Sex Still Spoken Here Part 8

Don't know where I'm gonna live. Am now sleepin rough, in a view with no room, you might say, as I'm campin on leaves of gra.s.s in a make-s.h.i.+ft lean-to against one a the thousands of tents in Golden Gate Park which you may recall I once toll you you'd like since I could see us walkin there, hand in hand through Paradise.

You mayhaps have already read in the Saint Louie Post-Dispatch how when our Opera House fell down around his eyetalian ears, the Great Caruso sat on the ground in Union Square & cried, with less courage than Pagliacci's "Vesti la Giubba," that he was never comin back to Frisco. The tent my lean-to's presently up against in the Park sports a "hoochie-koochie" sign from downtown readin "Maiden Lane" (ha ha), & the friendly "tootsie-wootsies" inside it, who I do-for, cuz (among their services to other fellas) they cook for me, have been laughing at Caruso as not bein all that great! They hear tell that the grand soprano Luisa Tetrazzini herself, who don't scare easy like her warblin tenor chum Caruso, is sometime soon headin back into Frisco to sing free at Lotta Crabtree's fountain which is about the only thing still standin downtown at Market & Geary. The ladies, who know a town pump when they see one, been cookin what they been jokin is "Chicken Tetrazzini" in her honor. I toll em it should be "Chicken Caruso," & they all laughed, & give me pie. So life ain't all bad, or bad at all, & it's startin over, life is, which is the secret of Frisco.

I was wondrin if you wanted to come out here to the ruins (ha ha, but I mean it) cuz you said you were needin work & there's lots of it here now, even more than before, for thousands of us strong young fellas.

Which vision reminds me I been takin my salt-water sea-bathing, between 7 A.M to 6 P.M., once-a-week out near the ocean, at cold North Pacific temperatures & up to eighty degrees, for twenty-five cents at the Sutro Bath that's all gla.s.s and iron as fine as any building at the Saint Louie Exposition. Reason enough for you to travel west, there's bathing music performed by the Sutro Baths Band, & I bet we could work for room & board for that ol blonde Ma Sloat n.o.body calls "Ma s.l.u.t" to her face. She's rebuildin over on Folsom Street upstairs over where her brother Hallam has a piece of property for a new saloon cuz he believes in the future of Frisco even South of the Slot. She says he believes in the future of thirst, & he be namin the little street next his after their father the older Hallam who ain't unlike yer pa & mine when it comes to bellyin up to a bar to bend an elbow.

If you have work there in Saint Louie then maybe you could send yer old secret chum a couple bucks to help out, but, dear Benny, if I have to start over, & I do have prospects, I'd a d.a.m.n sight rather start over with you by my side here in Frisco cuz you never know what's gonna happen next, but this monkey's uncle, yours so truly, can tell it's gonna happen here, & it could be good for us. Remember when you was seein me off at the train station, steamin away, you cracked wise that confirmed bachelors gotta know how to take care of ourselves.

I can't meet you in Saint Louie, Louie, where we fell down laughin tryin to dance the hoochie-coochie, but I can meet you at the Golden Gate. Don't be late! You might want to hear the Great Tetrazzini as much as me (ha ha) except this boy ain't no more singing soprano. That married bachelor Horace Greeley was right when he said, Go West, young man, go West! There's gold in them thar hills! I found, down near the Embarcadero, blowin around on Folsom Street, some French postcards like you never seen. It's an ill wind that blows no good instructions.

I love this place, but not as much as you know who. There. I finally said what you said when last we parted. Put that in yer pipe, dear Benny, & smoke it. Two bucks would be fine. Yer hand in mine, pal o mine, would be better. If I had a ceilin, I'd be lyin awake at nights starin at it & thinkin of you, takin it all in hand, your hand in mine, hand in glove with you.

Yer devoted pal, Jimmy *

"The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings. It is an internal sense of satisfaction to which, once we have experienced it, we know we can aspire. For having experienced the fullness of this depth of feeling and recognizing its power, in honor and self-respect we can require no less of ourselves."

- Audre Lorde (from "Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power") Amy Butcher Bio Amy Butcher is a silver fox "liminal guide" and enjoys taking people through transformations. She has been many things, including a tour guide on bike trips through France, a ROPES course instructor, a ma.s.sage therapist, and book designer. She is the author of the award-winning murder mystery Paws for Consideration and co-editor of s.e.x Still Spoken Here. Follow her adventures at amybutcher.com.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? While I didn't write erotica in college, I had a freshman English teacher (Prof. Sussman, if I remember) who instilled a pa.s.sionate relations.h.i.+p to the semi-colon. My first attempt at erotica was an effort to capture (and process) the hyper-s.e.xy experience of leading bike tours in France.

Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? Writing erotic short fiction gave me the confidence to move into the longer form of writing murder mysteries. I mean, if you can write the s.e.x (and not just 'fade to black') then the rest is gravy.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? OMG. So important! One of my biggest lessons has been the somatic experience of reading erotic words aloud in community. Often, when I've really gotten to something that is real and deep, I will literally shake after I read. I love having that experience and learning to not just be OK with it but actually welcome the release.

What's the inside scoop on your story? My stories are usually inspired by some tiny moment that then expands into a longer story, the substance of which emerges from some dark mysterious corner of my imagination. In this case, it was hearing and being curious about the loud sound of a person walking in stilettos. Couple that with the Castro Theatre, some Thorlo socks, and ... still hoping to do a 'walk through' to see if I got all the parts right. :) Stilettos Amy Butcher St.u.r.dy. That was the word that came to mind as Kathy regarded her tubular reflection in the full-length mirror. Short, no-nonsense haircut. Broad shoulders. Barrel-shaped torso tapering down to nonexistent hips. b.r.e.a.s.t.s clearly overshadowed by the belly below. Aren't b.r.e.a.s.t.s supposed to stick out further than a belly? she wondered, as she twisted sideway in front of the mirror. Her baggy shorts hung long and loose, like curtains above the thick ankles flowing squarely into Thorlos and low-cut hikers. Sensible shoes, because Kathy-like a good boy scout-was always prepared.

Kathy liked the streamlined st.u.r.diness of her body. Mr. Bitters, her calico, stretched on the bed and yawned, offering his own opinion. "Well, it's not like I'm going out on a date. I'm just off to meet Lisa at the movies." At that he curled into a ball, turning his furry back on her, and she headed out into the night.

Kathy had just reached the ticket booth at the Castro Theater when her cell phone rang. "Hey Kathy, it's Lisa. I'm so sorry but I'm not going to be able to make it tonight. Sara is in a bad mood, and we're out of food. We haven't been to Rainbow in a week, and ..."

Kathy held the phone away from her ear. She watched the bustling evening crowd pa.s.s by while the tiny voice droned on. Eventually, she lifted the phone back to her mouth and broke in. "Hey, Lisa, I'm already at the theater so I'm just gonna go in. Call me later." Click. She flipped the phone shut without waiting for a response. d.y.k.es can be so flakey sometimes, she sighed, but she was just as happy to have a quiet night at the movies alone.

As she headed into the darkened, half-filled theater, her rubber soles squeaked slightly on the bare concrete floor. She settled into a middle seat and waited for the show to begin.

Crack. Crack. Crack. The sound of high heels striking concrete echoed through the theater like rifle shots.

Crack. Crack. Each aggressive stride rattled the earth beneath her. She really hated that type of shoe, she griped to herself, on political as much as aesthetic grounds. She knew how it would be: some straight woman, her delicate ankles perched precariously on ridiculously narrow stiletto heels, the effort to stay upright requiring an acrobatic stance: hips thrust back, back arched forward, and b.r.e.a.s.t.s cantilevered out for counterbalance. Why do women hobble themselves like that, she lamented, just to appear attractive by someone else's fas.h.i.+on standard ... what a waste!

Crack. Crack. Then the sound of smooth leather sliding across concrete ... in Kathy's row!

Long and leggy, Stiletto-babe was wearing a brown tweed mini- skirt, a white b.u.t.ton down s.h.i.+rt, and a yellow-brown scarf tightly knotted at the base of her neck. She too was juggling popcorn and a soft drink, though less successfully than Kathy had, what with the added challenge of the vintage handbag swinging heavily from her arm. She spilled popcorn like little trail markers as she sidestepped gingerly down the row, collapsing finally with a sigh into the seat beside Kathy.

Geez, Kathy thought, she would have to sit right there! She turned and cast a judgmental stare. The woman, all blue eye shadow and brown bangs, smiled back, oblivious to Kathy's intent.

Throughout the movie Stiletto-babe made Kathy miserable. She hogged the armrest. She crossed her legs, kicking the sharp toe of the stilettos into Kathy's s.h.i.+n. She even managed, while laughing, to spew popcorn kernels into Kathy's lap like some poorly aimed aerial a.s.sault.

