#NewRelease #Audiobook! SECRET CONFESSIONS: 36 #Erotic Encounters by @GiselleRenarde

No naughty encounter is ever complete until you tell somebody about it. And who doesn’t feel a tingle while reading a naughty story and wondering, “Is this true? Did that really happen?”

There’s one quality that unifies all confession-style erotic stories, no matter how sweet or how kinky: they’re all written in the first person. (I did this, I did that.) For that reason, when reading these stories, we’re particularly inclined to wonder if these stories are true. The author is writing as though they were (I ate her pussy, I sucked his cock), so why wouldn’t we believe it?

One of the best things about confession erotica is its unique capability to allow readers to suspend disbelief. When we hear these stories, we trust that we’re being told the truth. Even if we try to be rationally and consciously skeptical, we still believe, and there’s a bit of magic in that.

So, now I’m sure you’re wondering about the confessions in this collection. Are they true? Are they fiction? The answer is yes. Some stories are entirely fictional, pure fantasy. Others draw on real events, but aren’t entirely accurate. Of course, names have been changed, to protect the “innocent” parties.

Some stories are true, some are false, some are somewhere in between. Does it spoil the fun that I’ve made this confession? I don’t think so. I still haven’t told you which are which.

Listen to SECRET CONFESSIONS, narrated by me--Giselle Renarde! Look for it at Audible or wherever you normally get your audiobooks!

Are You Loving Me All Night Or Just For A Few Minutes? ( #Orgasm #RealSexTalk #TrueConfessions )

by Annabeth Leong

I was going to talk about how to tell if your story idea wants to be a short story or a novel, but then I noticed that Cameron talked about dicks and it’s getting late and I think I’ll go with a sexual interpretation of our topic, too. Specifically, time to orgasm: short and long.

First, as relates to me:

I think the time it takes to orgasm alters the character of the sensation. A quickly attained orgasm can be explosive and exciting, and there can also be something satisfying about a carefully nursed and well-earned orgasm. On the other hand, there are pitfalls along the way. I not infrequently get into long masturbation sessions where I start out by having an orgasm faster than I want to, so I’m unsatisfied because I planned to spend more quality time with myself. So I keep going, but then the orgasms I get later don’t feel worth the time I put into them, so I keep going. A couple hours later, I’m still going, sweaty and frustrated, still chasing a feeling I may or may not reach.

I have a partner with a masturbation fetish who finds the fact that I do this unbearably hot and loves nothing more than discovering me desperately in the midst of this with sex toys strewn all over the bed. I have mixed feelings about it personally, though it does work the abs.

Activities that tend to make me come quickly:

Masturbation, using my hand — I can do this in under two minutes if I feel motivated enough and think the right thoughts. It is reliable, good, solid sensation. This is the thing to beat. Speaking physically (as in, leaving aside emotion), a lot of partnered sex in my experience is not as good as what I can do this way.

Me, on top, riding some sort of phallus — If my partner can handle me moving the way I like and I get the right sort of nipple stimulation, this can be really fast, too. It feels particularly good to me to come this way. I have to straighten my legs, and the key to this position is rubbing my clit on my partner’s pubic bone while gripping the phallus with internal muscles just so. Based on feedback from penis-owning partners, though, it sounds like this does not always produce the best feeling from the other perspective, so that’s a downside.

Spanking the clit with a hand or a strap — I had a partner who asked me if the thing I do in response to this is really an orgasm. I’m not 100% sure? But I do know that I start out shying away from the strap or what have you, quickly progress to pushing toward it, and soon reach a moment that is a climax of some sort in that I want the strap really intensely and then wind up feeling satisfied and finished with what we’re doing. If I was horny when we started, that feeling is taken care of after this.

Activities that take a long time:

Masturbation, using the famed Hitachi — This takes, no joke, something like 45 minutes for me. I ride the magic wand, because otherwise my wrist would hurt too much for me to type for the next 24 hours. It feels good for brief periods but then makes me go numb. I still use this thing a fair bit because the end result is powerful, but it’s a goddamn workout. I usually have to hold my breath, flex every muscle in my body, grab the edges of the mattress so hard I’m bending it nearly in half, and thrust for all I’m worth. I usually get a headache afterwards. I’m not sure why I do this as often as I do.

