Sex Still Spoken Here Part 12

I slipped into my strap-on so fast I fumbled with it. I fumbled when I f.u.c.ked him, too-I'm short, and he was tall, and balancing on my knees behind him on the bed was hard. After I slipped out the third time, I couldn't help it, I started giggling.

"What's funny?" He moaned.

"My d.i.c.k keeps slipping out of you from this angle. Can you turn over, pretty? Or can we bend you over the bed?"

"No, I wanna be on my belly." "Then I need to use my hands."

"Anything, just don't stop, please, Mama."

He came fast around my fingers, snarling and pounding the mattress while I told him how good he was, how hot he was, how much I loved f.u.c.king him. I pulled out, pulled the glove off, pulled him close to me. I was so wet; I wanted him to touch me so bad. I leaned in to kiss him, and he stilled. He looked close to crying again.

"I'm sorry. I'm not doing well. I'm sorry. It's just hard sometimes, getting f.u.c.ked f.u.c.ks with my sense of myself, and I feel like less of a boy, and I'm sorry, I want to touch you, but ..."

So I held him while he broke again. Fought to urge to say I love you. "Baby. It's okay."

Sometimes I felt guilty, needy for wanting that affection. He says we're just casual. Do I get to want that? He's a big kid, I can ask and he can say no, but what if even asking is too much? Is that pressure? Pus.h.i.+ng? I'd daydream, and then I'd feel greedy for being daydreamy. I'd want little presents from him, the kind of gifts you buy for someone because you see or hear something and it makes you think of them-a notebook with a pretty cover, a small stuffed snail with pink antennae, a mix CD. Sometimes I wanted big presents, too-a new knife, tickets to see Patti Smith when she came into town that October. Sometimes I wanted the Lloyd Dobler moment-him standing outside my window in the rain, boombox above his head, grinning about me.

And sometimes, I just wanted him near me. I wanted him to come over with popcorn and a movie at 9 o'clock on a Sunday night when I'd had a terrible week. But I didn't ask. I didn't ask, because he'd said he needed to cool down and he could only see me once a month and we had to be more casual, because he was overwhelmed, but he'd still text and email me all the time, we'd have phone dates, he'd say, over and over, how honored, privileged, amazed he was to be in my life. Where was I in his life, though? He called himself my friend as well as my lover, but he wasn't the kind of friend I could rely on when I was having a bad day. He wasn't the kind of friend I could call and ask to come over the awful day I ran into my rapist at a poetry reading, I came home to a letter that said I didn't get the big grant I applied for, and then my septic system exploded when I tried to take a hot shower. My close friends could do that for me-my best friend, with a girlfriend and friends and a busy life, she made time to come over that night with ice cream and hugs and an offer to take a bubble bath in her tub. Why couldn't someone I was ostensibly dating do that, too?

We both took showers. Studied at a cafe together, split a piece of ginger-pear bread while I tried to write a response paper for my evening cla.s.s, and he worked on his zine. We took a walk to the Mission Library after. I was so pent up, with sadness and l.u.s.t and this feeling of missing him even though he was right in front of me. "I ..." I finally said, "I ... still feel really s.e.xual." Why did it feel so naked, saying what I wanted? I got to want things, right? "I have go home to Oakland," he said. He looked embarra.s.sed. For himself or for me?

At the library, I borrowed a random DVD of Arrested Development, and he borrowed another Louis Malle movie. We hugged awkwardly at the BART train. My apartment is only a five-minute walk from BART; I was crying before I got through my front door. I collapsed into my bed, sobbing, and eventually reaching for my vibrator. I cried and jerked off and cried while I jerked off, thinking about all the things I wanted to do with him, all the places I wanted him to touch me that he hadn't.

Thinking about every question that was left hanging on my tongue. What did I do? Why did he go away? Am I too much? I just want a place in his life. I just want to matter.

I went to my evening cla.s.s, exhausted, rings around my eyes, questions still ringing in my head. I could barely focus in cla.s.s, didn't hear a word anyone said. I couldn't wait to get home. I thought about calling him the minute I got in the door. I decided to send a text and watch Arrested Development instead. "bambino, i'm feeling a spot of top drop. can you rea.s.sure me i'm only evil in good ways?" Of course every minute he didn't respond made me feel worse than before. Maybe the text wasn't a good idea.

