Gazing Into The Abyss

“To encounter erotica designed for the other is to gaze into the psychological abyss that separates the sexes.”
.Tracie Egan Morrisey


Let’s do a quick recap of the theme. Here’s how it goes:

Suzie Bright is an iconic feminist and an early pioneer of "Herotica", erotic story collections written by and for women. She's best well known as the editor of the "Best American Erotica" anthology series which ran for over a decade, and is the author of the semi-autobiographical "How to Write a Dirty Story", which is the best craft book on this genre that I know of. Whatever your taste its an excellent writing course in itself. There is a famous writing exercise in this book, designed to help faint hearted wanna-bes to free up their fantasies and put them into words. You get three wishes. The first is a fantasy that could be performed in the real world and you'd truly jump on if you got the offer. The second is a fantasy that could come true, maybe, but you would only accept under certain strict conditions. The third is a fantasy that could never happen, because its impossible or too squicky to endure, but lots of fun to imagine.

So the challenge this week is to pick one or more of these exercises and share with the world. My answers to the first two aren’t that interesting. But the third one, that has a beat and you can dance to it. Here’s a piece of what I did with this exercise the first time around:

“ . . . When Gregor Samsa woke one morning from unsettling dreams he found himself changed from a monstrous vermin into a woman.

A long time ago he had once gone to sleep as a man and awakened in his bed as a large cockroach. Now after dozing as a lonely cockroach under the toilet, Gregor had awakened as a woman. Though certainly a step in the right direction this constant change of species was becoming a disturbing habit.

It wasn’t that bad being a cockroach, more like getting used to living in a new and hostile neighborhood. But the sex was just awful.

Although he knew instantly that he was no longer a roach, his discovery that he was now a woman progressed in stages. He knew he was human. He sensed his familiar place in the bed, dressed in a soft silky nightgown of some kind. His arms were here; his single pair of legs down there, and his skeleton was inside now where it belonged. As he moved, those arms and legs felt different somehow. And his chest – that felt pretty strange. His hips felt bigger. More roomy. But it was the place between his legs that felt different and vaguely disturbing in a way nothing else did.

There was barely a moment to wonder whether he had once been a man dreaming he was a roach or a roach who had been dreaming he was a man, when he felt the thick tops of his thighs rub against each other. That was a shock and he felt the first twinges of panic.

Where was it?

Where the fuck was it?

He had always enjoyed waking up in the morning with a terrific boner and then deciding if there was enough time available to do anything with it. He felt a little dampness down there, but no hard and friendly cream horn.

His right hand ventured below to see what the deal was, and his forearm brushed something soft and full laying spread out on his chest under the silk as though a kitten were sleeping there. He caressed it and rolled it gently in his palm. In the center there was an unfamiliar nipple soft and large with a long tip.

Tits? I got tits?

He caressed them and it felt nice. A little friendly squeeze and it felt even better. These are pretty righteous tits, he thought. Somebody here has some real jugs. Why? And then the fear began.

He threw back the comforter violently, looked down at himself and howled. . . .”


That later became “Loves Tender Gender Fender Bender” which appears in the Coming Together collection of my stories. It’s a continuation of Franz Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis”, except that in this tale, Gregor Samsa who had previously awoken to find himself changed into a giant insect, has now awoken from being an insect to being a woman. His sister Greta as it turns out.

My answer to the third exercise is that I would like to be incarnated as a woman for one day to see what that experience is like. We’re not talking about being a transsexual. This is about, like my Samsa, waking up one morning in the natural body of a woman and experiencing sensation and pleasure and even emotions as a woman experiences them, but from a man’s point of view. If that could happen the first thing I think I would do is go off somewhere and pleasure myself to find out how that feels and how a woman experiences orgasm. I’d want to know how that would be different from the way a man experiences it, or even how a man imagines a woman experiences it. I might even – this is squicky – seduce a man to find out what penetration feels like.

There are fundamental differences I would expect. Male sexual desire is typically experienced as assertive, a desire to possess, dominate, bring out the woman’s pleasure and finally thrust and penetrate when she expresses her submission. Men often talk among themselves about sex in this way as a form of conquest. “Did you pork her?” “Did you nail her?” “Did you score with her?” Now before the ladies reading this get mad, I offer my caveat that this is a kind of minimal stereotype at best. This is the instinctive default setting of the male mind and fantasy. In that I am accurate. Having said that, men do dream of sexually aggressive women, and variety makes the world go round.