Receiving oral sex — I feel like if I was more comfortable with myself this could go faster. It definitely does go faster if my partner is able to put fingers inside me while using their tongue. However, when someone starts going down on me approximately 98% of my brain is occupied with feeling self-conscious as fuck. I gradually relax as they do things with their tongue, but at some point 98% of my brain gets occupied with worrying about how incredibly long I’m taking to come. There’s a sweet spot somewhere in between, but if something disrupts it the process has to start from the beginning.

Getting fingered — I’m so good with my own fingers, but nobody else does it exactly like I do it! As a result, this is an interesting way to come but it takes about a million years. Again, I struggle with self-consciousness while it is happening. I’ve had some pleasant surprises with this method, though. I usually cannot come with someone the first time we have sex, but I once had someone finger me to orgasm through extreme patience the first time we were together. I think the key was that this partner genuinely seemed to be having fun with the fingering, not like they were waiting impatiently for me to come, so I relaxed the necessary amount.

***

I think it’s interesting to note that the methods that take the longest to me are generally thought to be the most surefire, I think.

Now a few words about time to orgasm as far as my partners are concerned.

With penis owners:

Please, please, for the love of all that is holy, penis owners, do not engage in athletics and mental tricks to “last” as long as possible, at least not with me. I do not really want a phallus in me for a significantly long period of time. Things dry out and start to hurt. You are not doing me a favor. I suffered through this mostly in my early twenties. I think at this time in my life, I would at some point suggest mutual masturbation as an alternative.

On the other hand, please do not come rapidly and promptly fall asleep. Do you enjoy watching or participating in masturbation? If so, I believe we can hang.

With vulva owners:

Perhaps this is hypocritical given what I said above, but I could do whatever thing I am doing for however long is required. I am super happy to go down and stay down, to do whatever is needed with my fingers up to and past the point when my hand feels like it may fall off, to operate the vibrator, to help you lubricate while you operate it, whatever is needed. I used to tell an ex-girlfriend, “I’m here all night,” and I meant it. This was not out of an effort to do her a favor (though I hope she benefited). It was motivated by my nearly endless desire to be between her thighs. Many women I have slept with have felt self-conscious about taking a long time to orgasm. From what I’ve written above, it’s pretty clear that I am, too. But it’s funny because I’m not remotely bothered by that when I’m on the other side of it (on the contrary—I’m really turned on by the idea of using my tongue until it hurts).

With people who don’t want their genitals touched:

The “I’m here all night” principle tends to operate here as well. I’m a foot fetishist, and I will lick a lover’s feet pretty much until they kick me away. If it takes a long time to reach the point of satisfaction, whatever that may be, I’m good—especially if I get to indulge my oral fixation in the process.

A few conclusions:

I tend to feel more awkward/limited about what is done to me. It is harder for me to deal with an extended procedure as a receiver, while I am eager to be on the giver side to the point of fetishizing it. I wonder how common this viewpoint is. I do notice a lot of people who are self-conscious about taking a long time. On the other hand, I have slept with selfish people who come and then bounce without seeing what their partner might be into. In general, as with all things sexual, talking more would be good!

I don’t think there is an ideal time to orgasm, as receiver or giver. I’ve read studies and statistics on this topic, and I notice general defensiveness around coming too quickly or not spending too long having sex. Longer is not always better, though. I think it takes however long it takes. Probably, as with most things, a middle answer will work well in general.

(Sorry to be posting so late, friends! I hope this piece still entertains!)

Glimpses of Truth

by Jean Roberta

I have all sorts of qualms about following the traditional advice to “write what I know” in the most literal sense. To start with, when Sacchi’s call-for-submissions came out for Wild Girls, Wild Nights, I had already written three lesbian stories that I thought of as unvarnished truth, in which only the names were changed.

One of these stories, “Family Gathering,” was about my first ever woman-to-woman sex, and it was published in Up All Night: Adventures in Lesbian Sex, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and Stacy Bias (Alyson Books, 2004). The second, “Gabrielle’s Fountain,” was about a first event (“squirting” or female ejaculation) in a doomed, long-distance affair I had with a woman who wanted me to move in with her in another town (with my grade-school-aged child), but her life alarmed me, and I didn’t really want to share it. This story was also published in an anthology from Alyson, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel: First-timers: True Stories of Lesbian Awakening (2006). For awhile, it seemed as if Cleis and Alyson were competing for the biggest share of the “true queer sex stories” market.