I put on my pink lights and my softest pajamas, put the DVD on my laptop, and sett back into a coc.o.o.n of blankets. I just wanted something silly to take my mind off my day, something to watch while I collapsed. The first episode on the DVD was called "Motherboy x.x.x"-about a mother/ son bonding dance. I laughed, hard, for the first time all day, but it was the kind of laughter that verged on tears. I didn't wanna start crying again. I pulled my blankets even tighter around myself as the credits rolled. My cat took pity on me. She let me press my face into her fur like she was a pillow, curled up around my head. She purred even louder and licked my face. Everything I could do to feel held that night, I did.

"I love erotica. I love writing erotic scenes. It really exposes the individual. And when I'm writing, I'm not writing just purely for the sake of erotica. There's something you learn something about the characters through that interaction."

-Jerome d.i.c.key

(in conversation with Farai Chideya)

Holly Zwalf Bio Holly Zwalf is from Sydney, Australia, but recently spent eight months living in San Francisco writing a PhD about queer leather Mommies. She sorely misses sunbathing at the gay beach in Dolores Park with a burnt sugar Bi-Rite ice cream melting in her hand.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? I find it impossible to leave s.e.x out of my writing, just like I find it impossible to leave s.e.x out of life. Without either, I would be miserable.

Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? I am a s.m.u.tty spoken word artist, I have a PhD in queer kink, and I have also just written a novel about a maternal m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t who is a nanny by day and a s.e.x worker by night. I figure if you're going to dedicate your life to something, it may as well be something you love.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I am from Sydney, Australia, but I attended the Erotic Reading Circle while I was living in San Fran and conducting my "research" on the queer kink community. (In other words while I was gadding about the place going to s.e.x parties and dungeons and having a grand old time, at the University's expense). The Circle gave me the opportunity to share my writing in a s.p.a.ce where it wouldn't be received as shocking, where my writing would be valued for its quality and craft, not judged for its confronting or outrageous content.

What's the inside scoop on your story? That dirty weekend away was an emotional journey that covered great distances, and that also somehow took me closer to home. My journey had begun in the red dirt of the central Australian desert, engulfed in grief and l.u.s.t, and so it was only fitting that it ended hard up against a rusty redwood (being the perverted tourist that I am).A few hours later we stopped at the giant drive-thru tree, and I went to the toilet and discovered the perfect souvenir-bits of redwood crumbled all through my knickers.

A Short Story Holly Zwalf She tells me that her lovers have always been two-toned. The most recent, the one we both shared for a brief overlap of time, was baby-powder and engine grease. The one before that, vegan cupcakes and leather. And me? I ask. She pauses. She is thoughtful, and I like this because I know that it means I can trust her. Sea salt and eucalyptus, she finally says, and then nods as though to settle it-yes, that's it. That's you.

She takes me away for four days, north to the redwoods. At lunchtime we stop for oysters, two dozen of them safe in their sh.e.l.ls that we pry open and suck dry, like thirsty men at the pub after a long Sunday spent in church. I have always maintained that oysters are like o.r.g.a.s.ms, but these are different. These are like another's, not your own, a movement in three parts-the sweetness of a beginning, the salty crescendo, and last, the tenderness of a body gone limp in your arms. That is how these treasures taste: fresh, alive, complex.

The first night we camp, drinking red wine in plastic cups and hanging our b.u.ms over the flames of the strange eco-friendly faux wood logs to keep warm. Beside us the river is slow and silver under a full moon, and a small black cat from the farm house slinks around chasing shadows. The tent is cold but we are new lovers, and new lovers don't pay attention to the weather. After we have finished the cat scratches to be let in, so I unzip the fly and she crawls in between us, and it almost feels like home.

It rains in the night and by morning I am getting a cold, so I no longer feel guilty that we have booked a cabin for the next two nights. We spend a lazy day driving through the Californian fog, emerging occasionally beside a rugged cliff or a mock-chateau winery, sniffing the reds as though we can afford more than just the one lower-end bottle. The vineyards and the European-style buildings help me to forget where I am. Some of them are reminiscent of the southern parts of France, some the Swiss Alps, others perfect replicas of quaint English cottages. America has the knack of combining three or four different cultures in the one moment, a nostalgic nod to its European roots, perhaps, or an unashamed attempt to import a sense of timeless history into a young (in white terms) land. I am in search of a nice port. I have aspirations to drink it by the fire in our log cabin in the woods, or in the hot tub that we have been told nestles romantically in the trees, surrounded by fairy lights and tranquillity. However as night falls so does the rain, and when we arrive the fire is a fake gas flame and the hot tub is broken, so we drink the port out of Ikea tumblers in the tiny oval bathtub, our bodies stuck together out of sheer necessity, my back against her stomach, knees and elbows protruding awkwardly. Only our b.u.ms and c.u.n.ts are properly submerged in the warm water.

