It is my great pleasure to announce my inclusion in a new anthology, aptly titled, Dirty Old Women — an intriguing collection of erotica by women of experience,edited by Lynx Canon
Dirty Old Women know what they want and are not afraid to say so.
I invite you to come join me for an evening featuring free erotic readings and performance by twelve writers, at the book launch and pre-Valentines day party, on Wednesday, February 8, from 7:30 – 9:30, at the Makeout Room, 3225 22nd Street and Mission in San Francisco.
I hope to see you there!
Story Snippet from Full Body Massage:
Are there any tender or painful, body parts I should be aware of?” Don inquired before beginning the massage.
I lay naked, face down on her padded massage table covered by a light blanket. I sighed. “That’s pretty much any body part you can name after six weeks in this cast.”
“Why you poor woman,” she said, in a low, husky voice, “You are in need of attention, aren’t you? Let’s see if I can make you feel better.”
Don poured a small circle of heated massage oil into her hands and rubbed her palms together, releasing a soothing, spicy smell into the air. She began with basic Swedish massage, combined with acupressure; first working on my tension filled upper arms and shoulders, then moving down my spine to my achy lower back, and to my hips.
I felt the first small twinges of arousal between my legs when Don’s hands, slick with oil, slid over the smooth round cheeks of my ass, stroking, kneading and spreading them apart. The sensations became so exciting I squirmed with pleasure, surprising myself, because I wasn’t into women at all. But Don was tall, broad-shouldered, and somehow manly, particularly in the dim light of the room—and into women or not, this massage was turning me on.
Don continued to massage my hips—and I imagined, what if those talented hands were to slide between my legs, parting the swollen outer lips of my opening, and delve into the moist tingling flesh within. I waited, barely breathing, barely breathing, but then she moved on to the backs of my thighs and knees to my lower legs, and spent some time doing acupressure on my feet.
Calm down, Mia, I told myself, what are you expecting anyway—a full body massage?
“Mia, you can turn over now,” she said softly. Struggling with the cast I rolled myself over and with the blanket covering me, I lay back comfortably with a small pillow beneath my neck. Using her fingertips, Don massaged my head, face, and throat, even my ears, and the muscles in my arms and hands.
“You’re really tense. You need to remember to breath,” she said, firmly, continuing on to stroke my neck, and shoulders, and upper chest.
I was breathing alright, half gasping in fact, with my nipples jutting out at attention, breasts aching with excitement, and the muscles of my pussy clenching and squeezing down hard. Never mind becoming less sexual during menopause—by the time Don reached my lower belly, I was ready, more than ready for anything she wanted to do. But she folded the blanket back over me and her hands moved onto my thighs instead, and continued downward to my knees, lower legs, and feet—and then slowly, deliberately, back up again.
She paused, when her hands reached the tops of my thighs, with her fingertips almost but not quite brushing my pubic curls hidden beneath the blanket. A hot rush of excitement traveled like an electric current straight to my clit. I gasped with pleasure and opened my eyes.
Don gazed down at me longingly. “Beautiful Mia,” she murmured, and waited, her dark eyes questioning. Speechless with excitement, I smiled up at her and nodded my agreement. Full body massage, oh my god, yes! Please don’t stop now! I thought, and a ripple of pleasure went through my entire body when she set the blanket aside and reached for me.
My new life as a tweeter is connecting me with all sorts of interesting articles and blog postings I hadn’t known about before. I recently discovered Miss Ruby Reviews, a sex toy review site with some excellent articles about various aspect of sexual pleasure. One article in particular, posted on 2/6/15, @missrubyreviews, and titled, I Used To Fake Orgasms, But Don’t Anymore, resonated with me like you wouldn’t believe.
The reasons for all this resonation, in case you can’t guess, is because I used to fake them too. My years as a faker began in the bad old days of my first marriage in the early 60s — when as a girl of eighteen, I found myself unable to orgasm during penile penetration, although I often came close. Being an honest sort, I told my partner the truth, thinking this was an issue to be worked on together, with the mutual goal of improving our sex life. Needless to say, this information was not well received. Both this young man and I had been raised to view the male ego as a tender, fragile entity, that must at all costs be bolstered and guard from harm — and the penis as the be-all and end-all of sexual pleasure for all. Never mind that I came like a house on fire from oral sex or from manual stimulation of my clitoris; the message was clear. Women who stubbornly refused to orgasm from penis/vagina sex, were male ego wreckers for sure.
After that initial confrontation, I not only faked orgasms, I did so every bit as believably as Meg Ryan did in the iconic, faked orgasm scene in the film, When Harry Met Sally, in 1989. Unfortunately, I was so indoctrinated into lying to my husband about this issue, I continued to do so after divorcing him, in order to show my new lovers what a dynamite hunk of woman I was. “Did you come?” they’d whisper in my ear after their own orgasms subsided — and there I was, so conditioned to seeking male approval, I felt I had not other choice but to lie.
A few years later, in my early thirties, I got lucky and met a man with enough self-confidence to not be threatened by the truth. Instead, this memorable man and I entered into a mutually beneficial relationship, dedicated to the discovery of what made Dorothy come. And from that point on, I’m delighted to say I’ve never lied about orgasms again.
