Being Dirty, Feeling Shame ( #ExtremeErotica )

by Annabeth Leong

For the last two weeks, we've been wrestling with the question of what "dirtiest" means. I'm not sure I know what it is either. What's dirtiest can be what's desperately hot, or what's desperately shameful, or both at once.

There was a time in my erotica writing career when I pushed into the deepest recesses of things with a sort of innocence, without knowing that I might find strange things in corners, or disturb myself, or bring up questions that I didn't know how to answer.

After a couple years of writing, I started getting emails from Joe at Sweetmeats Press, and he said he wanted my wildest stuff—the dirtiest and the most creative. I believe I delivered for Joe. I went into some of my deepest fantasies (he's the one who published my book, Untouched, which some of you have read).

For another story, "Safekeeping," I played with a fantasy that had been in my mind for a long time. I used to housesit, and at one point I got fascinated with the inhabitant of an apartment I visited often. We had a very intimate relationship, despite not knowing each other at all. From that was born a story of obsession where I went for it with all my heart. The narrator of the story is obsessed with the object of her affection's body—every trace of it that she can find.

One typical review said: "[This] story really pushed the raunchy-dirty envelope I actually cringed at some of the things that went on."

I know some erotica writers take this stuff in stride or wear it as a badge of honor. I think, though, that I used to believe in some sort of basic similarity between people. I thought my fantasies weren't really any weirder than anyone else's. The stuff I wrote for Sweetmeats proved me wrong. And it made me uncomfortable to feel different or somehow dirtier.

This was the beginning of a period of me learning about this, of finding out that even in our field there's a way you can wind up feeling unacceptably slutty or unacceptably perverse.

I'm here to write dirty stories, right? But there are times when a story can feel too dirty, as in too dirty to be generally acceptable.

So I really like the stuff I wrote for Sweetmeats. I think it's poetic and hot, and it comes from a really deep place in me. But I have trouble recommending it, and if people tell me they're going to read it, I feel scared. And maybe that's what makes this my dirtiest story.

Here's the part of "Safekeeping" that I think made people cringe, if you're curious.

***

But, like all good things I suppose, that blissful, innocent time had to come to an end eventually. For me, that moment came the night I peeked into the wastebasket beside the bed, having just arrived for another week with Sasha, and saw three used condoms coiled atop a bed of discarded tissues.

My heart stopped, reactions warring in my chest. First, this meant he had another woman, that someone else had lain in his bed and moaned for him. The thought crushed me. It destroyed me. I think I went a little mad from the picture of an unknown beauty with her legs spread, her hips curling up toward Michael’s fingers, her hands on her breasts perhaps, her bright pink tongue just visible through parted lips.

And he had fucked her. Three times! He’d fucked her until she ached. He’d fucked her so she’d feel it the next day, a little bruise at the base of her belly that would make her remember the head of his battering cock. I didn’t know whether to feel pride for my Michael’s prowess or chagrin that he could betray me so many times so easily.

Still, I loved him too much to focus on my resentment. The condoms in the wastebasket presented an opportunity I could not bear to miss. They offered me a chance to finally taste him. For once, I wouldn’t have to seek Michael out through layers of associations. I could place him straight on my tongue. A shiver passed through me, then settled in my cunt. My inner walls quivered for him. Almost, I could convince myself he’d left the condoms as a gift, that he’d understood what I needed from him.

I pulled the first one out of the wastebasket, then sat on the edge of the bed, cradling it in my lap. Would he think I was pathetic if he knew about this? Would she? I imagined the woman he’d been with, smirking at the extent of my desperation for the man I loved. She would pity me if she knew I went through the trash for him, that I treated any little thing that had come from his body as holy. She hadn’t wanted him the way that I did, hadn’t been with him skin to skin.

