Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (29 page)

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 “fucking 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 god 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-fashioned way, just meeting, falling desperately in lust, 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 starfucky 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 sushi-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 accumulate 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 God, 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 cunt, 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 fuck or be fucked, 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 space under water, not, apparently, associating 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 fuck boys or girls. Also whether you fuck 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 relationship 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 shell 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 lust, be caught in a crush, and it was like she dropped her panties on the bus, not on purpose, her dignity lost up her cunt, teetering and without any footing. Inside, where I have for quite a long time stayed still like an animal frozen in the grass, 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 gratitude. 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 assumes 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? Lust 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 titer 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 fucking, hot enough to sink through your skin like LSD if your fingers touched the words. I wanted to blur the people together into a shimmering electric band of fuck, 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 compass finally, finally moving.

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Starting Your Own Erotic Reading Circle

Jen Cross

The Erotic Reading Circle was developed in the early days of Good Vibrations in San Francisco before being taken on by the
Center for Sex & 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 space 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 pronoun 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 pronouns? Our San Francisco Circle meets in a community that is fairly queer and genderfluid, so we ask for folks to give a third person pronoun that is right for them, so that we don’t make any assumptions about a writer’s gender identity. Common third-person pronouns 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 space 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 participants: 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 sex 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 assuming 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 space; 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 advertisements, 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, space 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, pass on calls for submissions or other publishing 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 participants, or copies of the magazines or journals that accept work with erotic or sexual 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 space where folks can have their words held in confidence without worrying that passersby might overhear. A private home is okay if you feel comfortable inviting the public into your space—otherwise, consider asking about space at a local college or university (the women’s center, gender studies department, queer student union or other student spaces may have space available). You might have a sex-positive boutique with meeting space 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 space accessible to folks in wheelchairs? Will those with chemical sensitivities be able to participate? 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 institute any content restrictions and we don’t ask writers to censor themselves. Some Circles have indicated to their participants 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 bestiality, etc. Make the decision that’s right for your Circle. If you do institute content restrictions, let your participants 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 spaces is the intention to create safer space for writers to share their erotic work, space 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 space. 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
Sex
:
A
guide
for
fiction
writers
. Holt and Co., 2002.

Susie Bright,
How to Write a Dirty Story: Reading, Writing, and Publishing 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: Sex Writers on Sex 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,
Sex 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.

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