For a woman, or a gay man, I suppose it would be often the opposite. To allow yourself to be taken and penetrated requires a certain acquiescence and submission, to allow yourself to be pierced and briefly inhabited within by a man sensualizing your body with his requires some trust. Not to mention what will happen to your body if pregnancy takes hold and your life changes forever. It’s one of the great mysteries of the feminine that women spend a great deal of time being inhabited by other people. A man’s tumescence inserted within during sex, and later a child growing inside her womb. What being does a woman have to have for that kind of letting go, to allow another person to dwell inside of your flesh however briefly? To let down her defenses that much? A man feels an aggressive desire to thrust, enter and fill. Does a woman feel an empty space hungry to be filled?

These states of mind are not trivial. From an evolutionary viewpoint what men and women want are profoundly different. For the male it’s a moment of conquest and release and he can move on without consequence. Therefore on some primitive level any woman who will lay down for a few minutes will do as well as any other. Men are capable of focusing a great deal on shallow physical attributes rather than character. Women are often more forgiving on physical attributes but will instinctively want a steady man of a certain character and social qualities who can protect and provide for her and the infant they make, as well as offering emotional intimacy.

And what would an orgasm feel like for a woman? Not exactly the same as for a man. I consulted a few ladies about that scene which appears later in the story. I went to the ERWA Erotic Mind website and fished around to get an idea of how women described it. For men orgasm is a rising rush of pleasure released in a burst of urgent mind blanking expulsion and relief not that far away from a good piss. It is a great feeling of emptying, physically and emotionally. The relief is profound. Until that moment there is nothing in the universe, nothing you are thinking of except the object of your passion. Women romance writers definitely have that part right. When the moment passes it’s a sense of letting go and even distraction. Other things come immediately to mind. Bills to pay. What time you’re getting up in the morning. Men often feel depressed and lonely immediately after orgasm and want to withdraw into their heads which can drive a woman crazy. For a lot of us guys the ideal woman would be a wildcat in bed and after you come, she’d turn into a pizza.

For women, orgasm seems to be more of a gathering storm of intense intimacy and vulnerability, a gathering of tension, like a big emotional sneeze building up out of your reach until the anticipation is driving you crazy. Then ephemeral release, without the finality of discharge and ejaculation, sometimes but not always relief. Something like that. That was the feeling I’ve tried to capture in this story, which for the male character was a very alien experience, as alien as reaching down that first moment and finding nothing hanging between your legs.

I can’t tell you how much fun I had writing that story, and it was the expression of the fantasy spread out in that third exercise. In a way it was a privately written erotica made public. I believe in writing exercises, because for me writing is an exquisite art. There are things you have time to explore in words and plot and dialogue that painters and musicians only get to touch on. All other forms of art are vignettes, but with writing you can explore a notion at full length. Why wouldn’t you want to develop some mastery of language and the ability to express complex ideas and explore them?

But there is another aspect to this exercise also, the thing Tracie Morrisey is talking about. Romance and erotica are uniquely placed genres for an author not just to imagine the other gender but to look into the abyss that separates the sexes, to try to put yourself on the other side and feel what the other feels physically and emotionally. To try to BE that other and bring that across to a reader.

That, I think, is a very fine challenge.


C. Sanchez-Garcia

Sexual Pioneer

Okay, so, I'm going to go with this one:

"3. Explain a fantasy you'd love to do in your imagination, something that excites you but you'd never in a million years do it in the real world, because its (sic)impossible to perform or too squicky to endure. But something that excites you to imagine."

Because although I play at being a sexual adventurer in my books, in real life my idea of kinky heaven is to accidentally pull my knickers up a bit fast. A slightly too hot bath is outrageous, to me. I get all flustered over that bit in Young Adam when he licks her ear with his curly tongue.

I am not a pioneer of all things horny.

But like most, I do have some pretty wild fantasies. I mean, I write about a lot of them for a living. But there's one in particular, one that I love above all others and always go back to. I've no idea why I like it - perhaps because of the dichotomy between naivete and out and out filthiness - but anyhoo, here it is:

Basically, right, I'm in the future. Only in the future everyone's forgotten what sex is. And then one day, through some hokey device like I dunno - a ghost from the past or a magical secret library or some ~feelins~ that start emerging or summat - I alone discover this thing where people actually put their parts in other people's parts! Hooray!

