Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (16 page)

“
we made love. How pedestrian the words look—trite, worn, practically featureless with use—but how can one better describe that which happens when it happens? that creation? that magic blending? I might say we became figures in a mesmerized dance before the rocking talisman of the moon, starting slow, so slow … a pair of feathers drifting through clear liquid substance of sky … gradually accelerating, faster and faster and finally into photon existence of pure light … as my whole straining body burst like fluid electricity into hers.”

-
Ken
Kesey

(from
Sometimes a Great Notion
)

Elizabeth Rae

Bio

Elizabeth Rae is a professional vixen. She just lost a five year game of Battleship that she was playing through the mail. It is her greatest defeat to date.

Mini-Interview

How did you start writing about sex
?
I have always been a writer. Writing about sex just seemed the next logical step. The biggest challenge for me is finding a different voice that sounds genuine. In non-erotic writing, I draw less on personal experience and am able to vary voices more frequently.

How
is
the
Erotic
Reading
Circle
part
of
your
writing
process?
It is helpful to know what parts of your story are actually erotic. You may be focused on one act, or even one word as the turning point to your piece. But when you expose it to the Erotic Reading Circle, you find that there is something very different that others found to be the hottest part of your story. Knowing where your other strengths lie enable you to turn a story a very different way.

Do
you
write
under
your
own
name?
Why
or
why
not?
Do
you
have
any
concerns
about
publishing
erotic
work?
I do not write under my own name. My “real” job is in a professional world where it might not harm my career, but it certainly wouldn’t advance my career to have it known I write erotica. It isn’t a secret to my friends, and I would love to be more open about it in my professional arena, but at the moment, it isn’t advisable.

What’s
the
inside
scoop
on
your
story?
What
inspired
it?
Any
caveats
or
unusual
tidbits
you’d
like
to
share
with
your
readers?
The story is true. Except that I never got the treadmill up to 7. And the focus of the story
?
We’re still good friends …

Stock
Check

Elizabeth Rae

She just needed to sweat. It had been a week since the flirtation had started and she was wound tighter than a spring. Her skin felt too tight and too hot. Sometimes she would roll down the windows in her car, turn up Stevie Nicks singing “Edge of Seventeen,” and drive across the bridge, belting at the top of her lungs. The sting of the cold bay air would hit her constantly warm skin and her body would sing. She could imagine it was him touching her. The kiss of the wind was his lips on her neck, on her face, in her hair.

She just needed to sweat. Yoga pants, men’s t-shirt, iPod. She turned the treadmill to 4. Searching for something loud and fast with good bass, she scrolled through her playlists, feeling her shoes hit the rubber with a comforting thud. She settled on Ke$ha and turned the volume up. Jogging felt free. She knew she was in deep lust and he was eating it up. When she would look at him with that hunger, he just smiled, knowing exactly what he was doing to her.

It didn’t help that the flirtation was at work. A constant professional, she reveled in finding excuses to run to the basement for various items. She had become an expert at restocking the floor. She had also developed perfect timing for her double entendres as she walked past him to retrieve an item.

Today had gone as it usually did. 4:30. There were only two more hours at work and her feet knew it. No matter the number of Dr. Scholl’s inserts she tried or Dansko arch support shoes, at 4:30 her feet needed a rest. In the cutthroat word of upscale, commission retail, one tried to take as few breaks as possible so that when Danielle Steele or Leon Panetta came in, you were the one to snag them. But even as she saw a woman walk in with a fur jacket and a rock the size of Montana on her finger, she pressed the down button on the elevator. No sale was worth putting her feet through another minute.

As the lift arrived, she stepped in and pressed “B.” What had she seen that needed filling? Usually she would go for something in fragrance. Even if it didn’t need filled in, she could put it in backstock, making it the perfect cover. Fragrance also took her all the way across the stock room, in case he wasn’t at the desk where he typically stood. Fortunately, she didn’t have to look this time. The doors opened and she saw his blonde hair over the shelves. He was wearing her favorite shirt, too; grey, just tight enough to show off the muscles in his arms, with the word “Lust” written in an engraver’s font on his chest.

She had started dressing for him in the mornings. On days she knew he was going to be there, she made sure she had a little more cleavage, a little shorter skirt, brighter red lipstick, a touch more perfume. It was only recently that he had started to reciprocate her flirtations, which made her more focused on letting him know that she wanted him. His head turned towards her slightly as she walked across the room. He smiled and went back to his task. He knew she did this on purpose and she suspected that he was flattered. Sometimes he would ignore her just to increase the tension for her next trip down. She grabbed a lemon verbena candle and as she turned to go back to the elevator he walked past her and brushed her hand with his. She felt a jolt rush through her and stumbled back to the lift.

Work made it more dangerous. Work made the tension more delicious, and made even the most mundane comment a terribly important conversation. Work made this touch third base.

As she rode the elevator back to the first floor, she felt herself blushing and tried to control herself. The last thing she needed was the rumor mill starting up about her personal life.

The music pumped in her ears as she thought back to that touch. She pushed 5 on the treadmill and started to run. She just needed to sweat. She wanted it to be with him. Rolling around in bed, heavy breathing, fast movements, exhaustion, shower.

