Too Close for Comfort #TrueStory #Adultery #Erotica

 

A post by Giselle Renarde.

Lately, I've been devoting a lot of my time to creating audio versions of my books.

Until this fall, when I bought myself a tablet (which I refer to as my "tip calculator" because I have no idea how to use it), I would record audio by reading from hard copies of my works.

But there's one book, in particular, that kept getting pushed aside.

I'd pick it up. I'd look at the table of contents. I'd flip to a story of particular interest and I'd read a paragraph or two. My words--words I wrote more than a decade ago--hit me in the heart. Like a punch.

They're too real. They're too true. I can't say these words out loud.

The book I'm talking about is Audrey and Lawrence, my collection of short stories inspired by the relationship I had with a married man. The stories aren't true--not strictly speaking. Well, some come pretty close, but most are completely made up.

The emotions expressed in those stories? The emotions are true. They're probably truer than anything else I've written. That book is my heart on the page. I can't get away from that. How can I tell those stories out loud? How can I say the words all these years later?

Audrey is not the most flattering depiction of me, but it is an honest portrayal. I hope I'm not so much like her now. I hope I'm a little less needy and a lot less jealous. I'd like to think that's the case. But reading those stories reminds me of my faults--of my character flaws and my missteps.

A lot of people from the romance world hate me because I write about adultery. And not just readers--authors too! I understand that they're not fond of cheating, but I'm not a romantic. Nothing I write is really romance. You aren't safe with my work. It's not safe. I'm not safe.

My reputation precedes me, and not just online. One time I was hired for a job only to discover that my boss went to school with my ex. I guess he did a little digging, asked around a bit, and discovered my true colours. After that, he started warning all the married men in his employ to steer clear of me.

I was a bad girl. I couldn't be trusted.

It was really such a shame, you know. I loved that job.

Anyway, here I am, many years later, wondering if this post is starting to sound like a cautionary tale. It's not. At least, it wasn't intended that way.

I just started re-reading Tristan Taormino's Opening Up and, as much as I now strive to live my life with honesty and integrity, I understand why people lie. I understand why people cheat. I've lived that life. Honesty is easier and even less hurtful, in the long run, but we cheat out of fear. Fear of loss. Fear of hurting those we love. Fear of admitting what it means when we love more than one person. Fear of opening up.

What fear is holding me back? Why can't I bring myself to create the audio version of Audrey and Lawrence? After all this time, why can't I say the words out loud?

Am I too scared to tap in to my inner Audrey? Am I too scared that she's still me?

Fiction in Truth ( #Confessions )

By Annabeth Leong

We’ve talked a lot about the truth in fiction, so I want to talk about the fiction in truth.

Interlude: Lisa and Rob

We all used to hang out at an open mike night. Rob was known for his joyful covers of “Brown Eyed Girl.” I sang a cappella versions of my poems. I don’t remember Lisa performing, though she was always there. Mostly, I remember her for handing out pills.

On this particular night, we went back to my place after the open mike ended, probably to smoke (more?) marijuana. But as was often true during that era, I wasn’t very patient with the conversation. Rob, particularly, seemed to be the type who got high and wanted to discuss mind-blowing, half-baked theories about quantum mechanics, and the more he waxed philosophical about The Dancing Wu Li Masters, the more I wished I’d left him out of the invitation.

Lisa saved the day by asking us to do her a favor, something she loved but hadn’t gotten to try in a long time. She wanted us to drip candle wax on her bare back, blow on it until it dried, and then peel it off and blow on it some more. I was down for just about anything that involved people taking their shirts off, so I quickly agreed. Rob was down as well, probably for similar reasons.

Many candles adorned my room, so we had the materials at hand. Lisa stripped down to her bra, and Rob and I took turns going through the wax procedure with her. I remember my fascination with the texture of her skin and the way it reddened in response to the heat. I have a major thing for freckles and moles, and I can still recall one just beside her bra strap and how badly I wanted to touch it. I’ll also never forget her gasps and moans.

After she said she’d had enough, I decided I wanted to try it. I never wore a bra back then, so my torso was entirely bare when I peeled off my shirt. The scald of the wax felt sharp and itchy at first, but as the heat spread over and through my skin, it settled into a squirming warmth that transformed into an erotic sensation. But there was also the matter of the breath. Cool or hot, soft or strong, different depending on whether it came from Lisa or Rob—it landed with an unbearably pleasurable shock each time, on raw, nervy skin stripped of defenses.

Rob tried it, too, though I remember having the sense that he was perhaps not as much of a masochist as Lisa or I, and was largely enduring pain in the interest of having two women touch his back and bring their lips close to it.

We did several rounds of this, and, predictably, the scenario evolved into heavy making out. I remember kissing both of them and playing with Lisa’s breasts. Pants didn’t come off, though I’m not sure why—I’m sure I would have gladly removed mine. At some point, Rob and Lisa went home, and I went to bed.

Oh, and by the way, I had a boyfriend at the time, who would have been extremely unhappy to know what I’d gotten up to.