Of course I immediatly become the sexual pioneer I'm nowhere near in reality, bringing the good news to the uneducated and entirely innocent and pure masses. I see these future people as somewhere between Spock and the clones from the movie The Island, all dressed in white and very "Good Morrow, citizen!" - only you know, big and hairy and sort of looking like Armie Hammer and Brandon Routh.

And then I corrupt them both terribly. Or sometimes, they're the ones who find the secret library/magical teleporter/other stupid device, and they corrupt me terribly. It's all very equal opportunities and free love and oooohhhh, look what this thing did!

And of course, it's all absolutely impossible in reality. Mainly because:

a) I could never partake in anything other than a twosome. Two legs and two arms are enough. I have no idea what I'd do with twelve of the things.

b) I can barely teach people how to write a coherent sentence. God knows how I'd go about teaching a guy who looks like Armie Hammer that his willy goes up and down.

c) Time travel has not, as yet, been invented. I know. It's a real bummer.

And that's my fantasy that I can't do. Of course there are many, many more I can't or won't do in reality, for reasons as varied as chafing, mess, lack of Yoga classes, sad level of attractiveness, weak jaw muscles, etc. But I'll save those for another time...

P.S. I have two books out this week, both featuring many, many things I'm probably physically incapable of doing with lots of big, strapping men. Guarded is my fantasy world Princess and her two bodyguards story, and Telling Tales is my second full length erotic novel, featuring such acronymical delights as MFM, MM, MMF, MMMM, MFMF...the list goes on. And if you'd like the chance to win these two sexy tales, all you have to do is go here and comment:

http://themightycharlottestein.blogspot.com/2011/09/new-releases-competitions.html


Would love it if you could stop by!

Cherry Pie

by Kathleen Bradean

So this is the assignment:

1. Explain a sexual fantasy about an experience in the real world you would jump on in an instant if it were offered to you, no questions asked. Something you would have no reservations about actually doing.

2. Explain an experience you would like to have but only under certain conditions, otherwise not. Under those conditions you'd definitely give yourself to it, otherwise not.

3. Explain a fantasy you'd love to do in your imagination, something that excites you but you'd never in a million years do it in the real world, because its (sic)impossible to perform or too squicky to endure. But something that excites you to imagine.

I don't like cherry pie. The goo around the cherries is slick and flavorless. But the worst part is when a forkful gets near my nose and I smell the Play-Doh. Oh, it isn't real Play-Doh, but the almond flavoring most cooks add to their cherry pie reminds me of the scent of Play-Doh, and it churns my stomach.

See, that I can explain. Explaining why certain things turn me on is much more difficult. Every symbol from rope to leather has an association in my mind, like the smell of Play-Doh, and it's the associations in the infinite web of my memory that make some things arouse me while others don't. Some of those associations I'm aware of, but others have roots so deep in my subconscious that I don't think I'd ever be able to trace their invisible threads through my libido.

Explore would have been a better word. 'Explore your sexual fantasies' is a decent writer's prompt. 'Explain' is like being dragged into the principal's office and being told to explain yourself. And at a moment of harsh, unwanted exposure like that, the mind tends to go blank.

So the best answers I can give are
1) If I had no reservations, I've done it.
2) Everything is conditional.
3) Your blood would run cold if I told you. Then I'd offer you a slice of cherry pie. Just try to eat it without thinking of Play-Doh.

You see - some things are best left unexplained.

An Obsession with Self Disclosure

By Lisabet Sarai

I remember when I first heard about blogs (or "web logs", as they were initially titled). That was back in the dark ages - maybe 2001 or 2002. (The word "blog" actually dates from 1997, according to Wikipedia, but I wasn't on the bleeding edge of popular Internet phenomena despite working in the computer industry.) Of course, people had been putting up personal web pages long prior to that time. I'd always found it surprising that they were so eager to share their private selves - their thoughts, their words, their photos - with billions of strangers.

When I learned about the existence of blogs, essentially on-line journals where people chronicled their daily thoughts and activities, I shook my head. What an absurd obsession with self-disclosure! Why would anyone believe that their posts would be of interest to someone else? And how could they expose such personal information to essentially everyone? I shook my head. I'd never become such an "escribitionist" (as some bloggers styled themselves).

Never say never. Fast forward a decade or so and here I am, offering the world my most private thoughts, experiences and fantasies on a weekly basis - sharing things that my own family doesn't know about.