My heart convulsed with a virtuous ache. The goodness and sincerity of what I felt for him became as clear as my passion. I knew I could not doubt or hesitate. Michael needed to know how utterly I craved him.
I lifted the condom slowly but with purpose. Her scent leapt to my nose, and I had to choke down my jealousy. This bit of latex had been wrapped around Michael’s cock. I soothed myself with that knowledge. I stretched it out and stroked its length, as my cunt wept with desire. In the reservoir at the tip of the condom, I saw my prize, a milky pearl of pure Michael.

When I was ready, I raised the condom to my lips. With my tongue, I parted the rubber ring at the base and delved inside, feasting on stale salt and musk that gave me precious hints of how they would have been when fresh. A sob rose from my throat. I wanted him all to myself.

Soon, the condom sheathed my tongue. I coaxed it with my fingers to I could reach ever deeper inside, needing to taste that pearl. Finally, the point of my tongue made contact with Michael’s come. Before I could control myself, I recoiled at the bitter, thick, room-temperature substance I encountered. Then I reminded myself what it was, and the purity of my love turned the flavor into something sweet. The dried residue revived when it joined with my saliva, melting over my tongue as if it had spurted from his cock just moments before.

I closed my eyes and groaned my ecstasy. Imagining he could see me, I dropped to my knees beside the bed. If his cock were in my mouth, he would want me there on the floor like that.

Growing bolder, I turned the condom inside out into my mouth, slurping and sucking. If not for the other woman, I would have put one of the condoms inside my cunt. Instead, I contented myself with slipping my hand into the waistband of my skirt and down inside my panties. Too impatient to bother with finesse, I forced a thick mass of fingers into the entrance of my cunt, the material and the awkward angle preventing me from getting as deep as I would have liked, but the blunt stimulation doing the job nonetheless.

I frigged myself, grunting harshly around my precious mouthful. As my orgasm neared, I cared less and less about whoever he’d fucked. I just needed more of him. My teeth ground into the little wad of latex in my mouth, but I wanted more.

Frantic with impending pleasure, I scrabbled for the wastebasket with my free hand. In the other room, the dog’s trimmed claws tapped against the wooden floor, probably in response to the way I was crashing around the bedroom. I paid no mind to anything but my prizes. Two other condoms, filled with Michael. He’d tied these at the base. I popped them into my mouth, wincing at the sour taste of the other woman.

Somehow, I had to make him want only me. My cunt spread wider at the thought, admitting a little more of my hand. I bit down into the condoms and they burst inside my mouth, releasing a gush of Michael.

I swallowed for him, the liquid heating inside me as it traveled down my throat and into my stomach. With the palm of my hand, I cupped my belly, treasuring it for holding him.

Then I redoubled my efforts, fucking myself so hard I collapsed to the floor face-first, panting. When the orgasm came, it almost hurt. Pleasure stabbed my brain like a migraine. I lay dazed, chewing latex. Now that my need had been sated, I could taste spermicide, too, and bitter clarity filled me.

The parts of Michael that I’d just swallowed had lain inert for days, like every other bit of him I’d managed to claim. It didn’t matter how intimately I knew his home and his life. It didn’t matter that he trusted me to care for his dog. The truth was, he’d given much more to that other woman. He’d given his vibrant, living self. He’d given her the heat of his hand, his breath in her ear, his hot come surging straight from his balls.

I had to have that, too. I’d thought I could be content with what I was getting, but because of her I now knew that wasn’t enough. Somehow, I had to find a way to let Michael know I needed more.

***

If you're into this, the story was published in Made for Hire, which is for sale here.

All That Pretty Poison

by Annabeth Leong

Instead of telling you about my favorite character from a book—mine or someone else’s—I want to tell you about my favorite character from my masturbation fantasies, who until now has remained entirely within my private domain.

Her name is Marian. She is a well-off housewife of the sort whose table is always adorned by a vase of fresh flowers, who always has a pitcher of iced tea infused with colorful slices of sweetened lime and lemon, who possesses a variety of beautiful floral aprons she sewed for herself, and who somehow maintains a French manicure while cleaning her house to spotless perfection. Marian is never seen with a hair out of place, and a person could feel comfortable eating off any of her floors, or even off the rim of her toilet bowl.