The next day there is sun, plentiful and strong. We set up our camping stove on the verandah and cook pancakes, flipping them over with a knife, and afterwards we wander across to the beach. At the top of the cliff we stop. The sun is hot on my arms and below us the ocean is thras.h.i.+ng around madly in the wake of last night's storm, like a three- headed monster with too many elbows and legs. I watch the waves pounding the sand and imagine that force inside me, heaving, thrusting, surging. I am beginning to understand what Annie Sprinkle means by eco-s.e.xuality-today I want the whole world to f.u.c.k me. I tell my lover this and she takes the hint, and when we get down onto the sand she takes me, swiftly, suavely, my a.r.s.e resting on a piece of bony driftwood as I face the roiling water, watching it crest over the rocks in a rush as I c.u.m in much the same way. This is the closest I get to religion, sharing my o.r.g.a.s.ms with the sky.

We save the redwoods for the last day. Mid-morning we stop for an impromptu picnic in between one tourist attraction and the next, and after eating she leads me off into the trees, her hemp rope coiled around one arm. This is why we came here; this is the reason for our trip. We find the perfect spot: a young s.h.a.ggy trunk, straight and slim, stretching confidently beside a stream. She ties my hands above my head and then slowly coils the rope around both my chest and the tree, looping intricate knots around each breast, the rope binding me firmly against the crumbling bark like a hug. As I am gradually restrained I try to match my breathing to hers as she has taught me, fighting the panic inside. The noise of the road disappears and I disappear along with it. I hand myself over and let go.

She unbuckles my belt and tugs my jeans down around my knees, wriggling her hand under the elastic of my knickers. I am painfully aware that if someone walked by she would not have enough time to untie me. I also do not care. She f.u.c.ks me, fast and then slow, and unlike on the beach this o.r.g.a.s.m is gathered up from all around, held tight, and then flung out wide like handfuls of water sparkling in the sun. When I stop shuddering I remember where I am and I am suddenly overcome. I can't stop laughing, I feel like I am on acid, I feel like I have transcended, I feel like there are wings thrumming the air, just out of sight. I forget about history and futures and sums that don't add up, and for a moment I believe in something bigger.

When we drive through the grand finale, the Avenue of the Giants where the largest of the redwoods reside, it is late afternoon and the sunlight slats diagonally through the leaves in golden bars. In the deepest part there is a stillness that is overwhelming. The air feels so calm, so solid, so sure. No wars, no famines, no heartbreaks have ever touched this peace. I suppose this is what two thousand years of growing upwards will do to you. Despite the suns.h.i.+ne a chill invades us, and I seek refuge in the heat of her mouth. She draws me in to the shadows of a partially-hollowed trunk and slides her fingers inside me, and instead I find myself s.h.i.+vering on her palm.

We drive home with some of this silence still spun like fairy floss between us. We drive into the night, the dense emptiness parting on either side of our headlights and closing back in around us at the boot. This country thinks it is the centre of the universe, but I have begun to understand. This is a country where the lights are so bright that nighttime is a myth, where the moon is obscured by a neon sign. How can you remember your place in the universe when you've drowned out all of the stars? But tonight there are no stars. Instead there is a storm waiting in the wings, clouds obscuring all chance at navigation, no way of telling which is up or down, which is sea or land, which is solid or only a shadow. I am delirious in this newfound anonymity, floating oblivious past the unseen alien landscape, alone at last in this over-populated, over-consuming, over-suspicious country. But she has started to panic-I can tell by the shortness of her breath. She is from a place where the roads are lit by the houses which flank it, where roads don't connect towns but connect houses to cities, where you cannot drive for longer than a breath without sharing it with a hundred others. And I am from a place where the distance between homes can mean the distance between new lovers at the moment when they realise it won't last; I am from a country where the distance between us and the rest of the world means that we can forget our humanity and turn away those who seek it. And it's lonely, but apparently it's safe.

As we are slowly embraced by the outstretched fingers of a glowing San Francisco I leave my sense of home behind me in the dark. Soon the road is flanked not by trees but by my fellow homeless-the needy and the maimed-lining the streets like an a.s.sembly of war memorials come to life, though one would hardly call it living. Theirs is a hopelessness that could rival the homeless orphans of Cambodia, though at least in Cambodia it's always summer. Apparently the great American dream is only viable if you have somewhere warm to sleep, somewhere safe to dream it. And this is not my dream.