Of course, I hide behind my literary identity here at the Grip. Still, the intensity and dubious social acceptability of what I share here occasionally gives me the shivers.

So for this week, Garce has thrown out tri-partite challenge, as a stimulus to writing. I'll quote it here because otherwise the posts this week might not make sense.

In her craft book "How to Write a Dirty Story" by Susie Bright (the best craft book on this subject i have yet found), Bright has an exercise which yielded a story for me and I invite you here to try one or all three.

1. Explain a sexual fantasy about an experience in the real world you would jump on in an instant if it were offered to you, no questions asked. Something you would have no reservations about actually doing.

2. Explain an experience you would like to have but only under certain conditions, otherwise not. Under those conditions you'd definitely give yourself to it, otherwise not.

3. Explain a fantasy you'd love to do in your imagination, something that excites you but you'd never in a million years do it in the real world, because its impossible to perform or too squicky to endure. But something that excites you to imagine.

The first two items on this list struck me as too easy. I mine my plausible fantasies for narrative material every time I sit down to write.

The third one, though, gave me pause. I have a couple of candidates. The most extreme I'd never share, not even with you, my dedicated readers. One fantasy does definitely fit the bill, though, while at the same time being sufficiently common that (I hope) it won't outrage our average visitor.

I often fantasize about participating in a gang-bang. Not just any gang-bang, though, but one with a strong BDSM component. My dom acts as the organizer and ring master, offering me to all comers (no pun intended) and inviting them to use and abuse me as they will. Usually I'm bent at the waist and shackled in a manner that displays my rear to the crowd. Sometimes I'm even on a stage. In ones and twos, the men take what they wish from me. They penetrate their orifice of choice. They spank or whip my conveniently presented ass. They spray me with their ejaculate, or force me to swallow it. I take a half dozen of them - a dozen. I'm battered and sore, but still they come. Meanwhile, my master stands by to keep me safe, whispering in my ear what a filthy slut I am. He tells me how much he enjoys watching me service the lust of so many men, knowing as he does that I belong to him alone.

He takes me last of all, when I'm stretched, soaked and spent. I'm teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, totally exhausted, yet his entrance revives me and wrings one last orgasm (or maybe the first) from my broken body. Then he gathers me in his arms and takes me away, to clean me, tend to my wounds, put me to bed.

I thought about casting this fantasy into narrative. I'm sure that's what Garce had in mind. But I just regaled you with an extreme BDSM scene a few weeks ago, and although the details of this scenario are different, the emotions are much the same. In any case, while I can imagine that I just might go through with the cutting and scarification I described in my post "Blood Bond", I'd never play this scene.

There are many reasons why I'll never realize this fantasy:

1. Although I might enjoy the notion of being fucked raw, the reality is far less pleasant. My vaginal tissues have always been tender, and they've become more fragile as I've aged.

2. Experience has taught me that I don't generally enjoy fucking strangers. The emotional connection in sex is far more important to me than the physical sensations, and that's missing when I don't know the guy from Adam. Of course, a gang bang should have nothing to do with my pleasure, but if I didn't find it exciting, why would I ever want to go through with it?

3. In reality, my master wouldn't enjoy this scene at all. He's actually very shy and also somewhat homophobic. There's a slight possibility that he might like to offer me to a close friend, but strangers? It would never happen, even if I were certain that it was what I wanted. (I should say that the fantasy of a gang bang that doesn't include his participation and orchestration doesn't interest me at all. Go figure.)

He sometimes reads this blog, although he's a private enough person that he'd never comment. He probably feels something similar to what I did when I first encountered blogs: perplexity at my motives, amazement at the depth and breadth of what I'm willing to share, maybe some sense of smug superiority that he'd never sink to this level of obsessive self-disclosure.

I wonder at it myself. I doubt that it helps sell my books. There's something cathartic about baring your soul to a (hopefully) sympathetic audience. I'm always embarrassed, though, when I write a post like this -- as well as a bit worried that I've finally gone too far.

But I keep doing it.

Waiting for Anthony

By Kristina Wright

Anthony’s wife worships at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, two blocks from my condo in the city. They drive in from the suburbs because Sacred Heart is the only Catholic church in the area that still observes Latin mass. Anthony’s wife prefers the old-fashioned church services of her childhood to the contemporary version offered in the bland suburban church near their stylish five bedroom, three bathroom home. Each Sunday, Anthony dutifully drives his wife and their two little girls to church and drops them off at the curb in front of that imposing stone building. Then he drives a block to the coffee shop where he will get the Sunday Times and an extra hot double latte, killing time while his family attends services (and prays for his soul, presumably).

