Name as Mask

By Sharazade (Guest Blogger)

Last September (2011) I attended the Erotic Authors Association conference in Las Vegas, Nevada. To save money, I arranged to share a hotel room with another participant, whom I knew only as Nan Andrews (a pen name). Since she was arriving first, she put the room on her credit card; I was to pay her when I arrived; and she left a room key for me at reception in an envelope with my name on it.

So, upon arrival, I presented myself to the woman at reception and asked if she had an envelope for Sharazade. She did.

“Can I just see some photo ID?”

Ah. Well…

“I don’t have any photo ID.”

“Why not?”

“Because that isn’t my legal name.”

We stared at each other for a few moments, neither one of us quite sure what to do next. Then I had an inspiration.

“How about a business card? I have a business card with my name on it!” And I presented her with one.

I got my room key; but I’m not sure that would have worked anywhere other than Las Vegas.

***

That’s the mask I wear as an erotica writer: my pen name. I often hear people refer having a pen name and a real name. However, that distinction doesn’t feel correct to me. Sharazade is not my legal name; it’s not my passport name. But it’s certainly my real name.

Not everyone would agree. Recently I was approached (online) by an indie fiction writer who wanted some editing. We chatted a bit about rates, and then he asked if he could have my real name. “Sharazade,” I said, “will do, or just Shar.” No—he wanted my “real” name. Even if it was just a first name. Without that, he said, he would not do business with me.

Now, obviously I could have picked anything—I could have said I was Edith or Nancy or Esmeralda or Sarah, and he’d never have known any better. But I was a little put out at being told my name wasn’t real. I mean, I write with this name. I publish with it, and I am published under it. I edit and consult. I blog as Shar. I interact on Facebook, Twitter, and Google+. I do public readings, and I attend conferences, and I give workshops. I’ve done a radio interview on NPR as Sharazade. How is the name not “real”? I declined the work opportunity, and wished him all the best in finding a suitable editor.

I’ve seen erotica authors on forums and lists imply—or outright state—that those who use pen names are hiding. I suppose you could see it that way. To me, it feels more like I’m shining the light on a different facet. It might sound more romantic to say that when I slip on the mask of Sharazade, finally my forbidden sensuous thoughts flow freely from my now-unfettered mind. But that’s not quite the case. It is more like, well, like holding a piece of paper in front of a light. Some of what’s below is now in shadow; some in light. But what’s in shadow is still there. It’s simply not the focus at the moment. In the same way, a physical mask might say, “Don’t look at my face right now—look at my body, or listen to my voice, or watch me move.” Not a lie; a different emphasis.

In many ways, my name division is a work division. Non-Sharazade works in non-fiction; Sharazade works in fiction. Non-Sharazade works in some pretty conservative sectors and countries; Sharazade is surrounded by open-minded and, for the most part, liberal readers and authors. Neither aspect of me is false. Neither one is a part I dislike. None of my roles are resented. They’re just different. A woman might be “Sweetheart” to her husband, “Mom” to her kids, “Melissa” to her friends, “Ms. Smith” to a client on the phone, and “Keith’s mom” to her son’s friends. None of those names are fake. They just show different aspects. Sharazade can assume that the people she’s talking to have an active interest in sex and in fiction. It’s a good bet they’re interested in bookstores and publishing. Many share my love of grammar and words. I don’t have to ask what their opinion of PayPal’s recent moves was. It’s a comfortable community, and I feel at home in it. I feel at home as Sharazade, just as in other circles, I feel at home being called something else.

What would happen, I’ve been asked, if I were outed? Well, not too terribly much. If it got spread all over the Internet, I could lose some job opportunities. I suppose in some of the more conservative countries I travel to, it could cause visa problems—assuming it got that widespread. It could cause some embarrassment to a few family members whom I’d rather not embarrass, though nobody would really freak out much. I have far fewer potential penalties than a lot of erotica writers.

Even if there were no penalties at all, though, I’d keep this mask. I like writing as Sharazade, she who was so sure of her story-telling abilities that she bet her life on them. And won.

(The reason I chose this pen name can be found here.)

