Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology

by Carol Queen

  She was clearly unnerved by the seating arrangement. She hesitated, and then slid those prim pumps off, placing them carefully between us so she could tuck her legs under and smooth her skirt down as far as possible. “Where are my manners?” I murmured smoothly. “The name is Tone.” “Tone?” she repeated faintly. She hesitated while a brief inner struggle ensued. I knew she had thought of asking if my name was short for Tony, or Antonia, perhaps. What stopped her was her first full- on awareness that she didn’t know if I was male or female. I pretended not to notice her discomfiture. “Olivia,” she said. “Livia,” I repeated, “charmed.” I picked up her hand and kissed the top momentarily before setting it carefully back down. A slight flush crept into her cheeks, then subsided as if by the force of her considerable will. But she let my presumptuous abbreviation of her name slide.

  Livia sipped her chai, and I watched its spicy warmth affect her features. I had chosen the Casbah for its sensuality and those floor cushions. I stretched my legs out and “accidentally” grazed her knee. The merest hint of a shudder passed through her, and I watched her extinguish it instantly, as one might stifle an involuntary cry that they feared could lead to their detection—say, if they had seen someone approaching on a dark night and wished to pass back into the shadows unseen.

  I knew it was time to act.

  I looked directly into her eyes again. “I have a confession to make,” I said. She looked at me, and I read the shock in her eyes at my inappropriate words. But her body remained perfectly composed, and she gave me no prompt. “I wasn’t really lost,” I continued. “I wanted to meet you.”

  I watched her lose it then. To a less discerning observer, she would still appear put-together. Her back remained erect, her breathing even. But I could read her small signs. She was stunned. The tiny evidence of her conflicted emotions could be read in her eyes, traced in the subtle flare of her nostrils, the almost imperceptible movement of the small muscles under her cheekbones.

  “I—” she began slowly. “I have lived my life in such a way that this sort of thing simply does not happen to me.” I smiled then, because I knew I had her.

  “Until now,” I said simply. “Yes, until now,” she agreed. I had unmade her identity in three sentences. “What do you want?” she asked. There was a pliability to her tone that I was sure had never been there before. Her voice cracked on the unfamiliar cadence. I took her hand again, and this time continued to hold it. “I want to watch you explode,” I said. “I want to see you in the grip of something that, for once in your life, you can’t control. I want to see you grieve the futility of your past, and hunger for things you put away with your first words.”

  She looked directly into my eyes then, and for the first time her eyes were completely unveiled. I watched her see me seeing her.

  I knew if she had been standing, her knees would have buckled. That perfect posture would have slipped into something fluid and lost. As it was, she shifted. She raised herself up on her knees for a moment, then settled back down directly on top of her feet, placing the hand I wasn’t holding palm-up on her knee. Unconsciously, she had assumed a posture of supplication. She waited attentively for whatever I would say or do next.

  “Clear your calendar for the day,” I commanded. I squeezed her hand gently, kissed her on the cheek, then rose. While getting her another chai and a peanut butter cookie, I watched her fumble with her cell phone and make several brief calls. I returned with the tray. “You will need to stay hydrated and fueled,” I said. She took my offerings, and when she had finished, I rose wordlessly, again taking her by the hand. She followed pliantly, and I felt an arching pleasure at her transformation, which I knew was only the beginning.

  This time I strolled at an easy pace, and the sway remained in her hips. Her eyes had softened at the edges yet a new intensity burned at their core. As we walked, she began more and more to inhabit her body. She did not ask where we were going.

  As we drew closer to my lair, my mouth began to water. My shins and heels vibrated with the urge to pounce. My teeth ached, anticipating her newly pliant flesh.

  I will not harm her. It is my gift to know how to tightrope a woman across her edges. I will let her fall … yes. I will let her fall again and again. Into the hidden nets that will keep her whole.

  I will start with her outer trappings and work my way in. I will take her apart cell by cell until she is unrecognizable to herself. But I will know her.

  The first thing I will do once we are inside is kneel before her. I will take out a knife. Hold it up so she can see its length and sharpness. She will stand perfectly still then. I will reach down slowly, and cut the bow off her shoe. Just one. I will pocket my trophy while she watches. Then I will undress her and roll on those perfectly-pressed clothes. My musk will infuse so deeply into their folds that she will never get it out. Should she ever want to.

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

  I do it for the joy of it. The joy of using everything I have—eyes, wits, teeth, fists—in service to her unmaking. Her reshaping. To see her reduced to her essence and thus made huge.