This particular sexual issue was so significant to me it because the basis for my book length, erotic coming-of-age story, PERFECT STRANGERS: One Woman’s Journey Through The Swinging Seventies, for which I am currently seeking publication
And this is why Miss Ruby’s article about how she faked orgasms, and how, like me, she no longer does, resonated so strongly with me. I have no idea what age she is now and how long ago she stopped faking. I’d love to think that younger women today have come a long way in claiming their right to full sexual pleasure and no longer agonize over orgasmic issues — although I suspect for some people, some ideas will die hard.
I got a kindle as a gift over this past holiday season on which I’m planning to use as an erotica library The first book I downloaded into it was Sex and Cupcakes: A Collection of Juicy Essays, by Rachel Kramer Bussel. I’d been wanting to read this book since it was published in the latter part of last year. I’d heard it was exceptionally good. I read it in bed the same evening I purchased it, and my only disappointment with it was how quickly I devoured each of her nine gemlike essays, which whetted my appetite for her writing and left me hungry for more. Rachel is not only the excellent editor of more than fifty erotic anthologies, each of which contains a story she’s written, she also writes for Bust, Dame, Salon, the Daily Beast, Elle, Glamour, and well, you name it — if it’s about erotic issues she writes for it and she does it well.
The first essay in the book, I Have Trouble With Orgasms, touches on a subject near and dear to my heart — not to mention other key portions of my anatomy. It is, in fact, a major theme in my now completed, but not yet published book, PERFECT STRANGERS: One Woman’s Journey Through the Swinging Seventies, which deals with the tremendous pressure put on women of that era to have vaginal orgasms — simultaneously achieved ones prefered, if you please — and my personal torment as a young married woman, and later as a still young divorced woman. when I fell short of that goal. I was consequently impressed, not only by Rachel’s unflinching honesty about such an intimate issue, but also to learn that one of the foremost sex writers of current times, doesn’t come easily either — although as a thirty-something, post feminist woman, she seems to be far less hard on herself about the issue than I was at the time.
Her second essay, I’m Pro-Choice and I Fuck , wowed me as well — another dear to my heart subject that it’s hard to believe is still in need of discussion — but it absolutely is, and Rachel did it well. I also loved MONOGAMISHMASH, a discussion about her potentially monogamous relationship and what that might mean. This essay grabbed my attention because three decades ago, my husband and I began a committed and openish relationship, which luckily served us well, although after dropping out of the scene in the mid-nineties, we gradually evolved into a monogamous couple. But then a few years ago while in our sixties, we mutually decided that an occasional threesome, or moresome, and an occasional foray into the party scene, would effectively enliven our desire for each other and spice up our marriage. I’m delighted to say it definitely has and that, for now, we’re pleased with our monogamish relationship. Having now been partnered for over three decades, I ‘ll venture to say that the sexual evolution of a relationship is a work in progress throughout.
I’m also reading Master Of O, by Ernest Greene, husband of porn star, sex educato,r and sex positive femininst, Nina Hartley, and the capital D in their D/s relationship. The book is the Story of O, from the dominant male point of view and set in modern-day Los Angeles. I ‘m really enjoying this book and recommend it to anyone with a genuine interest in BDSM — it’s everything Shades of Grey isn’t, complete with skillfully written and natural dialogue, and great interplay between Dom and submissive.
Good news on the home front, Rachel Kramer Bussel recently informed me that the print date for Dirty Dates will be this November, and my story, The Corset is the first one in the book. I hope to have the book cover up on my site before long. I still have other stories waiting in the wings for publisher approval and will hopefully have good news about those very soon.
We were fearless in the 70s. Our sexual adventuring knew no bounds. The process of erotic liberation that began with the sexual revolution of the 60s continued on, in spades, in the decade that followed. It was a time of discarding inhibitions and prohibitions, and of embracing personal freedom, and of self-discovery above all.
It was a time of living out sexual fantasies, via impromptu hook-ups anywhere and everywhere: on sandy beaches, and swimming pools, and hot tubs, and saunas, and on water beds with black satin sheets. We did it in vacation cottages, and at ski resorts, and nudist colonies, and on cruises — and at organized events , and encounter groups, and alternative lifestyle playgrounds, such as swing clubs, and BDSM party houses, not to mention our own private homes.
It was a time when female sexual gratification was viewed as a birthright — and casual sex with perfect strangers was as easy as shaking hands.
If it felt good we did it. If it felt really good, then, by god, we did it again!
Still, by the end of the 70s, having accrued enough sexual experience to eroticize a small, sex-starved country, I’d taken a giant step back from my promiscuous lifestyle. But not because I felt I had an out-of-control addiction requiring a twelve-step program for recovery. Or fear of disease either — believing as I did that God protects both fools and innocent, and I fit somewhere into one or both of those categories.
Instead, I stepped back for two primaryreasons: First, I’d learned over time that for me, as a woman, sexual freedom was not necessarily synonymous with sexual satisfaction — and casual sex with strangers, exciting and potentially perfect as they appeared to be, often left more to be desired. Also, by then I’d come to understand and accept my intrepid erotic nature, and perceived how easily I could continue on as I was, until my life evolved, or devolved, depending on viewpoint, into an unending series of casual, sexual encounters.
And in the end, I realized I wanted and needed a greater level of intimacy than that.