Bio: A professional writer, editor, and consultant who divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S., Shar enjoys stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened and fanciful enough that they might not have. She values communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love. Her first collection of stories, Transported: Erotic Travel Tales, is published by Fanny Press. Her stories also appear in anthologies with Cleis Press and Sizzler. Recently Shar started publishing her own works and those of others under the 1001 Nights Press imprint. Find her on the web at:

http://sharazade.fannypress.com (blog) and http://1001nightspress.com (publishing company).

Bare Faced Truth

by Kristina Wright

I've never been good at being someone else. I'm a competent liar and capable of deception (fiction writers are, after all, the best liars), but to slip on the mask of a different personality entirely? I have never been able to do it competently. I couldn't even use a pseudonym for more than two erotica stories before I resorted to my real name for sanity's sake. Honestly, in most all situations, what you see is what you get with me. Is that good or bad?

There have been occasions where I wonder if it's good to be so... ME... all the time. Times when I wish I could be exotic or elegant or mysterious or simply more clever/smart/beautiful than I really am. Times when I wished I could fit in, belong, be one of the crowd, whatever the crowd is. I don't fit in anywhere--and I have given up trying. And I've discovered that it's very liberating to just be me. And sometimes it's fun to watch people try to reconcile the different aspects of who I am and make sense of it.

I used to enjoy dressing up in costume when I was younger, but the idea of going to a costume party right now me hives. I used to enjoy pretending to be someone else when I was a kid, but somewhere in the last twenty odd years, I kind of settled pretty well into my own skin and don't even want to bother. When we were teenagers, my friends and I would sometimes pretend to be British or French and affect accents to go along with new names. I always forgot my name and couldn't keep up the accent.

I am Kris or Kristina or Kristina Wright in everything I do. Every story I've written, with the exception of the two online stories I wrote over a decade ago, have been under Kristina Wright or some variation thereof. Kris Wright for my only gay erotic story, Lynn Cole (my middle name and maiden name) for an anthology that included two of my stories, Tina Simmons (the second half of my first name and my mother's maiden name, which was my legal name until I was 12) for a book that included three of my stories. All of my email addresses, with the exceptions of the ones for anthologies, are all variations of my real name.

Of course, using my real name doesn't mean people who don't know me in real life really know me. Reading my erotica (or any of my other fiction) may tell you a lot about my imagination, but it won't tell you much about who I am as a person, no matter how much a reader might assume otherwise. Reading the nonfiction I write, including my OGG posts, will give you a real glimpse into my life but it's only a snapshot, not the complete picture. The same with following me on various social networks or other blogs. All parts of the whole. Real, but incomplete.

Here's the truth-- no one really wants to know all of me, including the people who know me in real life. Maybe that's true for all of us who lurk on the fringes of several circles. Unless you're smack dab in the middle of whatever circle you're a part of, people are going to take what they're comfortable with and leave the rest in the closet. And that goes for the erotica writing circle, where my middle-aged, upper middle class life, 22 year marriage and 2 babies aren't very interesting, as well as for the suburban middle class circle, where my liberal politics, agnostic religious beliefs and erotica writing don't fit. I am not completely comfortable in any circle, but yet I can't even slip into the mask of what I'm supposed to be in order to fit into the circles I am a part of. Sigh.

I admire those writers who are able to slip in and out of their personas. I imagine it must be a relief to get to be someone else entirely, if only for a little while, and be completely accepted for being that particular identity. The masks authors wear are sometimes so believable that even I fall for them. I have been startled to realize that the names I've associated with some authors are actually pseudonyms. In fact, I once carried on lengthy email exchanges with two authors and didn't realize they were the same person until author A referenced the email I'd sent author B. The author wasn't trying to deceive me, but had assumed I was trying to keep the issues we were discussing separate. Ha! Now that is an author who is good at wearing a variety of masks-- and then there's me, taking everything at face value.

Does anyone really know me-- all of me? In truth, none of us is known (or knows anyone else) 100%. Human nature dictates that we keep something of ourselves private. Our secret hearts hold our most precious dreams and greatest fears, and we don't reveal all to anyone. On the other hand, anyone who has known me in real life or anyone who has access to the bulk of my online life could write a decent biography of me. And I'm okay with that. As I continue to struggle with my author "brand" I'm discovering that this is my brand-- being myself, being this very real person who has many facets, but only one name and one face-- and no masks at all.