Or, he used to. That was before me.

We met at the Colley Café one particularly chilly autumn Sunday morning. I was nursing a nasty tequila hangover and sipping a heaven-sent chai latte when he strolled in, wearing grey chinos and a black sweater, looking like the suburban dad he is. I didn’t take much notice of him as he purchased his newspaper and latte and settled into the red overstuffed chair caddy corner to mine. He was a hairy Italian guy with a well-fed belly and an expensive gold watch on his wrist to match the gold band on his ring finger. Most definitely not my type.

Our eyes met over the top of his paper and he arched one thick, dark eyebrow at me as if I had said something of which he disapproved. He stared a fraction of an instant too long to be polite. My pick-up radar went off as I recognized the glimmer of interest in those dark, unreadable eyes. Even though I looked like Technicolor death in my pink and red flannel pajama pants and purple Stockley Gardens Art Festival sweatshirt, my dirty blond hair twisted in a knot on top of my head, the Italian guy thought I was hot. That spark of desire in his eyes felt like a physical touch and left me with a surprising ache between my thighs.

We started talking and discovered we had absolutely nothing in common. He is a financial advisor with a wife and two kids, a hefty mortgage and a time-share in Orlando. I’m a happily single artist who pays the bills waiting tables and teaching middle-aged women how to find their inner goddess through yoga and belly dancing. Anthony is only five years older than me, but he lives in a different world—a world of two-week vacations and minivans with screaming children and rigid rules of right and wrong. That first Sunday, Anthony told me he liked my laugh and my ladybug pajama pants. I liked his big, strong-looking hands and the way his dark eyes never wavered from mine when I told him I hadn’t had sex in nearly two months.

Three Sundays later we gave up on small talk and gave in to temptation. On the pretense that Anthony wanted to see some of my art, we walked the short distance from the coffee shop to my building. That familiar walk felt like the walk of shame before the deed is done. I was getting ready to take a married man to my bed and fuck him. I’m no angel—I’ve been with my share of guys who were supposedly already in a relationship, but though I had toyed with the committed and the affianced, Anthony was my first married hook-up. What surprised me was not the guilt, but the lack of it. I didn’t give it a thought. The only thing I could thing about was fucking him, feeling those big hands on my body and his cock—hopefully as big as his hands—moving inside me.

I was painfully aware of Anthony behind me, staring at my ass, as we climbed the stairs to the third floor of the brownstone where I lived. I kept waiting for him to touch me—wanting him to—but it never came. My hand trembled, jangling my keys loudly, as I let us into my condo and his deep laugh at my awkwardness eased my nerves. It felt as if we were moving in slow motion as we crossed the threshold and a tingle of restless anticipation danced along my rigid spine. Then he laid his big, warm hand across the back of my neck as the door closed behind us and my sigh was almost a moan.

I led him directly to the bedroom, feeling no need to play coy at this point. We both knew why we were here—and it wasn’t so Anthony could look at my watercolors and oils. Sunlight streamed through the drafty, hundred year old windows, illuminating the white sheets on my rumpled, unmade bed. For a fleeting moment, my thoughts went to his dutiful wife sitting in the church a few blocks away, sunlight streaming in through stained glass windows. The sun shone on both of us that day, the virtuous woman and the whore. My twinge of guilt fled before it could take hold when Anthony gently turned me toward him. His hands were warm and steady, soothing.

He cradled my face in those large hands and placed the sweetest, most chaste kiss on my lips as we stood beside my bed. I knew this was the point of no return. He was giving me the option to walk away. I could say no. I could be virtuous, too. Instead, I whimpered one word against his soft lips. “More.”

He gave it to me. He gave it all to me that first Sunday afternoon on my unmade bed. While his wife knelt in prayer two blocks away, he knelt between my thighs, thick and rigid, his cock all I had prayed for.

When he entered me that very first time, I cried out, over and over again, “Oh, God!”

