Erotic short story collection by women writers
April 16th 2008 01:13
I appreciate erotica as much as the next person - who doesn't? My God, we all need a little vicarious thrill now and then. And reading about it is almost as good as actually doing it... isn't it? But when a while ago I was asked to contribute an erotic short story to a collection of short stories by women writers, I wondered if I had it in me. I like reading it. But writing it? It's not that I don't write about sex - all my books have sex in them of one kind or another, but it's always part of a much bigger picture. I've never actually written a story with the sole intention of it giving anyone a tingle in the tingle-triangle. In my first novel, The Dreamcloth there is an explicit masturbation scene, but really, it was written in context. I am sitll recovering from a not-so-subtle encounter with a person who, in front of my father, exclaimed, blushing pink, 'I squirmed reading that masturbation scene...' (and then turning to my father) ... I don't know how you must have felt...' Yeah well, try thinking how that made me feel.
I ended up writing a story called Meeting Dylan, the first few pages of which you can find below for this short story collection. It is about a young woman who goes to meet her writing hero, the poet Dylan Thomas, to show him a play she has written (based on the style of Dylan Thomas's Under Milkwood), but she has other things on her mind. I don't know if it is erotic. As I said, I'm not sure I have it in me.
The short story collection which has just recently been published, called Open is filled with the most deliciously erotic stories – some of them seriously quite hot. One is about a woman who goes outside to sit in the sun and happens to see her teenage neighbour masturbating. Another is about a woman who meets a man at a wedding. When she returns from the ladies room, he seems to have disappeared but then under the table he proceeds to to go down on her. Whew.
If you like erotic stories, you may want to follow the link to Kalahari books to order it – it is not available on Amazon:
Really Long Link
It is getting a big promotional push on lustbites: Really Long Link
Here are the first few pages of my story:
Meeting Dylan
To begin at the beginning.
No – let’s go back, back to before then.
It is an apricot day in the big whirly world, spring-sprung and parchment-pink. Dylan fills the doorway of his china-tiny writing room, buffalo-tired, refusing to budge to the write or the left, because the effort needed to activate motion in the huge steaming hulk of his frame is too much, too much to ask of a poet on an apple-dappled morning when the fags and potted-Scotch Bell’s ‘n Walker breathe (tell-tale talkers of last night’s lurid hours with who-knows-whose-whore or wife) still dulls the medulla-dogged dourness of our Dylan.
Now me. Standing blunted before him. Virginal in my poetry. The gigolo of juxtapositions, the seducer of sounds – Dylan, ‘Mr Thomas’ to him, drunkardly-dirty, hung over in the small doorway, is now looking at me.
His ugliness strikes me as hilarious, for a moment, like the sober regrets of the morning after. Unprepared I came for the confrontation with the physical form through which the beauty of all things is magically wrought into webs of wordy wonder. I am stunned by the size of his nose, which, if it had not been for this thing, might have left a gap for Nature to try again – this time, more lovingly. But he is unaware of my observations, and I am grateful, for I have not come here to find fault.
Now I am conscious of my mirror-studied assemblage, the mascara-ed lilt of my lashes, the dusky damasked shimmer highlighting reticent cheekbones. I feel heat bellowing from my bust. I should have worn pants, I think. I crush the iron-pressed fringe of my skirt. This is no way to meet Dylan after all this time.
‘When the October wind blows…’ I thought would be his first words, when those piggy eyes fall to the crabbed hand that clutches my skirt tight. I had hoped for such a beginning so that I might memorize, not fictionalize.
Dylan: ‘Yes?’
I reserve my wishes, in case they are numbered by the parsimony of genies, but I hope that wasn’t irritation in his voice.
Me: ’Remember, Mr Thomas? I’m the girl who wrote to you about writing…. You said I could….’
Dylan (interrupting): ‘Oh yes.’
The morning yawns in a wide-mouthed gape. Dylan moves into the small room, breaking the silence of the sunlight which fills up the spaces like the liquidity of a bath freshly-plugged. In that room, the morning is already stale, and longs to be allowed out to frolic in the October air. There are rumors in the scattering of shriveled paper wastes, of a strewn-strenuous frustrated night before.