Masks

Once, long ago, a man decided to explore the unknown world and report what he found there. He travelled to strange islands on ships manned by sailors who spoke strange languages, and he visited countries where some citizens wore masks, while others went about with their bare faces exposed.

In a desert country where everyone prayed to the Prophet, the explorer asked why all the women were veiled. “Because,” said his host, “the seductive faces of women distract men from their work, their goals, their own wives, and Allah Himself. A woman’s face is not meant to be publicly displayed.”

The host’s neighbour was mightily amused. “Faces reveal the secrets of the heart, and therefore they are not meant to be seen by every passerby. Luckily for us, we men can grow beards to shield our expressions. Women must wear veils to protect themselves.”

The explorer had just come from a country where civilized men were expected to be clean-shaven. He immediately stopped shaving, and within days, his face had a light covering of hair. As comfortable as he was in the company of men, the explorer awoke one morning with itchy feet, a desire to see different sights and meet new companions. By now, a bush of dark hair covered much of his face.

He arrived in a large city, and went at once to a bank to exchange his money for the local currency. While he was there, four people in bulky clothing, their faces covered and distorted by masks made from nylon, ran in, pointed guns at all the customers and demanded their money. The explorer did not wish to die, so he gave his money to the robbers, who rushed away before the police arrived.

Desperate for something to eat, the explorer noticed several beggars collecting coins in their hats on a certain street corner. He joined them, and tried not to overhear the contemptuous comments of passersby: “Lazy,” “Most of them are mentally ill,” “Something should be done,” “The first sign is they stop grooming themselves.” The explorer’s beard clearly attracted attention. He realized that most of the observers assumed he had been living on the street for months, and had no way of keeping himself as well-groomed as a respectable city-dweller.

The explorer looked for work so he could earn money, but because he was not fluent in the local language, few jobs were available to him. He applied for a janitorial job in a factory, and he was hired. His new employer generously gave him an advance on his first paycheque. The explorer immediately found a place to stay, and shaved off his beard.

For the first few days, he followed the supervisor’s instructions to clean smelly substances off the floors and walls of the factory, and carry it out in open buckets. On the third day, a woman from the union had an argument with the supervisor. “This stuff is toxic!” she shouted. “All these workers should be wearing masks and gloves.” She was wearing a mask herself.

So the explorer and his fellow-workers were provided with rubber gloves and paper masks that they were told to secure over their noses and mouths every day to protect them from the poisons in the air and on every surface they touched.

The explorer became very afraid. He wasn’t sure his mask and his gloves would give him enough protection if he continued working in the factory.

One evening in late fall, he noticed groups of children wearing costumes and masks, going from door to door with sacks. When he followed them, he noticed that some of the children pretended to scare the people who opened their doors. Children dressed as wild animals would roar as loudly as they could, children dressed as ghosts would moan or say “Boo!” and children dressed as witches would cackle. Some of the children were even dressed as bank robbers, and they would say: “Give me all your money.” The explorer noticed that the people in houses never seemed frightened, and they gave the children candy.

The explorer decided to devise a costume and a mask that would cover him completely. In this way, he hoped to protect himself from the poisons in his environment while entertaining his fellow-workers.

He decided not to wear anything that would make him look desperately poor, so a zombie look was out. He outfitted himself as a devil in a used tuxedo to which he added a long tail. He wore a red mask and a wig that included horns. He carried a pitchfork which he hoped he could use to transport everything he didn’t want to touch with his hands, including buckets of chemicals.

When the explorer went to work in his new outfit, his fellow-workers laughed. The supervisor didn’t laugh. He told the explorer to go away and not come back.

The explorer decided to ask the union representative for help. For several nights, he had dreamed about her, and in his dreams, she always appeared without a mask. Sometimes she wore nothing at all, and he loved the sight of her uncovered skin. The explorer realized that most of the women he saw in the city wore makeup that functioned like a mask: it made their eyes look unnaturally large and their skin-tones look unnaturally even, like paint. Some of the women he saw seemed unable to move their faces much, or at least their expressions hardly varied. He assumed that the women of the city were trying to protect themselves without veils.