With each intrusion, Kathy grew more and more annoyed. She turned and glared but to no avail, as Stiletto-babe seemed oblivious. At one point, Kathy leaned over and growled, "Could you please!" But Stiletto-babe just leaned toward her and cooed, "Please what?"

G.o.d, Kathy thought, these straight women are so clueless! She sat there growing more and more annoyed.

When the credits finally began to roll, Kathy rose quickly. Casting one more frustrated glance at Stiletto-babe, she pushed out past the others seated in her row. Desperate for air, she made a beeline for the side exit. Slamming the door behind her, she strode up the roughly paved alley, past the recycling bins, and headed for the gate.

"s.h.i.+t!" she said, as she discovered the gate was locked.

Just then, behind her, she heard the side exit door swing open and that terrible noise ... crack, crack ... filled the s.p.a.ce.

Kathy's shoulders hunched in dread as she turned slowly to face her nemesis. At the far end of the alley stood Stiletto-babe. Hands on hips, pocketbook rocking gently from her arm, wobbling just slightly on those narrow heels. "Oops, looks like we're stuck," she said laconically.

"Unbelievable!" Kathy snorted and pounded back down the alley, practically knocking Stiletto-babe over as she pushed past her. She pulled frantically at the exit door but it wouldn't budge. When she felt Stiletto- babe b.u.mp her from behind, she could no longer contain her frustration. "Good grief!" She shouted as she turned. "Do you have no spatial awareness?"

But Stiletto-babe just stood there, calm as could be. "Did you like the movie?" she asked. Digging around her purse she pulled out a pack of Wrigley's, tapped out two sticks like cigarettes, and extended her slender arm slowly towards Kathy. "Want some?"

When Kathy shook her head "no," Stiletto-babe just pursed her lips and shrugged. "Suit yourself," and dropped the gum back into the cavernous purse, snapping it shut.

"Whadya' think of that hot s.e.x scene in the movie?" Stiletto-babe asked. "The one in the alley ... hmmm ... sorta like this one."

Kathy stared in stunned silence.

"The guy was pretty gross but I have to admit, there's nothing hotter than a good, st.u.r.dy body. I like to have something to hold onto when I let go. ..." As Stiletto-babe talked, her voice gently modulated, swaying through a tonal range that soothed Kathy's frustration. Stiletto- babe spoke slowly, curiously, as if this was the most normal of situations.

Kathy shook her head, trying to come to her senses. What on earth were they talking about? She couldn't tell if Stiletto-babe was flirting with her or mocking her, but she suspected the later. Kathy was handy. She could open doors and fix things like any good butch. She showed her love to her girlfriends by installing new wiper blades on their cars. She brought straightforward competence, not pa.s.sion, to her lovemaking. So she had no illusions that she might be either 'attractive' or 'a catch.'

"I like to act on impulse and I'm nothing if not impatient," Stiletto-babe said with more urgency, wobbling slightly as she took a step forward. In those heels she was at least six inches taller than Kathy, and that step had brought her b.r.e.a.s.t.s right to Kathy's eye level. An edge of dark lace peeked out from behind the second b.u.t.ton, which she had undone as she approached.

Stiletto-babe smiled and said, "I noticed you when I first sat down, before the movie had even started. I have an eye for st.u.r.dy butches. In fact, there's nothing that I like better." And as if to emphasize her point, she suckled her fingertip and then nestled its moist tip into the notch at the center of Kathy's collarbone. "Tsss," she hummed into Kathy's ear.

Jeez, Louse! Kathy thought, she didn't just do that, did she? But her body had no doubt. The moist finger on her skin had been like grounding the last clamp of jumper cables and that sound in her ear the ignition. A surge of energy flowed straight down to her crotch, revving her c.l.i.t to life.

Stiletto-babe was now so close that Kathy could feel her heat like a pulse, vibrating through the air. The sweet smell of her soft skin filled Kathy's nostrils, leaving her weak in the knees. It didn't help her concentration any that Stiletto-babe had drawn her index finger slowly down between Kathy's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, across the rise of her belly, and was tugging urgently at the waistband of her shorts.