They say that love knows no borders, but mine is eucalyptus and sea salt, and hers? Hers is the metallic tang of the Golden Gate, the rust of an ancient redwood. And I am trying to work out how to tell her when she says, hey, are we cool? and I no longer know how to answer. I like her, this butch with her feminist convictions, her romantic plans and her filthy mind. I like her so much but it makes no difference, not when you've closed down the borders of your heart. We sit there together in the dark with the gearstick and my history between us, crawling through the tragic streets. Her thick tough-boy fingers tremble against the steering wheel and I want to open the door and get out, but we are moving too fast. Eventually we pull up at my house. I look into her chameleon eyes as though for an answer, but of course all I find are more questions. What are we going to do? I ask no one in particular as I get out of the car. Make me into a good short story, she says.

Carol Queen Bio Carol Queen is a widely-published author of erotica, memoir, essays, and s.e.x information. She is the founding director of the Center for s.e.x & Culture (s.e.xandculture.org) where she co- facilitates the Erotic Reading Circle with Jen Cross; she also facilitated the ERC throughout the 1990s when it was held at Good Vibrations and edited the first anthology of ERC stories, s.e.x Spoken Here, with Jack Davis. More about CQ at www.carolqueen.com.

Mini-Interview How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I have way too little time to write as much as I'd like, but whenever I work on something new, I immediately take it to the Circle. I receive loving and honest feedback and it is so valuable and inspirational. I've not done a "regular" writing group, but I think the Circle is so diverse and interesting; it's hard to imagine another group that allows its writers to come from so many different places, on so many different things, and most importantly, come from so many varying levels of experience. It's so amazing to hear a seasoned writer's new work and a brand-new writer's first-ever story, all in the span of a couple of hours.

Do you write under your own name? YES. To me, writing is activism, and it takes the point off my spear if I am not willing to stand up and speak for my work and for the change I want it to create in the world. If I were concerned about doing this work, I don't think I'd be able to do iton the contrary, it's an honor to be able to lend my thoughts, my time, and my name to trying to make a more s.e.x-positive world.

What's the inside scoop on your story? Sometimes when you have a big crush, you try to turn it into something more; sometimes (like this time), you just let it trans.m.u.te into the raw material for a story. This piece works out not only my fondness for a certain person, but also some of the many feelings I have about the Interwebs.

Mirror in the Machine Carol Queen I've never gotten all the way to page 33 when I googled somebody before. This is really a first. I actually do so much less google-fact-finding than most people-the way I understand it, anyhow, the way things have gone since I was a pup, or even dating, which in my case should always have been called "f.u.c.king new people," pretty much everybody now seeks all earthly knowledge about each other via the infinite number of Ones on the magic eight-ball search engine. Bosses stalk their new hires and moms stalk their daughters' fiances. Boys and girls dream about Mr. Right, or Mr. Right Now, or alternatively Princess Charming or the right sugarbutch. And self-esteem is sized by how many page views each one of us commands. As my favorite columnist Jon Carroll has said, "You can, of course, google yourself-but you may not like the results"; of course, that's true of any search for truth, isn't it? And the glowing box on my lap that has in it all the information in the world, providing I can divine the right search words to find it, our new eon's answer to the name by which to call a demon or a magic decoder ring-it's chock full of truth and everything else besides, tells me everything about you, I think, except how your first kiss would taste. And I can set my subconscious to dream about that, in fact I have, so I already know.

And of course there's the alchemy-inflected secret skill of reading between the lines on each others' Facebook pages-and thank G.o.d you friended me back, so at least I feel like I've reached the door to the temple.

What does all this mean? One, that I haven't been this interested in anybody since dinosaurs ruled the earth. No, since the paradigm changed. Because I had a crush this hot ten years ago-was it fifteen?-and in those days secret knowledge was gained by triangulating with your other lovers, watching who you liked and who liked you, fitting yourself in like a puzzle piece. And before that it was Robert, I think that happened in the old-fas.h.i.+oned way, just meeting, falling desperately in l.u.s.t, letting love follow right on its heels like a puppy that has to go where the old dog does because that's how it learns and besides, it's afraid of being lonely.