He arranged to meet the union rep in a coffee shop, where she scolded him for dressing inappropriately on the job, but offered to help him file a grievance on grounds of discrimination. The explorer told her how grateful he was, and how much he admired her. He asked if she would be willing to go out with him for a drink or to the movies. “I find you very attractive,” he told her. “You seem honest.”

“Men who find me attractive are usually bad news,” she replied, “but you seem unusual yourself. I’ll give you a chance. Just remember that I always carry a knife.”

And so the explorer and the union rep became better acquainted, although they had to keep their relationship hidden because it involved a conflict of interest. In time, they each learned most of the other’s secrets. She encouraged him to grow a beard again, and he encouraged her to be naked as much of the time as possible. He was willing to let her close the curtains and lock the door before taking off all her clothes.

She drew the line at doing this outdoors, even in the most isolated locales. The explorer loved outdoor sex, but the union rep was well aware that anything she did could be held against her in a court of law and everywhere else. She often warned the explorer, now her boyfriend, that he needed to be more aware of his public image. “You could get yourself killed,” she pointed out.

And so the explorer decided to return to his home country to live. By then, his girlfriend had explained to him that most people in every country wear masks most of the time, whether they are aware of this or not. Sadly, the explorer admitted the truth of her observation, but he was homesick for the land of his innocence. His girlfriend refused to go with him.

On their last evening together, they ate their favourite food by candlelight. The explorer kept wiping tears from his eyes. “You seem resigned,” he told his girlfriend. “You’re always so strong.”

“Yes,” she explained, as though to a child. “It’s a mask.”
----------------------------

Me and Adolf and George

In the dream I am driving in a car at high speed, barreling down a highway and glancing at my rear view mirror. Close behind a car is after me, driven by gang members. If they catch me they’ll kill me, not quickly either. I don’t remember how I’ve offended them, but I’m driving for my life.

There is a river ahead. Over the river is a drawbridge such as I remember from my days on the road in the bayous of Louisiana, and the red light on the side of the ridge has begun to flash and the barrier arm has begun to descend.

I gun the engine, balls to the walls, the barrier sending sparks off the roof of my car as I shoot past, but the road has already begun to rise. I have to get enough speed to jump the bridge leaf before the gap becomes too wide to jump across. If I’m off by a second I’ll do a header right into the leading I Beam of the opposite bridge at a good 90 miles an hour.

The instant my car is airborne I realize it in my gut – I’m fucked. I’m not making this.

The car drops into empty space and noses down towards the shallow river far below and I’m resigning myself to death. Suddenly something grabs it from behind and I’m slammed against the seat belt as the car flips and swings backward and makes a gentle pass through the air. It comes to rest, suspended. I glance up and the gang that was chasing me isn’t so lucky. Their car careens overhead and noses over like a brick. I see their doomed faces staring at me out the window as they plummet past.

As my dangling car gently rotates I see what’s happened, there was a thick steel cable dangling out like a vine on a cliff and my right rear wheel snagged it on my way down. I’m okay for now.

As I open my eyes a voice like god seems to whisper in my head - “Accommodate.”

I’m lying in the dark looking up at the ceiling and its three thirty five in the morning. Accommodate? As I speak the word my life seems to swim past me and I can feel all of my past and the place where I’ve arrived in my life right now and I’m not happy with it. But there’s that word, that advice from a deeper place – accommodate.


It’s 1972, about August in College Park Georgia, and my friend DeEtta and I are on our way to meet a psychic. We did stuff like that. His name was Paul Neary, the brass sign on his door said “Spiritual Counselor”, which technically he was. At the time I was a fledgling seeker of truth, impatient and spiritually ravenous. I began modestly enough by taking yoga classes at the local YMCA. The instructor was a big burly, jolly Irishman, whose name I’ve forgotten. He was energetic and full of life and he could bend us through those poses. He was a fitness professional, not a guru. After one of the classes I asked him if he believed in reincarnation, he did, and where could I find out about my past lives?

