Part 4 (1/2)

”UNGH!” I yell. My d.i.c.k is this one big gus.h.i.+ng spasm, and even though I jack off a lot, this is like a brand new category of d.i.c.k goodness, like I singlehandedly discovered a new planet, just right there on the other side of the moon, one big pulsating planet of d.i.c.kness.

My hands beat on his back as I shoot into his mouth. I try to stop myself, because that's so nasty and embarra.s.sing, c.u.mming in a guy's mouth, I hope I don't make him puke, but I can't help it, it feels so good but I should have stopped, I ...

And now the weirdest part is that he has slid back up and he's kissing me, even though it's probably like trying to hit a moving target because I'm still flopping and shuddering all over the place. I can't stop myself from shaking. I finally calm down a bit and taste the sperm in his mouth and we should both be ashamed of ourselves but we're not, at least I'm not and he doesn't seem to be. We use our tongues to push the bleachy flavor back and forth in our mouths.

His shoulder starts bouncing as I suck on his lips, and then I feel his arm banging against my belly and realize he is jerking himself off and I think, 'Oh my G.o.d!' because isn't whacking off something you're supposed to do in private?

But I don't stop kissing him and I can tell that something is about to happen because he starts making this whining sound out his nose, like a cross between a snotty little kid and a puppy, and then he pulls his head back hard.

Right at that moment I happen to be biting his lower lip, so that when his head jerks I taste his blood in my mouth, like sucking on a copper penny, and I feel something warm and wet squirt on my stomach. I watch the brown in his eyes disappear, leaving only the whites behind.

Now we are lying on my bed. Ricky is trying to catch his breath while I just breathe through my mouth. I look down and see a drop of sperm, about the size of a dime, sitting on one of the packages of socks I'm supposed to take camping with me.

I get up off the bed and throw the socks into a duffel bag, not really caring anymore what I bring or don't bring on the stupid camping trip.

But I swear to G.o.d that if my ex-best friend calls me a c.u.m-eating f.a.ggot I'll kick him hard in the b.a.l.l.s.

Marlene Hoeber Bio Marlene Hoeber is a long time queer, kink, trans, s.e.x- positive, feminist, social justice activist and a devout pervert. She is currently Director of Collections at the archive of the Center for s.e.x & Culture. Marlene was a founding member of the world's first college campus based BDSM organization in 1991. She is also president of the Northern California chapter of the Liberal Gun Club, a member of the board of directors of the Center for s.e.x & Culture, and also a member of the board of directors of the IMsL Foundation. She also has a day job.

Mini-Interview Do you write under your own name? I do write under my own name. I have been doing s.e.x-related activism of one sort or another for 25 years. I made my first decisions about using my own name in that context both when I was young and fearless, but also when we were all dying and fearlessness was how we did everything. I have decided in the interim that I can stick with those early decisions. I think that they have been good for me. Like everyone, I have done things that I am less proud of than other things, but if I am living (a small) part of my life in public, it is very important to me that I be honest.

What's the inside scoop on your story? This story started as a series of emails between my partner, Dorian Katz, and I. She is an artist (see cover ill.u.s.tration drawing) and I am very supportive of her career. I began at one point joking about being the ”artwife.” There was, for much of the second half of the 20th century, a myth that the real Lee Krasner scuttled her own career as an artist in deference to the career of her partner, Jackson Pollock. This is not true. s.e.xism in the art world is what diminished her career. I began writing to Dorian as Lee writing to Jackson, snarkily complaining about that public perception, simultaneously taking about actual things Dorian and I were doing regarding her art career, and also we were writing each other love letters and talking dirty to each other in character. The notion of Lee as the aggressive top when away from the public eye seemed to perfectly skewer the old s.e.xist myth.

Letter to My Girlfriend Marlene Hoeber Lee Krasner c/o Guggenheim 30 W. 57th St.