In the fantasy, I am foolish, and I let her find out a few things about me. Maybe I get a little tipsy one night after being invited over to her house. In darker versions, she tricks me, coerces me, and targets me. Specifically, she finds out that I’m queer and repressed and desperate to touch a woman, and then, more damningly, that I’m helplessly and powerfully attracted to her.

(I started having this fantasy when I actually did fear people finding out I was queer, and the power a woman could have over me if she knew that, and so that aspect of the fantasy still possesses a special force that only a closeted adulthood can provide.)

I’m a housewife, too, but I’m terrible at it. I used to have a job, but I lost it. I’m depressed and bad at cleaning and worried that people will think I spend my time leeching off my husband. Marian offers to teach me how to be like her, and I take her up on the offer, even though I can feel its danger.

It turns out that her teaching me how to be like her means I’m cleaning my house and hers, too, all under her exacting supervision. Gradually, she incorporates more and more sexual elements to this, until eventually I’m doing this naked, wearing a butt plug, punished if I don’t get the work done in plenty of time to go down on her. Her favorite thing of all, though, is to make me admit how much I want her. She loves to put me in difficult situations, situations where I really ought to say no, and then force me to confess that the reason I don’t refuse is because I want her so badly and I’m just that desperate for any access to her body.

She can’t leave marks on me herself, but she pushes me to set up kinky situations with my husband so that he unwittingly punishes me for her.

(I have a lot of specific fantasies from this era of the story—I zoom in at particular points and linger there. In one of my favorites, I am tied facedown to a Pledge-scented wooden table in Marian’s house. From my position, I can see the clock over her stove, but I can’t move. She is leisurely fucking me with a strap-on, really taking her time, and she’s previously convinced me to ask my husband to beat me if I don’t have dinner ready when he gets home from work. I watch the minutes go by, increasingly panicked as my hope for getting the cooking done in time dwindles. But Marian is doing it on purpose to get me beaten. She laughs at me as she fucks me, and then asks if I want her to stop so I can go. Of course, I don’t want her to stop. I would risk anything for this woman, even though I know there are so many saner things I ought to be doing.)

Marian is, when you get down to it, an awful person.

She manipulates my husband through me, so that he accepts it when I get tattoos that she designs for me, and thinks it’s his idea that I get pierced in the ways and places she wants me to. She humiliates and hurts me on purpose. She invites a bunch of other women in the neighborhood for tea, tells them I have something to say to them all, and watches with a smirk while I tell them I’m desperate to go down on a woman—any woman—and beg any or all of them to let me. Marian put me up to this, of course, but she acts like my behavior is shocking and strange, and then mocks me when one of the women takes me up on the offer and drags me to the bedroom.

I tend to focus on the parts where Marian is engineering increasing control over me, but I actually have a whole book’s worth of story here. There’s what I think of as Act Two, where I leave Marian and my husband, confess I’m gay, and get a nice girlfriend. This part of the fantasy is also about humiliation, though, because it focuses on how Marian’s tattoos and piercings are still on my body and, even while my lover is kind to me, I miss the way Marian used to mistreat me.

Then there’s Act Three, where I go back to Marian, but the magic is gone because I’m not ashamed of my desires anymore, so I don’t feel humiliated by what I want to do with her. Marian, in this part of the story, looks smaller than she does in Act One. I realize she’s as afraid of public admissions as I used to be. I still want her, but I’m not helpless before her anymore, and then I’m set free to find another woman and ask for the cruelty I need. I find someone who wants to brand me and control me and humiliate me for better reasons.

Believe it or not, acts two and three have come to me in the course of masturbation, scenes that play out along with whatever scenes I’m focusing on to make myself come. They often work as contrasting elements to the confusion and pain of Act One, or they function to emphasize the overwhelming desire I feel for this person who’s tormenting me.