While we were talking this little guy came up, who looked like Woody Allen if Allen had just stuck his finger in a light socket. He had that worldly wise face and a wild corona of gray hair around a bald head like a Franciscan monk. He was introduced to me by my teacher as “one the greatest psychics in the country". Paul Neary only charged a modest $15 for a reading, and I set up an appointment. DeEtta came along to observe. He told her she’d have to wait outside in the hall and set up a separate appointment. I made a tape recording of the reading, the first of two which I still have today. I played the tape for her on the bus home.

He predicted my future, stating that I was on the Sixth Gate with the Father, a kabalistic term I’ve since learned the meaning of. It means you’re near your last incarnation. You can grab the brass ring in this life and not have to come back. But – he said – this life was about acquiring and learning the proper use of power. There was great deal of money and social status and power around me in my future and material success, but disaster in relationships. I was a very dominant and possessive man who had abused power in the past and would in this life also. I would fail with women because of my strong male dominance and possessiveness. I would be divorced at least twice. That worried me. He said maybe I could change it. “Find someone exotic and interesting. Make sure she’s a growing person. Maybe you can alter it.”

Now. Take all the predictions in the above paragraph – put them at one end of a spectrum. Now imagine the far opposite end – that’s me now.

WTF?

So I lay in the dark, and glance at the alarm clock and I know this word – accommodate – is my unconscious trying to make sense of the colossal belly flop that is my life. Why did things turn out so differently? What does it mean?

I read a conversation once between Mossad agent Peter Malkin, a Nazi hunter, and Adolf Eichmann. Eichmann ran the camps for Nazi Germany. He escaped Nuremberg and was eventually hanged in Israel for war crimes. He had the blood of millions on his hands. And did he see himself as a monster? Not at all.

He said to Malkin he had been given a job to do. He hadn’t chosen the job, it was assigned to him and he couldn’t say no. He was an efficient man. A good bureaucrat. He defended himself by saying that he had nothing against Jews, he liked Jews personally and had even secretly slipped into Israel once as a tourist to see Jerusalem. If he had been assigned instead to run Germany’s railroads, he said, he would have done so with perfect German efficiency and professionalism. As fate would have it, he was assigned to run the camps. He did. With perfect efficiency and professionalism, traditional German work ethics. What should he have done?

It’s a good question. Germany’s Kreigsmarine sailors and the Luftwaffe’s pilots are proud war veterans. They are remembered by their country in the same way Confederate soldiers are remembered in the deep south, though the world is better for their defeat in both cases. Many Nazi veterans found new jobs after the war with the new Bundes Kreigsmarine and Bundes Luftwaffe until they retired with honor or eventually “Flew West” as the old fighter pilots used to say. Everybody flies west sooner or later. If Eichmann had been a railroad manager he might have disappeared with clean hands into retirement and eventually flew west with nothing to feel bad about. But like Judas Iscariot, history had chosen him for infamy. How does that work? Is your sense of yourself as good really true all the way through or are you just more lucky in the choices - as well as the limits - life put in front of you?

Is there a timeline somewhere in which I became a mighty man of wealth and status, and a bully who left behind a string of broken marriages and resentful children, but maybe became a man of some substance, but with a great karmic debt left yet to pay? There is comfort in mediocrity, because you might live out your life without doing anything very good or very bad. That isn’t the vision I had for myself as a young man. What happened?

Accommodate.

That’s what I did.

I had an explosive violent temper when I was a young man. I learned to control it with an effort. I got into heated arguments with people and spoke my honest mind and shoved my ignorance into people’s faces. Somewhere along the way I learned to fear people’s opinions of me and shrank from giving offense. I learned to work around people with a soft word. I learned to keep my opinions to myself. I became very adaptable and remain one of the most easy going people I know. If that’s a virtue, I guess I have it. But I don’t love it.

Eichmann makes a good case for himself. What haunts accommodating little ol’ me is that if I had been in his place I wonder if I would have had the courage to do differently. You’re not being chaste if nobody wants you. You’re not being humble if you have no accomplishments, or embracing poverty if you just aren't sharp enough to get rich. I wonder how much of my lukewarm decency is only a contextually forced veneer, and the rest is random chance that mimics choice. And if this is true, and it does seem to be – who am I really? What if they made me run the camps, what would I do?