Pulling gently, Stiletto-babe weighed the density and inertia of Kathy's flesh. She'd had the pretty bois, the ones who seemed perfect foils to her femme persona, but they were slender and predictable. It was always the same tight jeans, same studded black belt, the same Good Vibes Soft Pack tucked into their tighty whities. She'd been had by the stone butches who treated her like a valued but fragile prize. She'd even been with a femme or two but there was never enough s.p.a.ce in the bathroom for the both of them. No, for whatever reason, Stiletto-babe had to admit that it was these st.u.r.dy, second-wave feminist butches that did it for her. They were simple and ardent and, most important, never rebelled when she took charge. That was their dirty little secret: they were such bottoms at heart! Leaning in she whispered gently into Kathy's ear, "Are you ready to eat me out?"

Did she actually purr after saying that? Kathy wondered. She tried to focus but her mind kept wandering off, too afraid to believe in what was happening. But she knew a butch-cue when she heard it!

Still grasping Kathy's shorts, Stiletto-babe maneuvered her back against the wall in the s.p.a.ce between the two blue recycling bins.

"Can you kneel down?" she asked. She knew women like Kathy, years of softball behind them, could be arthritic and she didn't want to make any a.s.sumptions. Kathy dropped to her knees with barely a whimper.

From this lower vantage point, Kathy could see each taut calf muscle firing as Stiletto-babe worked to maintain her balance. OK, Kathy granted, maybe there was something athletic to simply standing in those things.

Stiletto-babe set her purse carefully atop the recycling bin and-reaching down with both hands-lifted the hem of her tweed mini- skirt just a few inches but it was more than enough to reveal the neatly trimmed but decidedly wet fur of her p.u.s.s.y.

Kathy gasped in horror. This was, in point of fact, not her forte. Her skillset lay in her hands, not on the tip of her tongue. But the smell of stale popcorn mixed with the tangy sweet allure of Stiletto-babe's crotch in a way that Kathy couldn't have antic.i.p.ated. Like her yeast-topped popcorn from before, she dove right in.

Mixing a healthy dose of her own saliva into this foreign wetlands, she explored with long strokes up one side and down the other. She nestled her chin in for good measure, just to spread the juices evenly over her face, and then returned to nibble delicately on the oyster-like nub of Stiletto-babe's c.l.i.t. She licked flat like a steamroller over the whole of Stiletto-babe's p.u.s.s.y. She pointed her tongue into a probe, exploring each flap and fold. She grasped the thick outer lips between her teeth and flicked at the trapped hairs with her tongue, sucking the flesh deeply into her mouth. Gaining confidence, she hummed, happy in her work.

Stiletto-babe wanted to straddle her, sit right down on top of her busy mouth, but she knew that would make it hard for Kathy to breathe. Instead, she balanced carefully, clinging to the grimy wall in front of her for support. Her hips were rocking and she started to moan.

"Put your tongue inside me," Stiletto-babe commanded.

Kathy followed instructions well. She had already tasted the slight s.h.i.+ft, the silvery tang that had started to leak from inside, and sensed that Stiletto-babe was close to coming. She plunged her tongue in as deep as it would go.

Stiletto-babe was thrusting deeply now, forcing herself down onto Kathy. She wanted to be filled, to be touched all over. Risking an almost certain fall, she took a hand from the wall and twisted hard at her nipples, each tug releasing a guttural wail.

Kathy licked and plunged with all her might. She could barely breathe as Stiletto-babe descended upon her, moving faster now, bucking with abandon.

Stiletto-babe was so close now. "Just like that ... and don't stop!" She felt the bottom drop out of her uterus and she knew she could count down from there. Five, four, three, two, one ... and she exploded, clenching her thighs tightly around Kathy's head, clinging precariously to the recycling bins for support.

Kathy could neither see nor hear, for she was buried deep in Stiletto-babe's crotch, but her other senses were strong. She could feel the wetness drip down over her chin and she could smell the strange melange of c.u.m and vintage tweed.

Stiletto-babe stepped back, smoothed her skirt down and tucked in her s.h.i.+rt. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a compact and some keys, dusted a little powder onto her flushed cheeks and then dropped the compact back in the purse, clasping it shut with a loud snap. She slid its strap up to the crook of her elbow, where it swung quietly as she paused and looked down at Kathy, still on her knees. Sighing, Stiletto-babe took Kathy's chin in her hand and said, "Thanks cutie, that was swell!" She blew a kiss over her shoulder as she strode up the alley, the click of her heels echoing thunderously off the walls. With her key, she unlocked the gate (as she'd done so many times before) and stepped out onto the busy sidewalk. Tossing her head back, Stiletto-babe pivoted on one slender heel and strode off. Meanwhile, back in the alley, Kathy struggled to her feet, grinning as she listened to the newly pleasant sound of high heels fading into the distance.