The next week, I arrived at the open mike to find Rob waiting with one rose for me and one for Lisa. I remember thinking the roses showed a certain sort of naivete. He had no idea, I thought, of who Lisa and I were and what that night had actually meant. I don’t recall if we ever discussed things, but nothing erotic happened again with that particular configuration of people.

***

So, that story is as true as I can make it. I’m sure I’m representing the events and facts accurately, and I’ve represented my thought process to the best of my ability.

However, whenever I tell a story, I’m aware of all the choices I’m making about what to say when—just as I do when writing fiction.

For example, above, I waited until the end to mention I had a boyfriend who wasn’t present for these events. If I’d mentioned that up top, though, it would have colored the entire story and made it “about” cheating in a way it isn’t if I reveal that fact at the last minute.

I spent paragraphs on the sensual details of the candle wax and glossed over the kissing and conversation. That’s an implicit decision about what constitutes the “important” part of the story.

I also left out the context and back story for my friendship with Lisa, which involved a complex love triangle between me, Lisa, and Lisa’s best friend, not to mention previous ambiguous sexual encounters and a lot of drugs I felt ambivalent about taking. I wonder if that back story and context is part of why I didn’t do more to escalate the situation between me, Lisa, and Rob. In a similar situation with different people, I might have been much more into making a triad out of it, but I already had reasons I felt reluctant about getting more deeply involved with Lisa. If I’d put all that, the story would have been more complicated, but maybe it would also have been more revealing?

There’s also the urge to make some sort of meaning out of the story, another thing familiar from fiction. So what is that story about? Is it about the fucked up things I did back when I used drugs? Is it about my discovery of the kinky uses of candle wax (something I still enjoy in BDSM play)? Is it about a missed opportunity at an interesting three-way relationship? Is it about my willingness to explore sexually? About infidelity? About how Rob maybe deserved better than to make out with someone who didn’t care about his interest in quantum physics? About how Lisa and I really should have talked about what we wanted from each other? About how an open mike is a good place to hook up with kinky people? About how I’ve wised up? Or how I’m still the same?

I could write the story to match all those things and more.

This says a lot about writing, both fiction and nonfiction. Perspective is inescapable. Opinions get infused.

Right now, though, I’m more interested in what it says about life and how I look at myself. I can shift the true stories of my life in all sorts of ways. I could use them to tear myself down for sluttiness and risky behavior. I could use them to portray myself as an interesting, adventurous, experimental person. I’ve done both. And sometimes I wonder if there’s any really “true” way to see it all. It’s a true story, so there are true things about me in it. What those things add up to, though, is complicated, and, to some degree, chosen. I’m a writer, and it seems like I do get to write myself, depending on how I tell this and many other stories.

Secret, Sapphic and Spicy Confessions #truestory #erotica

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Glamour: A True Story from the Seventies

By Lisabet Sarai

I wonder, sometimes, if I imagined it all. But then there's the evidence: the photographs, bound in a loose leaf notebook with my name in gold ink on the cover. Each print is lovingly mounted on heavy paper of a color that compliments its hues. There are no captions; these pictures speak for themselves.

My heart quickens when I leaf through the album. The woman in these photos is glamorous, sophisticated, utterly desirable. She gazes at the camera from beneath half-lowered eyelids. Her scarlet-painted lips are parted. Her expressions are languid, sensual, mysterious. She does not smile. She is dressed as though for a nightclub: patent-leather high heels, a red satin jumpsuit that highlights her curves, a black silk blouse dusted with sequins, a stretchy jersey showing off her cleavage.

In the images further on, she is nude. She reclines on burgundy velvet, the curve from hip to shoulder simple and perfect. She kneels on a window seat, illumined by winter sun, hands clasped behind her head, face turned away from the camera. The arch of her back, the swell of her elevated breasts, the graceful line of her neck flowing downward from her upswept hair: I cannot look for long at this particular image without tears gathering.

The photos remind me of who I was: young, experimental, hungry and open. At the same time, I have to smile, recalling that in those days I never wore make-up, and was more likely to be shod in sandals than stiletto heels. The woman in the album is an artistic creation, a work of imagination and passion. These photos grew out of an intimate collaboration between my younger self and a man with remarkable vision.

His name was Ron. We were introduced by my lover, Pavel, who always enjoyed tempting me and egging me on to outrageous adventures. Pavel told me that Ron enjoyed photographing women in sexy clothes. Apparently, Ron had suffered a heart attack a few years earlier, and had to live a quiet life. Pavel implied that Ron's hobby was a surrogate for sexual activity made impossible by his health.

I was intrigued, as Pavel knew I would be. Motivated equally by perverse curiosity and sympathy, I agreed to a photo session with his friend. At ten A.M on a February Saturday, I showed up at Ron's apartment, nervous and excited.

I guess I was expecting someone frail and infirm. Ron was a small, trim man with graying hair and a mustache, who seemed perfectly healthy to me. His quiet manner and obvious intelligence won me over immediately.