But you, I met your work before I ever knew your name, zapping electronically into my cortex and beginning to seed and flower there. I think this might be a new way to find the people we're supposed to know, but maybe it's only a coincidence, a distraction, a haze over the landscape from a fire that was burning already. Maybe, too, this is just as starf.u.c.ky as I have ever gotten. Anyway, it suddenly seemed important, very important, to google you, and now I have learned several new things about you, and I'm only up to page 33, and there are 864,000 results, so it seems as though this project will continue. Clearly I haven't wanted to know someone the way I want to know you since the computer gave us the opportunity to see a person sliced sus.h.i.+-thin and laid out forever, each bit transparent, adding up to everything if only you find that all the links are live.

And even with all that info sizzling on the superhighway like a mirage cooking on the asphalt-well, it is a mirage, isn't it? I acc.u.mulate bits of knowledge. I try to find holes and things that fit into holes, like tinkertoys expanding out into a shape I can recognize. No, it's more like stacking the facts up into a house of cards. I don't know what's foundational. I don't know which of these bits of data you would even consider true. You do have a wiki page, and the skeleton of what I know about you is there, but where is the spirit that animates the bones of your life? And if all that's onscreen are dead words, why have I even bothered to get to page 33?

Also, you have a common name and I have to sift and winnow down each line listed for me on each page to see if it's you at all. I already found all the surrealism I expected plus some that is just universal bonus, the great laughter of the stars asking me whether my love is true enough to tell you apart from the woman who cut her daughter's arms off to devote her to G.o.d, and the man whose night in a motel with two hookers started out just great, until ...

I can tell you apart from all of them, mostly. I see obituaries for you on every page and I know you're not dead; that's comforting, given that I hope one day to drift off to sleep with two of your fingers still hooked into my c.u.n.t, my hand on your heart. I can see your shaved head but not, however, anything that tells me whether I will be met more happily by you if I myself am shaved. You brilliant children today, you shave everything, don't you? How would I know this? Why do I think I believe it?

So far I'm not clear whether you like to f.u.c.k or be f.u.c.ked, dance or watch the dance-both, I think, I think you go both ways about everything, but maybe that's only because I do, only me looking for a mirror in the machine and pretending I found one in you.

You make your own mirrors, I think; you like the s.p.a.ce under water, not, apparently, a.s.sociating it with the world of the drowned. You're not emailing me back fast enough, but you sent me a picture and used the word love with it. We who will not be colonized by love use that word in so many ways, like a spice, a gift, a vow, even just a flirt, maybe even a flirt we don't intend ever to ignite. I wonder whether one of these googled pages will tell me what that word means to you. Also whether you f.u.c.k boys or girls. Also whether you f.u.c.k people younger than you, or older. Because I am older, and I always will be, won't I?

And this brings me to Complication Number One. I'm so glad that "It's complicated" is now an option for us to use to define our relations.h.i.+p status, because it always has been complicated, and I believe, thinking backward, that I have always wanted it to be this way: I have never wanted it simple when I could have it involved, even involuted, spiraled around like a sh.e.l.l or the universe. In that sense you are perfect, this is perfect. But I have seen someone like me recently, older than she used to be, fall in l.u.s.t, be caught in a crush, and it was like she dropped her panties on the bus, not on purpose, her dignity lost up her c.u.n.t, teetering and without any footing. Inside, where I have for quite a long time stayed still like an animal frozen in the gra.s.s, not sure if I'm rabbit or fox or, in fact, a cougar waiting to come out of her cave, inside I feel the heat of that welling-up of desire. The grat.i.tude. The whispered admission that I was not sure how much more of this I was in line for. I'm afraid of it, really. Of course I want it, but to tip over and have everything spill out?

That a.s.sumes that it would spill. Is there a time when all the contents of my desire, everything stacked up like a Jell-O parfait with colors and textures matched like my mom's old pastel pantsuits, will jell? Will hold together and not moistly crack open and apart like the heart's own earthquake? l.u.s.t and connection, the hormonal roil of new love, even the love that isn't capital-L, first act of the drama, expectation starting to bubble like the soup you can't afford to burn? If I can pray for that time to have arrived, and really what else would I work up enough ego to pray for-a state of grace where I can hope for humility enough to float desire there on the pond whose waters you retreat under, humility enough to avoid humiliation if the boat casts the wrong shadow on the ripples you go underneath to watch. I can't even swim, so your water thing? It is the biggest mystery to me.