He had cornered her in the towel aisle yesterday under the guise of helping her find what she needed. As she bent over to get a turtle- embroidered towel from the bottom shelf, he stood behind her. There was never anything outright filthy said. She felt his eyes on her ass in her black pencil skirt, which she had bought with him in mind, and lingered for a moment after she found what she needed. He hadn’t moved when she turned around. He just stood there staring at her. She smiled as she felt her eyes darkening with a hungry look.

He backed away from her, letting her take her towel and leave. It had been like this for a week! She pushed 7 on the treadmill and felt her heart race. Sweat started to pool at the base of her neck and the small of her back. Her hair clung to her face around her temples.

He would text her for hours in the evening, keying her up all over again. She found sleep impossible. She had tried masturbating but found that even though she got off, it wasn’t satisfying. At least not satisfying enough to turn her brain off and get to sleep. She had even resorted to calling her phone fuck buddy who managed to give her one night of repose. But it wasn’t what she wanted.

Exhausted, she turned the treadmill off. She was drenched, but she felt amazing. Expending even the tiniest bit of this energy he was pumping into her settled her. She walked to the bathroom and turned the shower to its hottest setting. She peeled off her workout garb, tossing it to the floor, and stepped into the steam. For a moment she simply stood in the hot water. Her skin turned pink and she exhaled slowly.

It hadn’t been enough. She put her face in the shower’s stream and her mind drifted to his hands. She saw them pulling aside the shower curtain and stepping in behind her. She felt the heat of his body coming close to hers. She felt the weight of his hands on her shoulders, rubbing down her chest and settling on her breasts. She felt his lips kiss the sweat off her neck. She felt his stiff cock pressing into her ass and her nipples perked. She put her hands in front of her on the shower wall, bracing herself as she bent over slightly; she wanted him inside her. Finally beyond the walls of work, he took charge and pulled her hips back onto him hard. His cock popped inside her, a sudden rush of relief and heat washing over her. Finally. She started to move back and forth on him, the water rushing between them on every thrust. She bent over further, aiming his cock at her g-spot and pushing back against him hard. He gripped her hips, moving faster against her, the sound of wet skin slapping in the air. Water ran in her eyes, her mouth, her ears. She felt her cunt tighten around him, the orgasms coming in waves. His hands dug into her flesh, pulling her back harder each time. A moan escaped her lips as she shook with another rush of blood to her extremities. She felt him cum inside her, holding her tight to him. They breathed in unison, both trying to catch their breath.

As she turned the shower off and pulled the curtain back, she knew she would be able to sleep tonight. She wrapped a towel around herself, and collapsed into bed, alone. She had just needed to sweat.

[go to top]

“Write the story that you were always afraid to tell. I swear to you that there is magic in it, and if you show yourself naked for me, I’ll be naked for you. It will be our covenant.”

-
Dorothy
Allison

Jack Fritscher

Bio

Dr. Jack Fritscher, founding San Francisco editor- in-chief of
Drummer
and pioneer SOMA leather historian, has authored 100s of stories and 20 books:
Leather
Blues
(1969); Lammy Finalist,
Some
Dance
to
Remember
:
A
Memoir
-
Novel
of
San
Francisco
1970
-
1982
; his memoir of his lover,
Mapplethorpe
:
Assault
with
a
Deadly
Camera
; and his
Gay
San
Francisco
:
Eyewitness
Drummer
,
The
Sex
,
Art
,
and
Salon
of
Drummer
Magazine
, winner “Best Book,” National Leather Association (2008). He has received two “Lifetime Achievement” Awards from the Erotic Authors Assoc. (2007) and Pantheon of Leather (2014).
JackFritscher.com

Mini-Interview

How did you start writing about sex?
In 1953, when I was 14, I began writing about locker room and gladiator “stuff” that turned me on and made me hard while I was writing it. I wrote to the same literary standards I was learning for penning my non-erotic fiction and features in high school. Erotica differs in that one of its physical purposes as art is to make the reader cum. When I was editor of
Drummer
, I accepted and rejected writers on that masturbatory basis, and the subscribers called out for more. Erotica is CPR for non-erotic writing. Erotica is as essential to the heart of GLBT culture as Rap is to the soul of Black culture.

Do
you
write
under
your
own
name?
When I sold my first poems, stories, and articles to magazines in 1957, I used a pen name because I was a Beatnik and thought it was cool and didn’t realize the implications. By 1965, I wised up and exited “out” of that “scribbler’s closet.” Why credit an imaginary person for my writing
?

What’s
the
inside
scoop
on
your
story?
When I first arrived South of Market in 1961, I rented a room at the Bay Bridge Motel which still stands across the street from the old Ambush bar. As an eyewitness writer during all the years of my 1001 nights in SOMA, I fell in love with the masculine soul of the neighborhood, and its roots in all the gay men from the Gold Rush onwards through World War II who lived in the SRO cheap hotels where so many died in the urban disaster of the 1906 Earthquake. One of those SOMA pioneers spoke to me. I channeled his voice directly from the past in my epistolary story, “Love Among the Ruins.”