There’s a story I’m working on which has a lot to do with something I heard in an interview with Christopher Hitchins. He was talking about his research on George Orwell. George Orwell spent time in Burma when it belonged to the British Empire and its people were the chattel of the wealthy colonialists. Especially the women. Burmese women are still very exotic and beautiful and even now in great demand as sex slaves. Orwell regarded himself as a decent man, a champion of the common man. But he was also young and introverted and unsuccessful with women and racked by male desire. He did not believe in slavery. But to be a lonely young man alone in a room with a strange, small, dark woman who has no rights at all, who has no power or authority to resist whatever you whisper in her ear or stand over her and demand. All you have to do is walk across that room, just stand up and walk and put your hand on her breast. No more. A stern nod towards the bedroom and she will follow you and simply surrender without a so much as a sigh having seen it all before. Orwell knew if he stayed in Burma that moment would come and he would sink under it. And the first time he would despise himself. And the second time much less so. And by the third time it would seem perfectly normal and his natural right as an Englishman. He knew if he stayed there he would lose his soul. He fled the slave women of Burma. He made that soulful choice. He didn’t have to.


C. Sanchez-Garcia

Coward's Mask

I don't know if I wear a mask, anymore. I used to, back in high school. Hell, I used to back at my day job, just to get by amidst people I despised and who daily wanted to talk about boring things that I didn't actually care about.

I've always been good at faking interest. I've always been good at putting on the mask of a normal person, so that I can laugh at jokes that bore me and pretend I like talking about some baby that some friend of a friend of a cousin of a sister had. When really I couldn't care less, because seriously...what is some random baby to me?

Of course, I know that sounds cold. But I don't think I am a cold person. It's just that...I'm the kind of person who cannot talk about personal things within five minutes of meeting someone. I can't even talk about some major thing that happened to me once, never mind rambling on for an hour about a baby who isn't even really a relation to the person doing the rambling.

Because doing so embarrasses me. It's the one thing that does, really: that vertigo-inducing feeling after I've just told a little story about myself comes on, and I have to start wondering about the things I've said. Was I boring? Did I go on too long? Were the things I said phrased in a weird way - did the whole story itself sound weird?

It's insane, I know...and especially because very few people I know in real life seem to feel this way. They can literally go on for hours and hours about some person they know on Facebook, while I sit there and nod and laugh and make helpful comments in all the right places. I'm good at that. I've always been good at it, even when I know and they know that actually...

I have something better to talk about. Or maybe not better, exactly...I hate to say better. Even if it is actually and totaly better, by any standard of measurement. Publishing a book is a more exciting topic than some random person you know on Facebook.

It just is.

But instead of claiming it is - instead of trying to talk about it on any level whatsoever - I shy away. None of the people at my day job knew anything about my writing career. They knew I was published, but that was it.

And it's not because I'm ashamed of saying I'm an erotica writer, either. It's nothing like that. I wanted to talk about it - I would have loved to talk about it! And for once, I was keenly aware that yeah, I had a story worth telling. But instead of telling it I wore the mask of the Sociable Person, the Normal Person, the Person Who Won't Impress Her Own Stories On You, and I listened to endless tales of Tenerife and random babies and some dude on Facebook.

I couldn't even talk about my books at my own book launch.

So maybe my real mask is that of a coward. It's of someone who's self-esteem is so low that they can't even raise a really interesting topic in a room full of idle conversation, for fear of seeming boring or stupid or like I'm going on and on about myself.

Which is why I'm no longer wearing it. I don't care if you don't care. You've never cared if I did, or not. My real face is the face of a writer. It's the face of someone who enjoys nerdly interests and likes silly conversations about socks.

This is me. And I don't care if you like her, or not.



P.S. My latest book, Sheltered, was released on Friday! Hooray! Here's the blurb for it:

Evie has lived her entire life under her abusive father’s thumb. He controls everything. Where she goes to college, who she sees, what she does. But when she meets Van—a punk who shows her how different life could be—she realizes how much she’s been missing.

