to me that portion of her attention that was required for the task. I could see that all the while, the wheels were still turning. No doubt she was thinking about her 5-year plan, or the small pile of mending waiting, carefully folded, on a closet shelf. I upp
ed the ante and allowed a flash of naked need to pass across my eyes. “I have a disability,” I told her. “It’s like dyslexia, but with spatial relationships. It’s almost impossible for me to find my way.” She hesitated, and I watched her recalibrate her plan for her day. Her values won out, as I knew they would. She did what she should, and walked me all the way to my ostensible destination.

  As we walked I gradually began to lengthen my stride to throw her off hers. At first she took two steps to every one of mine, maintaining the same tight movement as before, but then I distracted her by asking her how far we were from our destination. As she turned partially

  toward me to answer, her steps lengthened into my rhythm and her hips began to sway slightly. A startled look flashed across her face, and I could see her brushing it away as if it were a fly.

  I smiled ingratiatingly. “You must allow me to thank you for your trouble,” I said. “I was told there is a lovely tea house right near my destination. Perhaps you know where it is?” My question allowed her to pretend that she remained in the helper role. “Yes,” she replied. “I’ll show you.” When we arrived at the Casbah Tea House, I let my veil of helplessness fall away for a moment. I looked deeply into her eyes, saying, “I was told there are some priceless exotic blends in here. Not to be missed.” I raised my eyebrow in a way that was more statement than question, and moved boldly to hold the door open for her. She hesitated before the door. “Not to be missed,” I repeated firmly. A slight glaze came into the edges of her eyes, and she walked through the ornate carved wood and bronze door of the Casbah. “I’ll have the black currant,” I told the counter girl, “and the lady will have …” “Chai, please. Decaf.” Laden with our tea on a small tray, I walked past the conventional tables and chairs and chose a low corner table surrounded by cushions.