Are you down there for the light and the vision change? Are you there to block out almost all the sound of the surface world? Are you there because you like to flirt with drowning, or need to, or are just waiting to be taken? That's what love is, to me. It's what love has been. I don't know, in fact, what it is now. Here's my blood: the last time it burned, a chemist could have filtered out hormones at a t.i.ter high enough to drop in the reservoir and turn the whole city on. That's what I wanted, trying to drip it out on the page when I wrote about f.u.c.king, hot enough to sink through your skin like LSD if your fingers touched the words. I wanted to blur the people together into a s.h.i.+mmering electric band of f.u.c.k, gleaming across the city the way the Northern Lights color the sky.

Now who am I? Am I that woman who ignited when strangers stared at her? Or have these years away from the game caused the lushly- felt rush of adrenaline to dry to a trickle? Is my buzz too depleted to catch?

The only way I can find out, I think, is to lay myself out in front of eyes. That's my flirtation with death, the way I win another lease on life, another rush. And really the only set of eyes that interest me now are yours. I'm not sure whether either one of us has to take this too seriously; I'm not sure whether I take it more or less seriously than I did when I was in my 20s and thought the person making my blood zip was the only person worth impressing. I think it doesn't matter, in the end, whether this is a crush or the needle on my compa.s.s finally, finally moving.

Starting Your Own Erotic Reading Circle Jen Cross The Erotic Reading Circle was developed in the early days of Good Vibrations in San Francis...o...b..fore being taken on by the Center for s.e.x & Culture, where it is facilitated by CSC founder Dr. Carol Queen and Jennifer Cross (founder of Writing Ourselves Whole).

If you wish you had an Erotic Reading Circle in your area, the easiest way to get one might be to form one yourself. To aid you in that endeavor, we've put together this list of considerations for the care and feeding of a healthy Erotic Reading Circle: * The Circle should be a place where all kinds of erotic writing are received with the same energy and celebration. People can read anything they like, their own work or someone else's. "Non- judgmental listening is guaranteed" means people will be asked to not speak hostilely or negatively of anyone's work-we practice giving a wide range of feedback without shaming or cutting anyone's work down.

* At the beginning of the meeting, we give a brief introduction and welcome to the Circle, state our intentions for the s.p.a.ce and our time limits on readings. Then we go around the circle and introduce ourselves. This is how we do introductions at the Erotic Reading Circle in San Francisco: we say our name (sometimes folks give a pseudonym for the night), say the town/neighborhood where we woke up, say what our preferred p.r.o.noun is, and then respond to some sort of ice breaker-like a favorite dirty word, a favorite erotic writer, or a favorite piece of erotic writing. (Why do we ask about preferred p.r.o.nouns? Our San Francisco Circle meets in a community that is fairly queer and genderfluid, so we ask for folks to give a third person p.r.o.noun that is right for them, so that we don't make any a.s.sumptions about a writer's gender ident.i.ty. Common third-person p.r.o.nouns include he, she, they, and sie or ze.) * We ask for about a 10-minute time limit on readings, so that as many folks can read as possible-a 20-minute piece has taken up nearly 45 minutes of Circle time, with feedback and conversation! Ask someone to contact you ahead of time if they have a long piece to read; you might choose to make that reading a special feature one night.

* Cultivate and model a commitment to safe s.p.a.ce for all kinds of voices, all writing abilities, and work at all stages of development.

* Listen attentively to one another's readings and offer clear and specific feedback. Some of us will take notes, jotting down specific phrases that are especially strong for us. Encourage and model respect for all partic.i.p.ants: turn off cell phones; don't text/Tweet/ Facebook/email during the Circle, and please don't talk while someone else is reading.

* Work shared in the Circle can be polished or a first draft: we honor it all, and if anyone wants to have feedback, we first tell them what we liked about the piece. (Pat Schneider, of Amherst Writers & Artists, says that folks have no business criticizing a piece of writing if they can't also describe what they liked or found powerful about the piece.) People desiring constructive criticism/editorial feedback can ask for that as well. If writers have specific sorts of feedback they are looking for, we ask them to tell us that-are they concerned, for instance, about the dialogue or descriptions, or whether the acrobatics of the s.e.x is believable, or whether anyone else finds the piece hot? Sometimes people don't have specific questions-they are open to any responses. When offering "critical" feedback, we continue to model respect: we make I-statements ("I wasn't sure what was going on here" versus "That part was totally confusing!") and talk about places where we were pulled out of the story or felt confused. We try not to make blanket statements or offer wholesale criticism of a piece or a writer. We respond to the words of the narrator of the story rather than a.s.suming the story is the personal experience of the reader (saying, "I liked when the narrator spoke of their desire for ..." versus "Wow, I didn't know you were into that!"). Remember that each person's response is simply an individual opinion and not a judgment from on high; we can be direct and honest with one another without being harsh or unkind.