When Lisabet writes about Raw Silk and how it poured sincerely out of her, I often think about Marian. I’ve wondered if I ought to write this all down as a story.

There are a number of reasons I don’t, though. I can’t help but hold back a little when I try to write about Marian. There are things I didn’t tell you about Marian’s manipulations and how they work that are key parts of the fantasy for me. Then I’m aware that this story is full of stuff you’re not supposed to do in modern erotica—cheating and dubious consent are major elements. There’s the element of shame around sexual orientation, and Marian’s humiliations and abuse of that, which I’d feel uncomfortable fetishizing in my work. Also, there’s a whole section that’s sort of a cuckolding in reverse story. I’ve never really seen that fetish represented in that direction, and I have a gut feeling it’s not particularly marketable that way.

When I write erotica, I like to write about things that don’t actually overwhelm me sexually. It helps me to have to work a little to turn myself on. The idea of Marian does overwhelm me. I am not sure I’d be able to remain sitting at the computer. And the fantasy is too personal and raw—I already struggle with fears that people will think I wrote something weird or too dirty, and I think I’d be even more worried about that in the case of something so close to me.

Finally, I worry something would be lost in translation. I tried to explain this fantasy to a girlfriend of mine, and I found myself breaking off into aroused sighs at the very moments she was giving me puzzled stares.

So I don’t know if I’ll ever write about Marian more than I have here, but I wanted her to have some small form of immortality.

(And I'm putting this video at the bottom because Lana Del Rey's vibe makes me think of what I imagine for Marian.)

Making Myself Look Bad

by Annabeth Leong

I think I do lying wrong. I'm supposed to do it to make myself look better, I think, massage my history into something smoother and more attractive, like an age-defying wrinkle cream for my past.

Instead, I'm much more likely to make myself look worse. "I used to cut myself," I'll say. Which makes it sound like I did that all the time, like I carried a kit for it around with me like Maggie Gyllenhaal's character in The Secretary. In reality, I did it three times. I understand that's more than most people have tried a thing like that, but it's not the roundup I gave it, from experimental to habitual.

Another one I used to say all the time is, "When I was drinking." The mental image that gives me is of someone who carries a flask around, or maybe someone who makes herself cocktails with breakfast. At the least, it's someone who drinks every night, who gets drunk all the time, who has a serious history of alcohol abuse and its attendant troubles.

What I meant when I used to say that was "the period of time during which I sometimes drank," as opposed to the many years of complete religious abstinence that followed.

I'll keep going on the drinking thing because I used to lie a lot about that. I used to say things like, "When I was drinking, I would do really bad things." Here, "drinking" meant "consuming alcohol in any amount." (A drink or a sip might count). And "really bad things" meant "have sex with people," or "have sex with women," or "have sex in a non-mainstream way."

Obviously, I know sometimes people get drunk and have sex that they regret and might not otherwise have had, but I'm talking about going to a party, having a drink, and starting to make out with the ex-girlfriend I still wanted but was trying to stay away from for reasons neither of us really understood. I'm talking about going home with her because that's what I knew I wanted to do before I even went to that party, having one drink first as an excuse, making love to her, and then feeling bad about what a terrible thing that was to do only because it wasn't acceptable, not because we hadn't wanted to or something bad had happened.

A few years ago, I started to catch myself in this habit. "When I was drinking, I did really messed up things sexually," I said to someone. Then I stopped and remembered beyond the phrase I'd gotten used to saying. What was messed up about that thing I used to do? What do I really regret?

What I regret is that I wouldn't hold her hand in public. I wouldn't kiss her unless we were alone or had an excuse. I wouldn't go home with her without this ritual of being at a party, pretending it was a mistake. I regret that I didn't tell her in the morning how it felt to be with her, how beautiful it was to wake up in her bed, how I always thought about standing together in her shower.

The story is so different from the one I used to tell.