New York, New York April 4, 1947 Jackson Pollock The Springs, New York Dearest Jacks, It's almost as cold today as you can be. It's almost as wet today as you can get me.

I know days like this can be hard on your old bones, my darling Jack. Come back into the house to warm up, if your hands get too cold in the studio. I wish I was there to warm them up for you. Put some sugar and hot water in your gin, that's good for you when it rains.

I know you hate working when it's cold. I know the paint drops differently, but you are so much happier when you just keep going. Maybe you'll find new things with the paint working differently, thicker, slower.

Oh, it was so horrible last night, Jack. I had to go to this horrible dinner event and all the d.a.m.n Guggenheims were there. You think we aren't always that fond of Peggy, well, the rest of them are real barbarians. They know all about oil and silver, but are positively stupid about everything else. They don't even know what good booze is. I have a headache that screams Courvoisier.

All is well, no worries. I did my duty as the good art-wife. I put a face to where Peggy sends a trickle of their riches. I was ”interesting” for them. I even held my tongue when one of the uncles started going on about splashes of paint that a monkey could make.

I wanted to ask him if he knew where I could find a monkey that f.u.c.ks like an angel and pours gin over my t.i.ts. I wanted to know if he could really train a monkey to beg for my c.u.n.t so sweetly that I can't resist. I didn't ask any of these things. I had another drink and smiled something stupid about how everyone has differing taste in art.

After dinner, the bunch of us staying at Peggy's place went back there to continue the party. Peggy went on and on about how she has never been with a woman but the prospect seems so in-ter-es-ting. She kept looking at me when she said these things. She is such a hideous bore. I don't think any amount of money could make it worth her bourgeois obsession with the daring and in-ter-es-ting. I thought one was supposed to be jaded by as much wealth as she has. Didn't she get this bit of exploration done with at Radcliffe or Sarah Lawrence or wherever it was that she went? You know that I have nothing against women, but she is so horrible!

I ran into David Smith yesterday. He is planning to come visit you in a day or two. I put two cases of gin in the back of his truck for you. It's the good stuff. I charged it on Peggy's account. Make sure you get both cases. You know how David can be.

This is important-I told David that your black eye and broken nose are from a bar fight. It might spoil your reputation as a tough old drunk for everyone to know that your injuries are from me.

Would David be able to look either of us in the face if you had to explain that I broke your nose grinding my c.u.n.t into it? Let them think you are belligerent. Let them think you rail against the world. I know that all I have to do is lift my skirt and the great f.u.c.king genius of the twentieth century begs on his knees to do whatever I want. If you are a genius, Jackson, it is as my toilet.

I can't wait to be home. It's the only place I don't have to hear about Jackson f.u.c.king Pollock, the Greatest f.u.c.king American Painter. I can't wait to be in my own studio. I'm tired of everything always being about you. If there wasn't a little hate, I suppose the love wouldn't be so sweet.

I wish I was waiting for you in the kitchen, by the big wood stove. I'll be there for drunken s.e.x and lunch soon enough. Just ten more days, my sweet grumpy. We'll be in each other's arms soon. I'll be as rough or as sweet as you want, old man. I'll give you whatever you want, as long as I can be with you. I touch myself thinking of you when I go to bed. I wonder if Peggy hears me moaning your name in the dark. I hope she doesn't hear the other names for you I whisper at the ceiling: Worm, Fool, b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I miss your rough hands on my skin, even though I always tell you to try the new soap to make them softer. I miss that b.u.mp on your nose, too. I miss you in my mouth and in my c.u.n.t and in my a.s.s.

I'll be on the late train next Friday. Jack, will you f.u.c.k me in the car in the train station parking lot?

Answer me when I am there with you.

Love L.K.