My third (or first, really) autobiographical lesbian story was/is not sexually explicit because we didn’t have sex. It is about my flirtation or one-sided crush with a charismatic local singer-songwriter who was an avid reader, and therein lay the problem. Unlike the women in my published stories, this person was likely to find and read any publicly-available material I might write about her. I only sent this story to one place: the Storytime list of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association, in 1999.

This story felt dangerous for various reasons: the character was recognizable, and if I spiced it up by making it an actual sex story, and it got published, what kind of fallout could I expect? The risks didn’t seem worth it, especially since I had no problem making up stories which didn’t seem libellous.

When Sacchi’s call came out, I asked if she would accept reprints. She said no, the publisher wanted original stories. I had promised my spouse when she was still only my new girlfriend (in 1989) that I would never embarrass her by describing her naked body on a page for all to see. That seemed fair to me.

Of course, most of what I write (including fantasy stories) is rooted somewhere in my life, but I prefer to avoid gossip and accusations, if possible. So when a call for “true,” original lesbian stories comes out, I just have to pass.

Even when I’m writing about a general scene or situation (e.g. the sex trade) which is real, there is the question of how to present it, as Annabeth brought up. Even though the fierce feuds over “political correctness” which characterized the Feminist Sex Wars of the 1980s seem to be over, I think they left me with traces of post-traumatic stress.

When I read Michelle Tea’s latest more-or-less autobiographical, meta-fictional, surrealistic novel, Black Wave (so I could review it for The Gay and Lesbian Review), I was amazed, once again, that Ms. Tea is currently described as the voice of young, working-class queer women who dare to tell it like it is. Considering that her narrator, named Michelle, is constantly high and usually drunk, and that she breaks promises and hearts, including her own (as people in altered states of consciousness tend to do), I suspect that the same book, written in, say, 1982 (when Audre Lorde’s autobiographical Zami came out), would not have found a publisher. Or if it did, the author would have been barred from every conference and publication with “feminist” in its title.

In 2007, I dared to write a story for an anthology about (and largely by) “women of colour,” edited by Jolie du Pre for Alyson: Iridescence: Sensuous Shades of Lesbian Erotica. This was not a “true stories” anthology, thank the Goddess. My narrator looks white but has a dash of native blood, which actually describes me, so I hoped I would not be trashed for writing it. (I wasn’t.)

The story, “For All My Relations,” is about two sex-workers (based loosely on my experience in the early 1980s), and it starts with an anti-erotic scene. (Things heat up later.) I argued with myself about this opening, but I decided to leave it in. The fate of “Lynette” in the following passage shook me up at the time, and still does:

“Lynette had been missing for a week when she was found behind the Royal Arts Centre, naked and tied up. She had been left in the bushes in the surrounding park, on a January day when the temperature hovered at forty below zero in Fahrenheit as well as Celsius. She was found too late.

‘Jesus,’ I said to Amanda. We were watching the image of a covered shape on a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance by paramedics on the TV news. Police were looking for the last man who was known to have seen her.

‘Did you know her?’ I asked.

‘A bit, yeah. She worked for Crystal and Sapphire when I was there. She took on too many guys on the side, though, just to collect the agency fee. That’s not safe.’

Crystal and Sapphire were legendary, and their fame went a long way toward convincing most of our johns that all whores were dykes and vice versa. The two madams (Mesdames? I had taken some French in high school), one black and one white, had arrived in our simple town from a more worldly city five years before, and opened the first escort agency here.

A woman who could cheat on Crystal and Sapphire would have to be shortsighted, to say the least. It didn’t follow that she deserved a slow, painful death.”

“Crystal and Sapphire” were a lesbian couple from Winnipeg (capital city of the province of Manitoba, said to be in the exact centre of Canada) who started the first escort agency in the town where I live, which was formerly known mostly as the national headquarters of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Making a profit by renting out call girls here in the late 1970s took a certain vision, or business savvy, or cynical, woman-hating gall, depending on your perspective. If they saw a niche that needed to be filled, however, they were on the right track. They were so successful that their multiple agencies produced spinoffs. As far as I know, all the surviving local agencies can be traced back to the founding mothers.

I realized that this whole story could be read as a cautionary tale about the wages of sin, which is certainly not how I intended it. As other writers have said, however, once a story goes public, in some sense it no longer belongs to the writer. Readers interpret it through the lens of their own experience, their own biases, and whatever is generally deemed to be “true” in the cultural climate of the time. “Truth” is never a stable thing.
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