Maybe that's part of what's disturbing about deceit. I can only tell the truth if I know it. I never set out to lie. I used to let my guilt speak for me, make it sound like things I did out of love happened by accident, from corruption. I used to tell myself that so I didn't have to think about what it meant to have loved.

I also still have trouble seeing the truth about myself. I notice all too frequently how my perceptions are out of sync with my actions. Someone told me once that when she met me she thought I must be a terrible person because of the way I talked about myself. She said she kept waiting to find out the dark and ominous secret, the horrible things I had done to certain people, like maybe my ex-husband. And then after knowing me for several years, she said she realized I was just a normal person. Nothing especially horrible there. (In fact, I may be lying again. I think she said something nicer than that, thought I can't remember what).

It's funny. It's my deepest wish to be a good person, but I can't stop making myself sound like I'm bad. One thing I've gotten from my erotic writing, at least, is that I'm clearer now on what I actually think is bad. I'm sexual and kinky, but that's not the same as bad. It's helped a lot to know that, to look back at my life and see that many of my "crimes" were simply curiosity, things that I have no moral objection to at all. Things I'd like to do again.

In/Fidelity

Iby Annabeth Leong

I’ve always wondered how a person who subscribes to the philosophy that sex is evil, horrible, shameful, and bad is supposed to just turn all that off on the wedding night and flip a mental switch that now sex is required, wonderful, joyous, and holy. In my experience, guilt and shame never go away that easily. I have a dear friend who seemed to manage that change just fine, to thrive within it. I think the permission slip of marriage set her free to explore in a way that she never could have allowed herself to do while single. It’s not something I can picture for myself, though. For me, the only solution is to not think of sex as shameful under any circumstance, so long as everyone involved consents and is of age to do so.

I’ve also never understood how a person can suddenly change from feeling like, “The absolute worst thing in the world that could happen to me would be to become pregnant,” to, “I want a child more than anything.” I read a very beautiful essay once that described a change from taking birth control pills daily to taking prenatal vitamins and marveled at all the small shifts of perspective that are indicated by that shift of behavior. Again, it’s not something I was able to follow in my own life. When I got into a situation in which it seemed like it might be time to get pregnant, I discovered that unprotected sex induced in me all the same panic as ever.

I bring up these two examples because I had the same experience with “infidelity” (I’ll explain the scare quotes in a moment). Infidelity, as many previous posts have described, is something our current culture deems an egregious offense. I have read studies that say we are more accepting of divorce, premarital sex, exploration of all sorts than people were fifty years ago—but far less accepting of infidelity. I have cheated on lovers at times, and I was wracked by guilt when I did.

Recently, however, I found myself in one of those switch situations. My husband and I, after probably a year or more of intense consideration, decided to become polyamorous. We laid out our expectations of how that would work—when and what did we need to tell each other, what sort of reassurances did we need from each other, and so on. And then I found myself in the novel situation of kissing someone else and knowing, intellectually, that it was allowed.

I am not being unfaithful, in that I have not broken any promises that I made. When I kiss my lover, I do it knowing that everyone involved is aware of the nature of the situation, that we’ve all chosen to be in it. My husband and my lover had dinner together before she and I ever kissed, confirming that everything was on the up and up.

I kiss him goodbye and drive to her house, text him that I’ve arrived safely, spend the night with her, and eventually kiss her goodbye and drive to the house I share with him, text her that I’ve arrived safely, and so on. It is a different sort of routine, but it’s a routine. It’s a different sort of faith, but there is a great deal of fidelity involved. I compare calendars and pay attention to my promises and do my best to be kind and fair to both of them.

Despite that, I had trouble flipping the switch. I found (and still find) that I am sometimes flooded with the sort of guilt I would feel if I was cheating. When there is any sort of problem, I am inclined to blame myself—if I didn’t have another lover, I think, this probably wouldn’t be happening (even if it totally would).