Christine Solano Bio Christine Solano is the pen name of a poet, writer and photographer who lives in San Francisco. Among her previously published erotica is the story ”Walls of Fire,” which appeared in Herotica 5.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? I don't see a clear boundary between the erotic and the non-erotic in my writing, it's a continuum. I can only write about my experiences, including my fantasies and fears. Some of it turns out to have s.e.xual content, some of it can be scary, sometimes both.

Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? I wear many hats, including as a writer, but I started as a poet at an early age and will likely end up as one. In between, I continue to write fiction and non-fiction, mostly the latter.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? The ERC is a special place where I meet and hear voices that are at the edge of my usual circles, which I love. The range of flavors of erotic experiences presented on any given evening is inspiring, intriguing, and mind-and body-tingling. I only wish I could attend more often.

Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Do you have any concerns about publis.h.i.+ng erotic work? I use a pen name for erotic work mainly because it frees me to share some very personal experiences and feelings while protecting both the innocent and the less-so.

Gift Christine Solano You're the gift I stole wrapped between my legs I tied you up licking each salty drop I tell myself again this is the last time again wondering why in German ”gift”

means ”poison”

Ordinary Time Christine Solano Afterwards a measure of peace our skins cooling, my hand counting your heartbeat slowing down we share a beer, we tell jokes, like friends would I wipe away the taste lingering from your last kiss that chilling flavor of so long *

”You were once wild here.

Don't let them tame you.”

- Isadora Duncan Tori Adams Bio Tori Adams is currently a doctoral student in Gender & Women's Studies. Her work focuses on stigma and violence surrounding abject ident.i.ties, and looks towards popular and visual culture for points of a.n.a.lyses.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? Back when I wrote this story, my writing predominantly took on a confessional, private tone. Almost everything I worked on was true to my life and experiences. I realized people accessed these writings with their own arousals and histories, and began to play up the erotic aspects of these memories. Perhaps surprisingly, I find myself toning down or taming erotic writing in contrast to non-erotic in order to make pieces easier to engage with s.e.xually and politically.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? The Erotic Reading Circle and the Center for s.e.x and Culture are both supportive environments for discovering your own creative and s.e.xual expressions. Receiving feedback from others working within the erotic genre was helpful in the 'telling a story' vs 'telling my story' distinction; the Erotic Reading Circle helped to make my writing consumable. Regular writing groups take the distance between stories and their writers for granted, and may not provide the same feedback necessary for this type of work. Additionally, the parts that improve a non-erotic story often differ widely from that which could better an erotic story.

Do you write under your own name? I am writing under my own name. Though I do have privacy concerns with current and future sharing, both the span of years and amount of personal progression that have occurred since writing this piece makes it feel more protected.

What's the inside scoop on your story? The person I wrote this story about and I are still close friends, and recounting this vignette is one of our favorite party tricks.

Red Paint Tori Adams Two women toy with power and calculated edge play in the form of fingerpainting July 2010 She smiled at me. The corners of her teeth poked from her lips, almost hidden in the flaking dryness, her thin blood pressing out. Watching me watch her lips, she slowly, slowly, put her pen down. I could hear both ends. .h.i.t the table. She tucked her hair around her ear to pinch the cigarette that I hadn't noticed, and drew it down to her lips. I wondered briefly if she had just done a magic trick, pulled it out from the nowhere s.p.a.ce behind her ear. She sucked on the cold paper, not lighting it. The blood on her lips smeared around the white. It was grotesque; she was beautiful.

I stood to move closer. She shrieked a bit, ”Sit down, I didn't tape you!” I ignored her. Of course, I wasn't ignoring her; I don't think I have or really ever could. I moved to her, knelt down in front of her. See, I thought, I'm still yours completely, I'm not disobeying. That's really how things were, and how I felt.

”What would you do if I died?” she asked me. I shook my head. ”No, really. What if I just-” She looked around. ”-what if I drank this jar of paint?” She plucked the gla.s.s up and held it in front of my face. ”I could.”

”You couldn't.”

Had I really said that? Hadn't I known that was a dare?