  [go to top]

  “There’s no safety in writing well. There is no way to be naked, which is what you have to be to be a good writer … and still be safe … I think one of the things that’s happened in sexual writing is we’ve gotten the notion that nakedness is about being explicit about details and techniques. I find that really tedious. What is truly naked is emotional exposure. And for every writer that’s different. The place where you’re pushing yourself the most emotionally is going to be different. It’s way different … depending on your age and the world you were brought up in, depending on who you’re most afraid of …. Every person has a fear. And fear is your best friend.”

  - Dorothy Allison

  (in E. Benedict’s The Joy of Writing Sex)

  Lilycat

  Bio

  Lilycat is a DJ for FCCFree Radio, where she forces people to tell her their life stories, and she also writes. She has stories in Chemical Lust, Whipped, More 5 Minute Erotica, Surprise and Hos, Hookers, Call Girls, and Rent Boys and another book ….She’d like to thank her biker daddy—Mr. O—for the inspiration.

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? All the cool kids were doing it—so I did it, too. Erotica has sex in it.

  Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? I tweet … People make me do it.

  How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I get the best feedback from ERC and it encourages me to write. I get to hear great stories, too.

  Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Do you have any concerns about publishing erotic work? I write under a fake name because that was my Christmas gift to my mother … I’m cheap and she is hard to shop for.

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? What inspired it? Any caveats or unusual tidbits you’d like to share with your readers? Someone told me there is nothing more beautiful than the sight of a woman giving you a blowjob …. That is all.

  Just Another Dirty Bathroom Sex Love Story

  Lilycat

  I almost break out in hysterical laughter when she tells me she’s giving up dope. How many times have people told me they were quitting, only to come back to me a few weeks later begging for just one more hit, just a little taste? But the sweet sadness in her brown eyes made me try to fake a belief that she was the one who would make it away.

  “Well, since I won’t be seeing you again, I guess we should settle up on the money you owe me,” I say, as I try to stop a snicker from escaping.

  I watch her pretty little mouth quickly trying to explain a payment plan idea or maybe I could just forget about the $100 … just this time … her last time … please? She continues on about how she is completely broke, and actually came to The Sinner’s Den—a nightclub in West Hollywood—to
borrow money from a friend for a bus ticket. She is trying to get to a small town outside of Palm Springs, where a waitress job and a room in her cousin’s house waited for her. She goes on about a new location … a new life … a real chance to stay clean.

  I run my hand through her hair to the back of her head, and explain how there was other ways to pay than in cash.

  Seconds later she is kneeling on the scattered, used paper towels and wet toilet paper that decorate the Men’s Room floor, her eyes a bit sad but resigned as she looks up at me. I unzip my pants.

  I take my cock out of my pants and bring it toward her opening mouth; her hands, soft and warm, wrap around it. Her mouth is even warmer than her hands. She sucks my cock in whole, quite a feat for such a small mouth. There is something great about a woman with a little mouth that can take a lot of dick.

  The urinal gives off a pungent smell that fills the Men’s Room. The music and the loud talk in the club sounds like it is try to break through the locked door, but I am more focused on the subtle sounds that are coming out of her mouth. It sounds like a cross between a sigh and moan, which she makes as my cock glides in and out of her.

  I nestle my hand in her hair, a dysfunctional design of various fading colors, a sign of the search for style and individuality imprinted on her head. I start to guide her head to and from the base of my cock to the tip.

  I look down at the hot tableau of this woman in a skin-tight, low- cut dress sucking my dick. The dress, a regular of hers, used to be not be as tight; she’s gained some weight, which has left nice curves on her once drug-wasted body. She obviously has been clean for a little while.

  I notice her arms, which have track marks now fading and scaring up. She also has a tattoo of a heart with a poorly-done vine around it to cover up some guy’s name … starting with an “M.” I wonder if this mister “M” was the one who first tied her arm off and showed her where to put the needle in. I wonder if he truly got forgotten as the ink vines grew over his name.

  Further down her arm, among the chain metal and bondage bracelets, I see a friendship bracelet, like the ones children make and share. I try to figure out if she kept this from her own childhood, or if there is a little girl in her life—child … sister … niece—who stupidly looked up to this drug fiend.

  Though as far as the drug fiends, who I make my money off, go—she was always the sweetest. The only one who used “Please” and “Thank you” as more than just a beg. I would often see her comforting her overly-messed-up and jonsing fellow addicts.

  I guess she notices me staring at her, ‘cause she looks up at me with her big, beautiful eyes—so soulful, with a little spark of something that makes me believe she may actually be able to get away from the pull of the drugs.

  She runs her tongue down the side of my dick and nibbles on my balls like the desire is real, though I know she is just trying quickly to get the job done. Just like I know my other blow buddies’ only really hunger is for the needle. But this girl looks so beautiful sucking my cock.

  I cum in an orgasmic burst, and for the first time in a long time, it isn’t just driven by the physical sensation.