Van offers her excitement, protection, love…and most of all, sex—even if he’s at first reluctant to give her all the things she’s been craving. She wants to explore this new world of arousal and desire, but Van is only too aware of how fragile she is, how innocent…

And how much is at stake, when their love is forbidden


And the buy links, if it strikes your fancy:

http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9969-sheltered.aspx


http://www.amazon.com/Sheltered-ebook/dp/B007ITF0LA/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1331690199&sr=1-2

What Lies Beneath

by Kathleen Bradean

Even though it's leather, it's ethereal. I want to lift the snowflake white mask to my face. The whimsical twisting ends glinted with silver. Iceberg blue lips puckered to bestow a chilling kiss. 

We're separated by a shopper darting forward to check the price on the ice queen mask. I find him staring at a long-nosed harlequin like you'd expect to see in Venice during carnivale. Other masks have the blank doll stare that I've always found disturbing. This store even sells the Anonymous face, or if you will, V for Vendetta, or even more accurately, Guy Fawkes - a face we're all beginning to recognize as chaotic neutral.

We drove to New Orleans on a whim. We'd never been to Mardi Gras and both wanted to go. Alcohol had a lot of input on our decision, but sober the next morning neither of us wanted to be the one who backed down from the dare, so we threw together overnight bags, got in the car, and headed south.

So here we were in the French Quarter in the midst of a party we'd crashed and were frantically trying to join. Masks, we decided, were a must. Costumes a close second. While he looks as a half moon half sun mask, I wander into the quieter back room. Most of the masks here are like a fantasy of Renaissance Faire. Brick red Mephistopheles and winged black nazguls leer down at me. Here is a sky face, there is summer. Half faces, full. Bats, unicorns, flowers, fairies. I go back to let him know that there's more to see.

For a moment, I freeze. I don't see him anywhere and I almost panic even though I'm not afraid of being on my own. Then I realize he's the Phantom preening in front of a mirror. The rush of fear becomes something else. That little jolt of adrenaline has nowhere to go so it staggers around my blood and sends my thoughts down a wild path.

I want to dare him to play a game with me. I want to tell him to go in search of his own mask and costume, and I'll find mine, and then at an appointed hour we'll both head to a certain block of Bourbon Street and search for each other. If I picked the lizard green enchantress mask and somehow found the perfect gypsy dress to wear it with, would he recognize the inner me? Would he don a green man mask and chase me through the crowd? Would desire overcome sense as I evaded him, laughing merrily? And when he caught me, would he drag me into a darkened alleyway, behind a wrought iron gate that only opened magically for us? And would we then have movie sex against the wall of a building as a mere few feet away, revelers continued to party oblivious to our passion?

But I don’t dare him, because I don't dare myself to ever admit I want that kind of thing. I got in the car. I came to New Orleans. That's as far as I'm willing to expose myself to him. And it's not his fault, but my restraint will forever taint the joy I'll feel over this weekend. Regret, that colorless, odorless gas is already seeping in a cutting off my air.

His hands lightly grip my shoulders. "I found the perfect thing. Close your eyes," he whispers.

It's a bit silly and I can feel color flooding my face as he steers me into the back room. People can see me doing this. What they must think of me.

Something stiff presses to my face. My hair tugs.

"Open your eyes."

It reminds me of armor, but it's delicate. Much of my face shows through the mask. I'm me, but not me. There's just enough protection, just enough to hide behind.

Before I get too used to it, he trades it for a firebird mask of brilliant colors. Flames lick my face. I can feel the power of the orange, red, and yellow seep into my veins. I'd be so bold in something like that. It's not something I would have picked for myself, but maybe that's what he sees in me. Maybe he thinks I'm more daring than I am. After all, I'm the girl who got in the car on a whim and drove to Mardi Gras.

"Or maybe..."

It has curling horns. It's black and masculine and too cool for words. It's awesome, but it isn't me. I shake my head.

"It's just as well." He puts the mask back. "These things are like five hundred bucks."

Resigned, we saunter out of the store. One day, I promise myself. One day I'll buy a mask like that and it will be perfect. But this isn't that day.

"So how about we go without masks?" he asks. "Just be ourselves?"

He has no idea how terrifying that sounds.