Dorothy Freed Bio Dorothy Freed was born in New York City and became a San Francisco transplant in late 1975. She is an artist turned writer, who earned her BFA at Syracuse University. She currently enjoys life in a coastal Bay Area community. Visit her website at DorothyFreedWrites.com.

Mini-Interview Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? Yes, I write in multiple genres: memoir, fiction, and personal essays-and about all aspects of experience, from inspirational stories to ones about dogs. Several years ago I decided to tell all the stories inside me that want to be told, in the way they want to be told.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? The ERC is an invaluable part of my writing process. It differs from a "regular" writer's group in that I am reading my work to like-minded individuals, with no limits placed on the subject matter I present.

Do you write under your own name? The name, Dorothy Freed, is a pseudonym chosen to spare my sons and grandson any potential embarra.s.sment involved in having the world- at-large know that their silver-haired, sixty-nine-year old mom and grandmom writes about the s.e.xual side of life.

What's the inside scoop on your story? My story, The Gambler, is creative non-fiction, inspired by my an erotic involvement with a professional gambler many years ago.

The Gambler Dorothy Freed I met Jerry, the gambler, on a sunny August afternoon at Bay Meadows Racetrack. I was standing near the finish line, breathing in the smell of sweaty horses, combined with cigarette smoke, beer, and plenty of dust, while checking out my fellow gamblers, who were mostly men. The day at the races had been planned with a friend from work, who'd canceled at the last minute. So I'd come alone. And why not?-it was 1977 in the San Francis...o...b..y Area-repression was out, freedom was in. I was thirty- three, single, and dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure, after ending a dull ten-year marriage.

In spite of my cheering, my horse came in dead last. "d.a.m.n!" I said, irritably, crumpling my losing ticket and tossing it in the trash.

And that's when I met him; the well-dressed, black hunk who'd been watching me for the last three races, taking in every detail of my long, wheat-colored hair, and pale, smooth skin. He caught my eye and smiled boldly-all the proof I'd ever need that black is beautiful. I was glad I'd worn heels that day, and the green velvet pants that showed my full, round a.s.s to perfection.

"Have you picked some winners today?" I asked, starting up a conversation, and he pulled a fistful of tickets from his jacket pocket, in response, and said a little smugly, "I've been betting horses for a living for many years, baby. It's my business to win."

I looked him over carefully, from his polished leather boots to the tightly wound ringlets of his Afro, stopping along the way to check out the expensive wool slacks and sports jacket. His silky white s.h.i.+rt was open halfway down his chest, revealing curling black hair and smooth, brown skin. He had full lips and even, white teeth. And dimples; I'm a pushover for dimples. I told him I'd never met a professional gambler before and was sure he had interesting stories to tell. He suggested we discuss his profession over dinner-which sounded like a winner to me.

I bet along with Jerry after that and won money all afternoon. As we placed our bets, cheered our horses to the finish line, and collected our money, little electric shocks of excitement zapped back and forth between us, a promise of more to come. I gave him my phone number before leaving the track and drove home, happily speculating on what he'd be like in bed.

We met for dinner in San Francisco, at seven the next evening, at the Hyatt Regency across from the Ferry Building. Dinner was a heady combination of delicious food and mounting s.e.xual tension that had my nipples standing at attention for the entire meal.

After dinner we retired to the s.p.a.cious, lushly carpeted suite Jerry called his Bay Area home. While he poured Chardonnay at the bar near the refrigerator, and set the radio to an FM jazz station, I sat cross- legged on the plush, brown sofa facing the front window, looking out at the darkened sky and night lights of the city. I was thinking about how getting it on with a new lover is always a gamble-and hoping this one would pay off with some great s.e.x and, maybe, a new friend.

Jerry joined me with two crystal gla.s.ses, and we sat, side by side, chatting, sipping the cold dry wine, while exchanging meaningful glances in antic.i.p.ation of what was to come. He surprised me by inquiring whether he would be my first black lover. I told him he would not and asked why he wanted to know.

He said he was curious because some white chicks really dig black men-hadn't I heard the saying, "try black, you won't go back"?