For six months, with the exceptions of Christmas and Easter, when even bad Catholics make an appearance in church, Anthony has worshipped my body every Sunday as if it is the only cathedral he will ever need to enter. When I let myself think about it, which isn’t often, I feel the sharp edge of guilt knocking against the ache of desire. I push it aside because I want him so bad he makes me ache—and because being with him has opened up something inside me, unleashing a frenzy of creativity I’ve never experienced before.

I spend the nights between our meetings painting. I don’t go out with friends anymore, I don’t want to. I want to fuck Anthony—and if I can’t satisfy that desire, I want to be alone and paint. Canvases are lined against the walls and perched on window sills. The longer I am with him, the more… feral, for lack of a better word, my art has become. My art is darker, wilder, almost frightening. And in some of my work, I find myself painting Anthony. But not the Anthony I know, or at least not the suburban dad he appears to be. No, the creature in my paintings is the man who brings out this wildness in me in bed and in my art. The guilt of being with him never goes away completely, but it seems an small sacrifice for what Anthony gives me in return.

Anthony has no such guilt about being with me. I ask him, but the answer is always the same.

“She has her faith and I have mine,” he tells me, using his long fingers to part my plump labia. He opens me to his heavy-lidded gaze, hovering over me like a dark devil while his cock lies thick and hard against his thigh.

I moan, writhing in anticipation as I clutch the brass headboard. “What is your faith?”

“This,” he says, slowly pushing a thick finger inside of my wetness. “Desire is the closest we get to heaven in this life. Passion is sacred.”

I am intrigued even while I’m aroused. He slides a second finger in me and I nearly come off the bed. He knows how to touch me, this middle-aged, middle-class suburban husband and father. He knows what I need and he gives it to me like a gift.

“That sounds like sacrilege,” I gasp.

His laugh is fiendish as his fingers coax me into incoherence, gliding over the engorged bump of my G-spot like it was a worry stone. “I don’t believe anything is sacred,” he says. “But I believe in fucking you.”

I don’t know what I believe in, but at that moment it doesn’t seem to matter. All I know is his fingers are moving inside of me, stroking me in a way I’ve never experienced. An image of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam flits through my fevered brain—God reaching down to touch Adam, their fingers not quite touching. Anthony’s fingers inside of me are like the fingers of God, creating me from the inside out. Conjuring my soul into existence from the sheer will of his dark desire, making me in his image. And then making me come.

Excerpt from "In the Dark Woods" (Fairy Tale Lust: Erotic Fantasies for Women, Cleis Press 2010)

Breathless

By Kristina Wright

As I write this in the wee hours of August 30, my stomach is undulating with my unborn son’s unsuccessful attempts to negotiate more space for himself in my womb. My ankles are nonexistent and my feet have swollen to the point that the only shoes I can squeeze them into are cheap Old Navy flip flops—and that’s becoming more difficult by the hour.

As I write this, I am excited and scared, worried and yet peaceful. My emotions rise and fall with my breaths, each one bringing a different concern or reason to be joyful. Above all else, I am filled with anticipation.

As you read this, I am in a bed on the third floor of a hospital in southeast Virginia, recovering from a Cesarean section and quite possibly holding my newly born son. My stomach is far from flat, but it is no longer stretched to capacity with the weight of the unborn baby. My ankles and feet are likely still quite swollen and I probably look like hell. And I don’t care.

As you read this, I’m likely in pain and/or on pain meds. I might still be feeling the effects of the IV drugs given to me during surgery. I have likely cried a lot of tears and laughed until I thought my incision was going to split. I am euphoric with the new mother’s high and I am filled with anticipation.

As I write this, I am attempting to focus on what happens after the baby is born instead of stressing about the surgery I’m about to endure. I am focused on getting through this last little bit of time before I arrive at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 6 AM on Thursday, September 1. I am trying not to think about the spinal block I will receive or the incision that will be made some time after 7:30 AM that will bring my second son into the world. I am breathless with anticipation of the future.

As you read this, I am not thinking about writing, editing, blogging, doing the laundry or the dishes—or what you think of me. I am exhausted, but I will not sleep much because I am in a hospital and that isn’t conducive to rest. I am focused on my new baby, on my toddler at home, on my body’s amazing abilities, on the people I call family. I am anticipating going home, getting to know my new baby and healing my body.

As I write this, I am hugely pregnant, I have a book deadline looming on the same day the baby will be born, I am exhausted, I am uncomfortable.

As you read this, I am no longer pregnant, the book is finished and submitted, I am still exhausted and uncomfortable, but for different reasons.