Deliberate Misdirection

By Lisabet Sarai

You don't know me. Even if you're a regular visitor to the Grip, eagerly consuming my disclosures about my outrageous past - even if you've read every word I've ever published - you don't really know who I am. I'm sure you have some valid notions about what's important to me and what experiences shaped me - what makes me tick - but let me remind you: Lisabet Sarai is as much a fiction as the stories she creates.

I'm not saying that I've been lying. Not exactly. You can mostly trust the emotional content of both my posts and my tales. However, I've changed the facts to protect the innocent, which includes me as much as the many people in my past about whom I write. For practical reasons, I need to maintain a clear separation between my life in the everyday world and my author persona. I'm wary of giving out too many clues to my true identity. So I employ deliberate misdirection, sprinkling pseudofacts among the real ones and hoping that you can't tell the difference.

Every time I write a blog or join a social network discussion or email a reader, I'm donning a mask. I am Lisabet Sarai, glamorous doyenne of BDSM erotica, omnisexually voracious, polymorphously perverse, willing to believe that almost anything could be erotic under the right circumstances. I'm the Erotogeek, handing out advice on HTML and web scripting. I'm the Grammar Goddess, the Punctuation Princess, the Marketing Maven, a moderately senior member of the erotic author community. I'm the artist of alliteration who composes the monthly Erotic Lure for ERWA, full of double entendres and offhand commentary on my life as a happy submissive.

If you only knew what my real life was like! You'd laugh and shake your head, illusions dispelled. If you and I passed on the street, you'd never in a million years recognize me, though my head shot shows up all over the Internet. I was glamorous once, for about two hours, on the day that photo was taken. Sexually voracious? Not for a long time, alas! Imagination may be the ultimate aphrodisiac, but hormones unfortunately play a role. A happy submissive? Only in my dreams.

I put on Lisabet's mask to write these posts, and for a little while, I become the lusty, lascivious lady I always dreamed of being. I can pretend that I don't have arthritis, constipation, frizzy gray hair and a butt that's long since surrendered to gravity. I can relive my randy youth, leaving out all the tough parts, pretending that I really knew what was going on, when in fact I was totally lost.

You really don't know who I am. But perhaps you have some understanding of who I'd like to be.

****

My husband doesn't know me. We've been together for more than thirty years. We love each other deeply and get along so well that we've received marveling comments from other couples. Still, he has little understanding of Lisabet Sarai.

I think he views the hours I spend online, being Lisabet, as a somewhat frivolous waste of my valuable time. From a financial perspective, he may be right. He doesn't read my blog posts. He doesn't realize how I sincerely I miss the interactions with you, my peers and my readers, when my real world job keeps me away. All he knows is that it takes me hours to handle my daily email; totally immune to the social aspects of the Internet, he can't imagine why.

It's not that he disapproves of Lisabet. He's a fan of erotica - he had a significant collection already when we met. He reads many of my stories and has even critiqued a few for me. He won't read BDSM, though, or anything that includes sexual interaction between men. This isn't a question of bigotry or even disgust. He simply fails to understand why I find such things erotic.

BDSM especially. He and I had a wide range of sexual adventures in our younger days, but he has never been able to comprehend the thrill I get from dominance and submission. Because he loves me, he tried, early in our relationship, to stage a few D/s scenes, with a notable lack of success. The power exchange dynamic doesn't touch him at all. I tell him that I love him the way he is and that I don't need to submit to be fulfilled. The first statement is true; the second is a deliberate misdirection.

I don't want him to feel insecure, to worry that he does not satisfy my needs. And he does, as much, I believe, as any one individual can for another. Still, Lisabet Sarai's readers know how deeply I've been affected by my brief experiences with BDSM. A physical relationship that lasted only a few years has fueled more than a decade of fictional fantasies. I literally dream about submission. Then I wake next to my husband, feeling damp and guilty.

My husband knows me better than any other single person does, but even he doesn't know all of me. I wear a mask that hides the most extreme of my kinky fantasies from him. Instead I pour them out on the page - or here at the Grip - knowing he won't be around to be disturbed.

We all don masks sometimes, to protect ourselves and the ones we love. Authors, though, especially authors of erotica, spend their lives hiding behind a veil of illusion. We can't escape. To be honest, I'm not sure I'd want to. I love my Lisabet mask - even if I have to tell some white lies to keep it intact.