"Let's start with make-up," he said with a quirky smile. From his bedroom, he retrieved a cosmetic kit worthy of a movie star. It didn't strike me as odd, at the time. Already I was caught in a kind of sensual trance, accepting whatever happened.

He tied a sheet over my blouse and jeans and set to work. His fingers were deft and gentle. It felt perfectly natural to have him touching me. For half an hour he labored over me with lipstick and eyeliner, blush and mascara, implements and products that I couldn't even name. He hummed to himself as he worked. I tried to remain still, a canvas for his art. It started then, my delicious transformation into a passive object of desire. I did not understand at the time why I found his attentions so arousing. My nipples were taut under my clothes, and my sex ached. Yet I felt no urgency.

I surrendered myself to him, gave him my face and my body to fashion into his image of beauty. I basked in the light of his focused attention. I wanted only to be worthy of his efforts.

I know now that this need for surrender is something fundamental to my nature. I require mastery, crave discipline, find my deepest satisfaction in submission. Then, I was innocent. And Ron was no master, not in the sense that I now understand. Nevertheless, I reacted instinctively, eager to bend myself to his will.

At last he put down his pencils and brushes and brought me a mirror. "What do you think?," he asked, clearly pleased himself.

A shock ran through me as I gazed at the face reflected back at me. My face, my features, and yet strangely altered and enhanced. My brows arched elegantly over dark-fringed eyes that seemed emerald rather than their usual dull hazel. My lips were fuller, my cheekbones higher. My whole countenance had a sculpted quality that made me think of dusky marble.

I was speechless. Ron just grinned. "Costumes, now," he said. I had brought a few things of my own, but he had an entire closet of slinky, suggestive garments." They belonged to my old girlfriend," he told me then, and I believed him. I wonder, now, whether this was the whole story. But what does it matter?

He had jewelry, too, heavy gold-colored chains, long strands of faux pearls, hoop earrings and bangles. I felt paralyzed, incapable of choice. "Try on the red jumpsuit," he suggested, "while I get the camera and lights set up."

The jumpsuit fit perfectly, just tight enough. All of the costumes fit. I was not surprised by this; I accepted it all, moving serenely through the day in total trust.

Back in living room, Ron posed me. Hand on my hip, my face in profile. Curled in an armchair with my ankles crossed. Back to camera, spine arched, looking over my shoulder. Sometimes he would give verbal directions. Often he would come over, adjust my limbs, raise my chin a bit to catch the light. The shutter clicked and the film whirred, again and again.

His face was flushed and his breathing was ragged; clearly he was excited. However, he never deviated from his calm, professional manner. His fingers never brushed the nipples that poked eagerly through the spandex top. Unbuttoning the silk blouse so that it could fall open slightly, he may have glanced into the shadows that opening revealed, but that was all.

I found his manner simultaneously frustrating and comforting. I wanted more. He progressed to increasingly provocative poses. I opened myself to his lens.

When he asked me whether I would model naked, it was simply the next logical step. I felt no embarrassment as I stripped in front of him, only exultation. I saw my desirability mirrored in his eyes.

Morning flowed into afternoon. The session took on an endless, dream-like quality. Our interactions seemed a stately kind of dance. The time between successive poses lengthened. He would position me and require me to be still. Then he would gaze at me for long minutes before finally triggering the shutter. My muscles cramped and goosebumps peppered my bare skin, but I didn't mind. We were lost together in a convergence of fantasy.

Finally, I noticed how tired he looked. His complexion was ashen, and his breathing was shallow. "Let's stop, Ron," I invited him. "You need a rest."

I donned the silk kimono he handed me. We sat at his kitchen table, drinking Portuguese rosé and talking as though we had known each other for years. But the spell was still on us; in the midst of conversation he would suddenly fall silent, staring at me. I would blush and then straighten my back proudly, allowing the robe to fall open. After a few minutes, we'd smile sheepishly and go back to our discussion.

Of course we made love. It was a natural extension of intimacy we had already shared. Yet in a sense, it was an anti-climax. I was preoccupied, worried silly that he might collapse in my arms. And Ron - Ron was grateful in a way that made me understand how great a gift he had given me. A gift much finer than the seething orgasm he wrung from me with his gentle fingers and nimble tongue.

I kissed Ron goodbye in the early winter dusk and headed home. I never saw him again. About a week later, Pavel dropped by my place and handed me a package. Inside I found the album.

"Did you look at them?" I asked my lover. He grinned in that mischievous way of his and nodded. Then he took me in his arms and wrestled me to the carpet. He was a wild one, Pavel was.

I don't show these photographs to many people. When I do, reactions vary. My husband simply shrugged. "Nice," he said, "but they don't look at all like you." My fundamentalist mother claimed that they were the work of the Devil. My feminist brother was concerned about my being a sex object.

Occasionally, though, someone will leaf through the pages and see the truth. They'll see my parted lips, my lowered gaze, and understand that I was enchanted that day, held still and willing as a stranger molded me into his ideal of beauty. Totally open, free of fear, surrendered to the moment with a purity that I've been seeking ever since.