  As she wipes the cum from her mouth and slowly begins to rise off the floor, I say, “That was so good, I think I should give you something extra.”

  “Really, I’m not using anymore,” she replies quickly and with a bit of fear.

  “No, I was thinking about $250 for your new life,” I explain, as I fish the money out of my pocket.

  “Thank you,” she says, bewildered. She takes the money; her soft, warm fingers brush across my hand.

  Part of me wants to grab her hand and hold it forever, and another part of me wants to never see her again.

  [go to top]

  Horehound Stillpoint

  Bio

  Horehound Stillpoint is working for the Golden Gate National Park Conservancy these days, while still writing for pervert-loving poetry fans, still living for shows from Queens of the Stone Age to Rigoletto, and still needing and wanting to thank all his kind mothers, basically, everyone he ever came across.

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? I started noticing—mostly at Poetry above Paradise, on Sunday nights—that people in the audience perked up if cocks, nipples, buttfucking, watersports, etc., made an appearance in the poem and the sooner the better. But maybe that’s because it galvanizes my energy so intensely. I mean, it’s my thing, isn’t it.

  Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? Sure, I write in multiple genres; it’s fun, it’s educational, and it widens my horizons. After about 5 years of writing poetry—or rather, doing my spoken word pieces—my voice became pretty tightly honed and even started to feel like a cage. Writing short stories or micro-memoirs helped open up new possibilities.

  How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I write with a reading event in mind. I believe “I’ve Seen the Future” was written for K’Vetch, and “Life Is Good” was written for the ERC. I don’t think the Erotic Reading Circle is very different from a ‘regular’ writing group for me, but then I live in San Francisco.

  Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Umm, yeah, Horehound Stillpoint is a pen name. Greg Taylor was just too boring and already taken by numberless other people.

  Life Is Good When You’re Getting Fucked

  Horehound Stillpoint

  It occurs to me that I am in the running

  for the guy who got to have the most fun

  in a single lifetime

  Remembering bike rides along the Embarcadero

  on San Francisco nights, following blowjobs on the beach

  It’s hard to believe all the men I’ve touched

  and been touched by

  Even the most recent Folsom Street Fair was just the best ever

  you wouldn’t believe the men I got busy with in public

  As cops pretended not to watch, I grabbed ass and sucked dick

  on a sidewalk in broad daylight and

  one guy was a long tall drink of water

  Not to mention the bands I rocknfuckinrolled with on the 12th St. stage

  Speaking of which, Slash unleashed some great licks last month at the Warfield

  that shit is still sticking to my ribs

  Sleep was a revelation at the Regency

  classic, crushing, stonier-than-thou rock

  A new Neil Young CD—I’ve been loving him for 40 years

  Fireworks, light shows, starry nights smuggled in through fog

  Reading great books written by friends: astonishing!

  The hardest laughs and the sweetest tears

  with the best of best friends

  Movies on acid, swimming in Aquatic Park

  Discovering yoga at age 50

  Getting this old body back in shape for the umpteenth time

  So that men still ask if they can fuck me

  Better yet, I’ve been saying Yes more and more

  Life is good when I’m getting fucked

  And nobody, nobody, nobody ever fucked me better

  than Armand did last Monday

  At least I think his name was Armand

  he pounded my ass so hard, a lot of shit fell outa my head

  He laid down the law

  I mean the first laws … the spiritual stuff

  like: Thou shalt not deny my dick

  He knew he was hurting me, but neither of us wanted to stop

  When I finally called time out, to catch my breath

  his rushed apology—Sorry, sorry—

  only seemed to cover the fact that I couldn’t take it

  When I reminded him I just started getting fucked at the end of last year

  and I’m still not like some guys who go at it every other night

  He said, Even the guys who do this every night have trouble with me

  Fifteen minutes later, we were well into Round Two

  He plowe
d into me at a different angle, so he could go deep

  There was no space for mercy and he didn’t worry about nothing

  When he got on top of me, burying my face in the pillow

  he issued a warning: This is my favorite position

  I can’t hold back when you’re giving it up like this

  He put his mouth right up against my ear and said

  Can you feel that?

  Can you feel my dick getting harder and harder inside you?

  It’s growing, it’s talking to your ass …

  Well, you get the picture, except, oh yeah, Armand himself

  He’s a 33 year old black guy, not too flash

  in a rough approximation of handsome

  built like a college wrestler who hasn’t wrestled in 8 or 9 years

  If he were a woman, I’d describe him as voluptuous

  All those smooth curves and bulging payloads

  We could not have had more fun

  Of course, I thought it was more than fun, too

  When I told him my asshole was falling in love with his dick

  he said, Already? That was fast …

  He hasn’t called and I’m neither surprised nor disappointed