Time passes.
Dylan has already shrunk into his writing chair, without inviting me in. His fat fingers drum lightly on its arms. The rhythm of Morning Mass. I notice, though wish I hadn’t, that his fingernails are dirty.
‘Come closer now….’ I thought he’d say. But instead, from the grave of his ashtray, he lifts the still burning stub of an already-the-eighth-today cigarette and eases it in between two huge liver-spotted lips. Its mouth-piece disappears like a suppository up a rectum.
I step inside the milkwood of his window-silled cabin. From where I am, I can smell the sweat of a poet’s craft and sullen art. He coughs like an orchestra tuning up and spits out his tobaccoed phlegm into a handkerchief with his initials DT embroidered on the corner in the periwinklest-blue cotton by a loving hand. No doubt Catlain’s in better days.
The day sidles into the room, and once-blue shadows blush at my gaze, seeping into pink and scuttle around the room like a mouse pursued. He motions to the only other chair. I am grateful for its hospitality and sit quickly.
Me: ‘Mr Thomas, I….’
He looks at me pityingly.
Dylan (interrupting): ‘Please call me Dylan…’
Me (embarrassed): ‘Dylan….. I have wanted to meet you for as long as I can remember. And that is from when I was old enough to read your poems. You have been a great inspiration to me.’
My own gushing has left me feeling naked.
Dylan: ‘Would you like some tea?’
My verbal offering so carefully rehearsed shakes the foundations of this god less than the juices of Earl Grey’s leaves.
Me: ‘Yes, thank you. That would be nice.’
He motions to the tray on a sideboard confettied with papers. ‘Help yourself.’
Dutifully, I get up from my chair and approach the collection of dirty teacups, some with flotsam of cigarette ash scumming the rims. I feel nausea rise in me. I suppress it and pour myself some lukewarm tea from the pot. There is no milk. I spoon in some sugar. There is no teaspoon to stir with. I watch the crystals cluster at the bottom of my cup and pretend it does not matter. I have, after all, not come here to drink tea.
I return with a handful of warm china to my seat.
Me: ‘Mr….. Dylan, thank you so much for your time. I have written a play. It’s just an idea….’
I watch for his reaction. To no avail. I continue.
Me: ‘It’s a play….. for voices…’
He unravels his expression, a flasher unbuttoning, enjoying my unease. His tongue protrudes to lick his lips in collaboration…..
www.joannefedler.com
I ended up writing a story called Meeting Dylan, the first few pages of which you can find below for this short story collection. It is about a young woman who goes to meet her writing hero, the poet Dylan Thomas, to show him a play she has written (based on the style of Dylan Thomas's Under Milkwood), but she has other things on her mind. I don't know if it is erotic. As I said, I'm not sure I have it in me.
Open cover
The short story collection which has just recently been published, called Open is filled with the most deliciously erotic stories – some of them seriously quite hot. One is about a woman who goes outside to sit in the sun and happens to see her teenage neighbour masturbating. Another is about a woman who meets a man at a wedding. When she returns from the ladies room, he seems to have disappeared but then under the table he proceeds to to go down on her. Whew.
If you like erotic stories, you may want to follow the link to Kalahari books to order it – it is not available on Amazon:
Really Long Link
It is getting a big promotional push on lustbites: Really Long Link
Lustbites
Here are the first few pages of my story:
Meeting Dylan
To begin at the beginning.
No – let’s go back, back to before then.
It is an apricot day in the big whirly world, spring-sprung and parchment-pink. Dylan fills the doorway of his china-tiny writing room, buffalo-tired, refusing to budge to the write or the left, because the effort needed to activate motion in the huge steaming hulk of his frame is too much, too much to ask of a poet on an apple-dappled morning when the fags and potted-Scotch Bell’s ‘n Walker breathe (tell-tale talkers of last night’s lurid hours with who-knows-whose-whore or wife) still dulls the medulla-dogged dourness of our Dylan.
Now me. Standing blunted before him. Virginal in my poetry. The gigolo of juxtapositions, the seducer of sounds – Dylan, ‘Mr Thomas’ to him, drunkardly-dirty, hung over in the small doorway, is now looking at me.
