Picture this scene: I'm sitting in a graduate school class on the third story of a renovated old building. The professor is discussing the merits of brand identity and corporate leadership when I smell something sickly sweet. It's a little earthy, a little not. Kind of sour. It smells wrong. It's a WRONG smell.
Ohhhh! Oh no! Fuck! Ooops! Suddenly, twisting in my seat, I remember that I forgot to wash the beer out of my hair from yesterday when somebody special tossed some onto my head while we were lying naked in the sun on the beach. This was after he rubbed me down with olive oil and Hawaiian bronzing lotion and got me so relaxed there on the beach towel that I started to doze and drooled all over the New Yorker I was reading, meaning I decided not to jab my pinkie into his armpit or wet-willie him after the beer dousing. (BTW, in the middle of a class on Sunday, I realized my pants had ripped at the crotch and....yeah. I did a quick repair with scotch tape and a prayer, but hell's bells, whatz up with me?)
Well, in that stuffy classroom tonight, as horrified as I was to have forgotten to wash the locks in the Monday morning frenzy, it was just another little reminder that you can take the girl away from the fun, but.......
Speaking of fun, I found out yesterday that I have a story and a poem accepted into the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival this weekend! I am absolutely thrilled. Congrats to Robin Elizabeth and photographer David Rolin as well!
The story is "Silver Fish in a Crystal Pond" and the poem is "Unearthed Here."
I am so happy about both of them because they reflect the way my writing has gone over the past year-and-a-half. I've come back around to my passion, which is true sensuality and earthy, lustful, hedonistic, freedom-saturated wild abandon. Life and sex and writing and sex and life and writing and life and sex and sex have all converged into one big puddle of melted butter and sweat-soaked sheets. In life and in literature, this is so beautiful to me. As beautiful as a naked man beating my sorry ass at Scrabble.
I can't wait to go party down in Seattle Friday night -- beer-soaked and grinning and with a renewed belief that all the dirty, naughty things are possible, as long as we keep spreading our wings.
Silver Fish in a Crystal Pond
A creek gurgles in the distance, “let go, let go, let go, let go.”
Next, my lover ties binds my torso and legs, the bark hot and harsh against my naked ass and back. He can’t stop grinning. He knows. He knows I have lived every day of my life for these few moments.
The blindfold is next. Suddenly, summertime is gone and I am left to dangle there in the wind and birdsong and creek babble, a feeling like floating and being tied to the tracks all at once.
The whip didn’t strike, it stroked. At first. The soft-as-silk elk skin fringes feathered across my skin like a thousand butterfly kisses. The darkened sky was comforting as he brushes my ears and neck with his lips and begins whispering, dirty, dirty words that make my nipples burn.
The Naked Girls Reading Seattle will be performing the literary work! I can't even stand it, I'm so excited! Naked women reading my writing??? OMG, I'm going to burst into spontaneous naked cartwheels. Oh yeah, that happens all the time. Well, I'm going to do a trillion gazillion naked cartwheels over this, and maybe a front-flip or two. Woo-hoo!
Naked Girls Reading -- photo by David Peterman