* We try to keep feedback to around five minutes per person, again so that there's enough time for as many people to read as possible.

* The facilitator's job is to send out monthly reminders about the event; spread the word; arrive early to set up the s.p.a.ce; open the Circle and welcome folks into the room; invite readers to share; ask for appropriate feedback; watch the time and give a heads up if someone has gone well over the time limit; keep the Circle moving (redirect conversation back to the writing at hand when necessary, for instance); welcome new members; encourage a culture of generosity and respect; close the meeting on time; clean up. The facilitator doesn't have to do all this alone, however! Get help from volunteers or your co-facilitators.

* Pick a date and time for your Circle that will remain consistent from month to month-we've been meeting on the fourth Wednesday of the month for nearly 10 years now! We meet once a month for two hours, and usually have time for 8 to 10 readers. The facilitators will read if there's time.

* Get the word out! Put up flyers in the community, post an ad on your local Craigslist calendar, send a blurb to your independent local weekly newspaper and other event calendars, create an event on Facebook or Meetup.com. In any advertis.e.m.e.nts, include relevant details: time and place, a brief description, requested donation or fee, time limits on readings and content restrictions i(f you have them). Include an email, phone number, and/or website where folks can get more information. Advertise widely and consistently, so as to encourage a diversity of voices and writing styles.

* Consider making water or tea available, as well as some small snacks, like nuts or cookies-sharing new writing in front of strangers is hungry work!

* You might ask for a donation to cover the cost of food, s.p.a.ce rental, supplies, and so forth; consider also offering a no one turned away for lack of funds (NOTAFLOF) option so that all can attend.

* As you get established, you might consider meeting informally at a nearby coffee shop or restaurant before or after the Circle, so that folks can get to know each other better, talk more generally about their writing, ask questions and share resources, pa.s.s on calls for submissions or other publis.h.i.+ng opportunities, and in other ways deepen the Circle's supportive community.

* Now and again, the Circle members might want to share their work more broadly. We have hosted readings and put together anthologies to share the breadth and power of the work read at our Erotic Reading Circle.

* Consider making calls for submissions available to Circle partic.i.p.ants, or copies of the magazines or journals that accept work with erotic or s.e.xual content. You might also bring copies of books about how to write erotic stories such as some of those listed in the bibliography.

* Find a meeting location that's easily accessible and private, a s.p.a.ce where folks can have their words held in confidence without worrying that pa.s.sersby might overhear. A private home is okay if you feel comfortable inviting the public into your s.p.a.ce-otherwise, consider asking about s.p.a.ce at a local college or university (the women's center, gender studies department, queer student union or other student s.p.a.ces may have s.p.a.ce available). You might have a s.e.x-positive boutique with meeting s.p.a.ce that you could partner up with; community organizations or independent bookstores might be a great fit for your new venture, too. Don't forget to consider other accessibility issues-is the s.p.a.ce accessible to folks in wheelchairs? Will those with chemical sensitivities be able to partic.i.p.ate? Will the place feel welcoming to folks from varying backgrounds?

* Let it be okay for folks to come in and just listen without reading anything.

* You might choose to have content restrictions on the material shared at your Circle. We have not chosen to inst.i.tute any content restrictions and we don't ask writers to censor themselves. Some Circles have indicated to their partic.i.p.ants that they don't want material with characters who are under the age of 18, or that contains anything appearing to be nonconsensual, or that deals with b.e.s.t.i.a.lity, etc. Make the decision that's right for your Circle. If you do inst.i.tute content restrictions, let your partic.i.p.ants know about them ahead of time, so that readers can make an informed decision about what they bring to the Circle.

* Consider having two or three facilitators/hosts for your Circle, folks who show up regularly and are reliable-it helps to share the responsibility, and it's useful to have folks to cover when someone is sick or out of town.

* Be consistent, meet at the same time at the same place every month, collect contact information so you can send out monthly email reminders-and watch your gorgeous creative erotic community grow.