I told him that sounded catchy, but it was the other rumor that intrigued me.

"You mean the one saying black men are hung like horses?" he asked, grinning.

"That's the one," I purred, staring with meaning at the sizable bulge in his slacks.

"Yeah, baby, I sure have heard that there rumor," Jerry said, nodding his head. And with a look promising I wouldn't be disappointed, he stood up, took my hand and led me to the s.p.a.cious bedroom-and the giant, satin covered bed.

I stood near the bed, my heart racing. Currents of excitement coursed through me as Jerry removed my clothing, piece by piece, in a lazy strip tease. He smiled when I was naked, looking me over for a long, slow minute. Then he bent his head, kissed me deeply, his full lips pressing mine, his hot tongue exploring my open mouth. I responded eagerly. We kissed for a long time, my erect nipples rubbing deliciously against his chest, until I felt my legs give way beneath me and dropped to my knees before him, staring up into his eyes. Reaching down he unzipped his fly and pulled out his c.o.c.k.

Rumor or not, it was enormous, and hard as a brick. I reached for it eagerly. It was the color of rich, dark chocolate, and felt hot and silky smooth in my hands. I licked lightly at its head, breathing in his sharp, musky scent; lapping at the delicate droplets of precome seeping from its tiny, mouth-like opening. I ran my tongue up the shaft, and made the fluttering movements around the rim that I'd learned from experience made a man lose his mind. For a grand finale, I relaxed my throat with the ease born of practice, took the whole thing in, and just sucked. (Linda Lovelace, shove over).

I sucked him like my life depended on it, until he'd had enough and led me to the bed, laying me back against the pillows. I felt the mattress move slightly under his weight, when he sat down next to me, sliding a hand between my legs, and whispering, "Baby, you're so hot!"

Slipping two fingers inside me, he explored my dripping v.a.g.i.n.a-moving around the opening at first, caressing my swollen outer lips, tugging them gently, then parting my inner lips and delving deeper inside. The exquisite sensations made me moan with pleasure, and roll my hips around on the bed. When I was ready, more than ready, he bent and went down on me, pleasuring my c.l.i.t with his knowing mouth and tongue. I moaned steadily, as he continued-licking, sucking, nipping lightly at my aroused p.u.s.s.y with his teeth. His fingers teased my tight little a.n.u.s which opened and closed in response to his touch, like a tiny, hungry mouth.

"There, exactly there" I gasped, and, man among men, he stayed exactly there. My excitement mounted, overwhelming me until I came, hugely, crying out with pleasure.

Jerry entered me then, plunging in with abandon, holding my wrists over my head, making me feel I had no choice in the matter. He could tell I liked that by the way my hips rose up to meet him, and my inner muscles gripped him, squeezing down.

His c.o.c.k felt enormous inside me, wonderfully, painfully hard. I wriggled beneath him, beside myself with delight, grinding my c.l.i.t against the base of his c.o.c.k. Raising my legs I wrapped them around him, hanging on for the ride as he pumped me fast and hard, His heavy b.a.l.l.s slapped deliciously against my a.s.s. Finally, panting with pleasure and mindless with excitement, I exploded, moaning, into a thousand fragments of pleasured flesh-and lay flushed, breathing hard, and completely satisfied.

"I'll be here at the Hyatt for most of the summer," Jerry said. We were side by side on the plush brown sofa again, exchanging smiles. We chatted like old friends in the morning sunlight, devouring the eggs, toast, and hot, strong coffee delivered by room service. "Will I see you again, Dorothy?" he asked, and smiled, with that c.o.c.ky, confident look a man gets when he knows he's satisfied his woman.

"You can bet on it," I said, turning to kiss him lightly-thinking, any man I can laugh with and come with is a big-time winner to me.

"Erotic means 'in relation.' Erotic is what those deep relations are and can be that engage the whole body our heart, our mind, our spirit, our flesh. It is that moment of being exquisitely present."

- Terry Tempest Williams Ember Eli Bio Ember Eli is a gender-fluid shape-s.h.i.+fter, whose pa.s.sions include exploration and facilitation of ecstatic experiences; giving and receiving service; and building family networks with humans and other animals. She brings a queer leather sensibility to her teaching and writing, and finds sharing story to be a potent means of both unraveling and re-weaving. Ember is captivated by the eroticism of quiet control, and loves unleas.h.i.+ng characters who find themselves changed by love, l.u.s.t, dubious intentions and chance encounters.

