Not really. If you have read Hemingway and think he would be a good fuck, you about about as much about sex as you know about literature.
A fat ripe plum, with a white sticker on it, sat on the table like an eight ball.
The girl with the curly hair was standing still, looking down at her warped reflection in her shiny black shoes. Her hands were behind her back.
The man with the expensive watch sat at the other end of the table, watching her. One elbow was on the table, his hand on his chin, his fingers tracing the bottom of his lip contemplatively.
The expensive watch was there, on his somewhat hairy wrist. Thick heavy silver and a broad face with nimble hands moving with imperceptive accuracy. Just before the watch, further along his arm, the line of his dress shirt’s crisp cuff, which sparkled with a small silver cufflink, lead to the line of his suit. The shirt was white with fine blue pinstripes. The suit was a dark charcoal gray.
The girl with the curly hair looked up at the man with the expensive watch. Her eyelashes caught the light, a dark auburn. Her face was an explosion of freckles, nearly so many that they overtook the tan of her skin. Equally, her hair was an explosion of dark brownish red curls.
She wore a simple white cotton summer dress, which set off the dark tan of her skin. Her freckled legs were muscular. She wore long white socks that came perfectly to her knees. The white of the dress matched the white of her socks and the black of her patent leather Mary Jane’s matched the short string of black Tahitian pearls around her neck.
In the distant hallway, the grandfather clock ticked away.
I originally wanted to write a rebuttal of Guy New York’s post on polyamory. After re-reading it though, I don’t know how to use his piece as a jumping off point. He made a beautiful mess and there is a rawness that I can’t touch. I see his points and they all make sense, for him. There is also no reason to rebut what he wrote.
Despite the fact that people sometimes confuse us, Guy and I are pretty different people. We are in very different relationships. That being said I certainly consider him poly. He may not like the term, but it is useful to describe his lifestyle, and mine.
Through my teens and twenties it seemed like my heart and my head were constantly at war. Honesty, curiosity, hedonism, adventure, the things that I tried to base my life on, always seemed at odds with falling in love. And falling in love was the goal, obviously.
Falling in love has always been a cataclysmic, life changing event for me. It still is, to be certain, but I guess what being poly has let me figure out is that I’ve looked at love as a binary instead of an emotion or a connection. All in or all out.
Somehow, somewhere around when I turned 30, after a long and complicated and fucked up breakup, I decided that there was some other way to do it. It was hard. I didn’t do it right at first. I fucked up a bunch. Now? Now I feel like I’m living the way I have supposed to be living all of my life but didn’t know it.
I mean, I’m certainly in love right now. It is a love that has changed my life. It has changed me. But there are also crushes and flirtations and intellectual dalliances. There are certain people, for whom certain times mean certain furniture will be broken. There are silly flings and May-December romances. There is a circle of friends who are on and off lovers and it’s all complicated and lovely and despite the fancy new words, I’m sure none of it is new.
Maybe the new part is the communication. The hypercommunication. The biggest realization that poly has brought me is that honesty destroys guilt. Which is good, because I don’t do guilt.
So I try and be brave and ask for what I want. If I get it, that is awesome. If I don’t get it, I deal with it. You don’t have to be happy about it, but you do have to deal with it. Sometimes asking for what you want means people will not like you anymore. Be honest with those around you and respect their choices and expect respect for yours.
Anyhow, that’s all what poly means to me. It isn’t about how many people you are dating or how many people you love or fuck. If I were single I would certainly still be poly. To me it means that I am open to being attracted to multiple people at the same time and acting on those attractions in a honest and overt manner. It means that monogamy would be difficult for me. That’s about all.
And I like the word, even if it does have its own cache of cliche. Then again I’m probably more of a geek than Guy and I’ve even admitted to being a blogger in public without cringing. I don’t so much see things like polyamory as being labels as much as they are tags for easy searchability. Poly, kinky, skeptic, writer, so on. There are a few more that I am not sure I am and struggle with, like queer, artist, ally, but that’s a whole different post, which I’m sure will also be too long.
I’m super excited about this new short story I’ve been working on! It has the rather ridiculous title of “The Revenge of BatCatGirl.” The first draft is just about done, so it will be a little while until the final edited product is ready for public consumption, but I can’t help but post a tidbit.
It’s silly and pretty real and gets really fucking hot. So here is a bit of the first part. Let me know what you think.
Part 1: The Negotiation
Kay stood in front of the full length mirror and slowly slipped the Batgirl Underoos up her freshly shaven legs until they were half way up her thighs. She paused, looking at her reflection. She was naked except for the purple and gray fabric suspended between her open legs. Her fingers moved over her dark brown skin, pausing to touch at a tiny stretch mark on her hip.
What the fuck was she doing?
She pulled the comic book themed underpants the rest of the way up, watching the very naked looking triangle of her recently hairless pussy get replaced by a little yellow bat symbol on a swath of boy-cut whimsy.
The t-shirt went on next. It was purple and gray like the panties, with very short sleeves. It was far too tight over her bra-less chest and it didn’t quite cover her torso completely. A thin embarrassing line of belly shown between the shirt and the panties and she pulled at both to cover it. In the center of the shirt, right between her breasts, was another bat symbol, this one slightly stretched.
She felt like an idiot.
Was she really trying to be a little girl? She was thirty years old. She had five gray hairs and big tits and little wrinkles starting to form at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t a little girl. She had thick hips and a big ass and a career. She was a full grown woman who was stuffing herself into silly little kid clothes and the most confusing part was that it was making her wetter than anything she could remember.
She picked up her phone for the hundredth time that morning and looked up his list again. How could a bullet list make her blush?
The worst part was that she had asked for all of it.
My personal rules for writing erotica this summer:
1. Do not play out actual power dynamics (dissimilar ages, teacher/student, boss/employee, experienced/non-experienced) and instead write about created dynamics between peers
2. Explore negotiated (even if implied, inferred, or prior) BDSM instead of scenes of coercion or force (even if obviously fantasy/metaphor)
3. Write about characters of diverse body types, gender presentations, and especially races
4. Stay away from both white-centric language (i.e. idealizing pale skin, pink parts, etc) and not using “colonialist” type descriptions of skin tones (i.e. ivory, chocolate, coffee)
5. Write beautifully, descriptively and in an unrushed manner. Create tension. Write poetically without fear.
6. Seduce the reader. Make them squirm. Make them physically react.