These suggestions grow out of what has worked for us, and for others we know who have begun their own Circles elsewhere. What's at the core of these s.p.a.ces is the intention to create safer s.p.a.ce for writers to share their erotic work, s.p.a.ce in which that writing will be celebrated and respected. Take what works, then incorporate your own innovations and Circle-y creativity. Remember that mistakes and stumbles are par for the course when one is co-creating any cultural/creative s.p.a.ce. Try to be as generous with yourself/yourselves as you are with the folks whose writing you celebrate-and don't forget to let us know about your Circlings! Good luck, have fun, and go change the world!

Further reading for those intrepid readers seeking inspiration for their own writing and circling: Elizabeth Benedict, The Joy of Writing s.e.x: A guide for fiction writers. Holt and Co., 2002.

Susie Bright, How to Write a Dirty Story: Reading, Writing, and Publis.h.i.+ng Erotica. Touchstone Press, 2002.

Circlet Press Collective, The Erotic Writer's Market Guide: Advice, Tips, and Market Listings for the Aspiring Professional Erotica Writer. Circlet Press, 2006.

M. Christian, The Burning Pen: s.e.x Writers on s.e.x Writing. Alyson Books, 2001.

Audre Lorde, Sister/Outsider. The Crossing Press, 1984. Includes the essay "Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power."

Carol Queen and Jack Davis, s.e.x Spoken Here: Good Vibrations Erotic Reading Circle Selections. Down There Press, 1997.

Michael Rowe, Writing Below the Belt: Conversations with Erotic Authors. Masquerade Books, Inc., 1995.

Pat Schneider, Writing Alone and With Others. Oxford University Press, 2003.

The editors would like to thank ...

Dorian Katz for the cover art and for getting Center for s.e.x & Culture Press off the ground with SAFE s.e.x BANG: The Buzz Bense Collection of Safe s.e.x Posters.

Robert Morgan Lawrence, EdD, co-founder of the CSC, for ongoing support and general curmudgeonly fabulousness.

Core staff and interns at the Center for s.e.x & Culture, without whom there would be no CSC! Thanks especially to Heather Russell, our intern, for help with design work, promotional materials, and more.

Good Vibrations, Joni Blank, and Jack Davis for their support in initiating and nurturing the Erotic Reading Circle.

All of our magnificent IndieGoGo donors, whose generous support ensured that s.e.x Still Spoken Here could come to fruition: Aaron Spielman, Adam Morrison, Alex Jacks, Alexis Lucas, Alla Rivas, Allison Biehl, Ami Lovelace, Brian Estlin, Brian V. Hughes, Candida Royalle, Carol Rosenfeld, Cecilia Tan, Charlaine Lapointe, Cheral Stewart, Christina Accomando, Christina Jenkins, Chuck Clanton, Cindy Scott, Clara Dunham, Corinne Farago, Creatrix Tiara, Crystal Robinson, Cynthia Badiey, Darlene Pagano, David Kirby, David Steinberg, Debra StJohn, Diane Korach, Duane Ludwig, Elise Stengle, Elizabeth Ferguson, Elizabeth Ferguson, Emilio M Garcia, Erling Wold, Frank, Gina Lovoi, Glenn Wright, Holly Zwalf, Janice Sheng, Jay Mays, Jen Grimes, Jennifer Hogsflesh, Joan L Price, Joani Blank, Joanne Scott, John Crandall, John Hoelle, John Ullman, Karynne Boese, Kathy Elwell, Kelly C Gallamore, Kimberly Dark, Leila Barreto, Linda Poelzl, Lovings Webmistress, Lynn Sunday, Lynnette Garcia, M V Antonakos, MacKenzie Stuart, Maren Martin, Marty Williams, Melinda Adams, Michael Cohn, Mich.e.l.le Murrain, Miss Ian Callaghan, Morris Taylor, ms. darling, Pamela Rosin, Peter Pasquale, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Rachel Macalisang, Rachel Macalisang, Rebeccalyn E Bilodeau, Ritch Davidson, sade huron, Sezin Koehler, Steve Imboden, Susan Murray, Sybil Holiday, Tho Vong, Timothy Kelly, Tina Femea, Todd Wilms, Tonya Netjes, Tracy Pinkelton, Tracy Y Bartlett, and 30 anonymous donors.

Self-publis.h.i.+ng and social media gurus who helped us launch our new venture: Cheral Stewart, Alison Moon, Mel Reiff Hill, & Dorian Katz.

Videographer Mark McBeth, for recording the editors' conversation, as well as many underground cultural performances.

Tiffany Sostar for her efforts beginning and running an Erotic Reading Circle in Calgary, Alberta.