Mini-Interview How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? There is tremendous power in being in a s.p.a.ce with overt permission and invitation to share erotic writing. Such permission provides a counter- balance to lifelong cultural messages against such writing and speaking. The value of a "regular" (i.e. closed, time-limited) writing group with a focus on s.e.x-such as Jen Cross' Declaring Our Erotic workshops-is that the format creates safety and s.p.a.ciousness for exploration of writing about s.e.x. For me, one value of the Erotic Reading Circle-which is drop-in and ongoing-has been that it allowed me a gentle step out of the coc.o.o.n of a closed writing group. Sharing my writing in that setting felt like a deeper level of risk, and experiencing my writing being positively received there felt empowering. Another value of the Erotic Reading Circle is exposure to erotic writing with a wide range of writing styles in various genres.

What's the inside scoop on your story? In my erotic writing, my characters are frequently confounded by an unexpected, intense attraction that calls them to some form of transformation. Sometimes I write from the point of view of someone struggling to reconcile an out-of character attraction; other times I write from the catalyst's point of view. I am fascinated by s.h.i.+fts from stasis to movement, and I enjoy exploring how the dynamic nature of s.e.xual energy can propel people towards accelerated change.

Tone Ember Eli I notice everything about my prey, because in the details of who they are lies the secret to how to take them down.

She had bows on her pumps. Pert, perky bows. The light crimson was an exact match for the b.u.t.tons on her blouse and the horizontal line on her off-white handbag. The color was picked up again in her lipstick, but not in her earrings. Those were simple, bone-white like her blouse. Her clothing was spotless. Even her shoes had no more than that morning's specks of dust. Everything about her, from the bows to her hair to the way she walked-and later, spoke-was crisp.

I insinuated myself into her presence by pretending I was lost. She gave efficient directions, allotting to me that portion of her attention that was required for the task. I could see that all the while, the wheels were still turning. No doubt she was thinking about her 5-year plan, or the small pile of mending waiting, carefully folded, on a closet shelf. I upped the ante and allowed a flash of naked need to pa.s.s across my eyes. "I have a disability," I told her. "It's like dyslexia, but with spatial relations.h.i.+ps. It's almost impossible for me to find my way." She hesitated, and I watched her recalibrate her plan for her day. Her values won out, as I knew they would. She did what she should, and walked me all the way to my ostensible destination.

As we walked I gradually began to lengthen my stride to throw her off hers. At first she took two steps to every one of mine, maintaining the same tight movement as before, but then I distracted her by asking her how far we were from our destination. As she turned partially toward me to answer, her steps lengthened into my rhythm and her hips began to sway slightly. A startled look flashed across her face, and I could see her brus.h.i.+ng it away as if it were a fly.

I smiled ingratiatingly. "You must allow me to thank you for your trouble," I said. "I was told there is a lovely tea house right near my destination. Perhaps you know where it is?" My question allowed her to pretend that she remained in the helper role. "Yes," she replied. "I'll show you." When we arrived at the Casbah Tea House, I let my veil of helplessness fall away for a moment. I looked deeply into her eyes, saying, "I was told there are some priceless exotic blends in here. Not to be missed." I raised my eyebrow in a way that was more statement than question, and moved boldly to hold the door open for her. She hesitated before the door. "Not to be missed," I repeated firmly. A slight glaze came into the edges of her eyes, and she walked through the ornate carved wood and bronze door of the Casbah. "I'll have the black currant," I told the counter girl, "and the lady will have ..." "Chai, please. Decaf." Laden with our tea on a small tray, I walked past the conventional tables and chairs and chose a low corner table surrounded by cus.h.i.+ons.

She was clearly unnerved by the seating arrangement. She hesitated, and then slid those prim pumps off, placing them carefully between us so she could tuck her legs under and smooth her skirt down as far as possible. "Where are my manners?" I murmured smoothly. "The name is Tone." "Tone?" she repeated faintly. She hesitated while a brief inner struggle ensued. I knew she had thought of asking if my name was short for Tony, or Antonia, perhaps. What stopped her was her first full- on awareness that she didn't know if I was male or female. I pretended not to notice her discomfiture. "Olivia," she said. "Livia," I repeated, "charmed." I picked up her hand and kissed the top momentarily before setting it carefully back down. A slight flush crept into her cheeks, then subsided as if by the force of her considerable will. But she let my presumptuous abbreviation of her name slide.