I also fear what people will think of me. People who know me as her lover, if they saw me with my husband… Would they think I was stepping out on her? Or vice versa? I worry that I’ll be branded with the shame even if the ordinary definition of infidelity doesn’t apply to me.

I read an advice column recently (and I really should stop reading those), in which the columnist ridiculed the idea that a man was in an open marriage, assuming he must be lying to the woman he’d approached, lying to his wife, out only for a lay, and a bunch of other stuff. Obviously, I don’t know the people involved, but the behavior described in the original letter sounded like the behavior people use when they’re trying to be ethical about this sort of thing. It’s painful to know that I can try my best to be ethical and yet still be seen as unfaithful or adulterous.

I’m still trying to get that switch flipped, though, because, as hard is it is to do, I want to see the situation as it is: no one is doing anything wrong. I’m lucky to be in this situation, to be understood so well by these people, to be cared for freely and as a free person. My hope is that I’m wrong to think of it as a switch to be flipped. Perhaps all this shame is a wound that will heal with time.

Angels and Demons, Strengths and Weaknesses

by Annabeth Leong

Garce gave me the start I needed for this post by referencing that Tennessee Williams quote: “If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.” I’m not sure what Williams meant, but I read it as a reference to how demons and angels can so often be one and the same.

When I was younger, I thought I was in the grip of personal demons, and I spent lots of time apologizing for it. I thought I was crazy because I was wounded. I thought I was fucked up because I couldn’t fit into mainstream narratives of who I was supposed to be and become. I thought I was sinful because I was curious.

I don’t accept those things as demons anymore.

I was raised in a sort of thinking that divided things into good and evil, acceptable and unacceptable. At a certain point, the reality I lived in and observed began to strain out of that categorization. I didn’t solve the problem by simply deciding everything is permissible, though.

Now, what I think is that my flaws and strengths are different sides of the same human coin.

Take lustfulness, for example—a classic member of the traditional list of deadly sins. I’ve gotten myself into trouble over lustful urges. By which I mean I have behaved rashly, without sufficient care for myself or others. I’ve been hurt, and I’ve sometimes hurt others. I used to feel terrible about my inability to control myself, my need to experiment, the fact that I couldn’t seem to settle down and be anyone’s proper girlfriend. That later, I couldn’t be someone’s proper wife.

On the other hand, my curiosity and urge toward exploration has led to so much self-knowledge. I strongly believe that my sexual impulses have led the way toward my becoming a more authentic person, a person who is more accepting of myself and others in all our various mixes of feelings, desires, and needs, and in all our various forms.

It is hard in mainstream society to live with the sort of sex life I have. I often hear about how ashamed I should feel. I often hear my identities and practices discussed by people who don’t realize that someone who “would do those things” is sitting right there in the room with them. But that has forced me to learn courage. It’s a sort of courage that goes against my nature, too.

If it were up to me, I would never cause a ripple in the water. I hate making people feel uncomfortable, and I’ve always been willing to twist myself into knots to avoid it. This, too, is an angel and a demon. I am kind. I am aware of the feelings and needs of others. I love that about myself. On the other hand, I am willing sometimes to let others bully me in the name of keeping the peace. I am willing to suppress myself so no one else has to see parts of me they might not like. Sometimes I hurt people through silence because I can’t bear to face them and hurt them through what I may have to say.

I used to feel a sort of darkness at the idea of myself as tormented by personal demons. Sometimes, I liked that and sometimes I feared it. I used to see myself as a battleground—angels versus demons, sane versus crazy, normal versus weird.

I don’t see it that way anymore, though. I like being a person, not a battlefield. I like seeing things in this complicated way that feels more true to me, where strengths are jumbled together with weaknesses and there is sometimes a fierce and fragile beauty within a thing that looks like a flaw, or a streak of ugliness within a thing that might otherwise be a virtue.

It is easier for me to grow as a person when I feel love and compassion for my whole self, rather than trying to excise a “demon” and later realizing it is my own hand.

The Tales My Browser History Could Tell

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