As I write this, I am the mother of one.

As you read this, I am the mother of two.

Writing is a process by which an author can convey a message. Time has a way of altering that message, changing its meaning and scope, making it more or less relevant to the reader. Writing is about building anticipation for the next scene, drawing the reader in, giving the reader a glimpse of something just outside his reach—a promise of the future, a secret no one knows, an answer to a riddle, a glimpse through a cracked door.

Reading is about extracting meaning and deciphering truth. It is a pact with the writer to have a little faith, to trust in the words and to hang on until the bitter, bloody end when all will be revealed.

Reading is about unraveling the mystery. It is anticipation in the form of pages being turned, paragraphs being skimmed quickly for instant gratification and then reread slowly and savored for their resolution.

Writer and reader need each other. In fact, they can't survive without each other. Lacking one, the other is pointless. Without both, there can be no anticipation.

As I write this, I am on the precipice of a life change, sleepless with the anticipation of what is to come.

As you read this, I have flung myself into the abyss, trusting that all will be well. I’ll see you on the other side. Promise.

Suspended Sentence

“We need to talk right after I get back.”

“One of the two finalists will have to pack up and leave immediately. The winner will be announced right after this commercial break.”

“The two founding members of the Group for Human Rights disappeared five years ago. Their relatives have been unable to get information about their whereabouts.”

“The average wait time for an emergency examination by a doctor is three hours.”

“We never reveal the results of a test for HIV over the telephone. Patients must come in to the clinic.”

“I don’t know why you’re so worried about it, babe. It’s natural for women to get pregnant.”

“I’ll call you some time.”

“You know Cheryl and I lived together for a few years, don’t you? I hope you don’t really expect me to stop seeing her.”

“You are hereby sentenced to be suspended by the neck until dead. Have a nice day.” [Actually, that last part was probably not uttered by any judge in a courtroom.]

I sometimes wonder why anticipation has such a good press. Being left dangling for hours, days, weeks, months or years is excruciating.

As Simon and Garfunkel sang: “The nearer your destination, the more you're slip-slidin' away." (If the slip-slidin’ involved a lot of sexual teasing combined with a lot of lube, though, it could be fun.)

Waiting for something you really want and seem reasonably likely to get (a surprise party, sexual release) is a delicious form of anticipation.

Like “submission,” “anticipation” can be defined in such contradictory ways that either it doesn’t seem like a good thing, or it doesn’t seem genuine to every observer.

Anticipation could be defined as the state of being alive. We never know for sure what is coming next, even though we can be reasonably sure of our final destination.
Many people who teach or perform in public get “stage fright” to greater or lesser degrees. (It gets milder with practice and experience.) Still, a performer can never be sure how the audience will respond until the very moment. And individual members of an audience will respond differently in different settings.

Years ago, I was invited to read some of my erotica during Lesbian/Gay/Bi/Trans Pride Week. Knowing how controversial sexually-explicit writing was and still is, I agreed on one condition: I would preface my reading with a general introduction to the genre. I didn’t want the audience (especially latecomers) to walk into a room in which a fiftyish woman who does not look like a porn star would be describing an orgasm (apparently from memory), and wonder why no one from the local psychiatric facility had shown up yet.

I was amazed when over two dozen people came out in pouring rain to hear my talk and reading. I gave my mini-lecture, followed by several short passages from my own stories, and got thunderous applause. There was no hostility whatsoever. Absolutely none. During the following group discussion of the seizure of sexually-explicit material from the U.S. at the Canadian border, the whole audience seemed to love the idea of Canadian-grown erotica as a means of outwitting the border guards.

I felt like the diva of the hour. It seemed I had been worried for nothing.

Now I am scheduled to give a more scholarly talk as part of the “Queer Initiatives” series at the university. My talk (a paper I submitted to a journal in 2007, and never got a response) is called “Blood on the Page: First Menstruation in Two Coming-of-Age Narratives.” Note that this is a virgin essay, never before read aloud (or as far as I know, read silently by anyone but me).

Today I was taken aback to learn that my talk is being advertised as part of the “Homecoming Week” celebrations of the university’s centennial (founded in 1911), probably because my talk was scheduled for that week. Menstruation and coming home to the Alma Mater – the significance of life-cycles? I just don’t know.

The anticipation (mostly my own) is building. I really don’t know what to expect.

The suspense keeps life interesting. :~)