His ugliness strikes me as hilarious, for a moment, like the sober regrets of the morning after. Unprepared I came for the confrontation with the physical form through which the beauty of all things is magically wrought into webs of wordy wonder. I am stunned by the size of his nose, which, if it had not been for this thing, might have left a gap for Nature to try again – this time, more lovingly. But he is unaware of my observations, and I am grateful, for I have not come here to find fault.
Now I am conscious of my mirror-studied assemblage, the mascara-ed lilt of my lashes, the dusky damasked shimmer highlighting reticent cheekbones. I feel heat bellowing from my bust. I should have worn pants, I think. I crush the iron-pressed fringe of my skirt. This is no way to meet Dylan after all this time.
‘When the October wind blows…’ I thought would be his first words, when those piggy eyes fall to the crabbed hand that clutches my skirt tight. I had hoped for such a beginning so that I might memorize, not fictionalize.
Dylan: ‘Yes?’
I reserve my wishes, in case they are numbered by the parsimony of genies, but I hope that wasn’t irritation in his voice.
Me: ’Remember, Mr Thomas? I’m the girl who wrote to you about writing…. You said I could….’
Dylan (interrupting): ‘Oh yes.’
The morning yawns in a wide-mouthed gape. Dylan moves into the small room, breaking the silence of the sunlight which fills up the spaces like the liquidity of a bath freshly-plugged. In that room, the morning is already stale, and longs to be allowed out to frolic in the October air. There are rumors in the scattering of shriveled paper wastes, of a strewn-strenuous frustrated night before.
Time passes.
Dylan has already shrunk into his writing chair, without inviting me in. His fat fingers drum lightly on its arms. The rhythm of Morning Mass. I notice, though wish I hadn’t, that his fingernails are dirty.
‘Come closer now….’ I thought he’d say. But instead, from the grave of his ashtray, he lifts the still burning stub of an already-the-eighth-today cigarette and eases it in between two huge liver-spotted lips. Its mouth-piece disappears like a suppository up a rectum.
I step inside the milkwood of his window-silled cabin. From where I am, I can smell the sweat of a poet’s craft and sullen art. He coughs like an orchestra tuning up and spits out his tobaccoed phlegm into a handkerchief with his initials DT embroidered on the corner in the periwinklest-blue cotton by a loving hand. No doubt Catlain’s in better days.
The day sidles into the room, and once-blue shadows blush at my gaze, seeping into pink and scuttle around the room like a mouse pursued. He motions to the only other chair. I am grateful for its hospitality and sit quickly.
Me: ‘Mr Thomas, I….’
He looks at me pityingly.
Dylan (interrupting): ‘Please call me Dylan…’
Me (embarrassed): ‘Dylan….. I have wanted to meet you for as long as I can remember. And that is from when I was old enough to read your poems. You have been a great inspiration to me.’
My own gushing has left me feeling naked.
Dylan: ‘Would you like some tea?’
My verbal offering so carefully rehearsed shakes the foundations of this god less than the juices of Earl Grey’s leaves.
Me: ‘Yes, thank you. That would be nice.’
He motions to the tray on a sideboard confettied with papers. ‘Help yourself.’
Dutifully, I get up from my chair and approach the collection of dirty teacups, some with flotsam of cigarette ash scumming the rims. I feel nausea rise in me. I suppress it and pour myself some lukewarm tea from the pot. There is no milk. I spoon in some sugar. There is no teaspoon to stir with. I watch the crystals cluster at the bottom of my cup and pretend it does not matter. I have, after all, not come here to drink tea.
I return with a handful of warm china to my seat.
Me: ‘Mr….. Dylan, thank you so much for your time. I have written a play. It’s just an idea….’
I watch for his reaction. To no avail. I continue.
Me: ‘It’s a play….. for voices…’
He unravels his expression, a flasher unbuttoning, enjoying my unease. His tongue protrudes to lick his lips in collaboration…..
www.joannefedler.com
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Comment by Jayne Kearney
Writers In Writing (and other writing)
Some of the stories in this collection sound, as you say,'seriously quite hot'.
I am intrigued by your story and how the erotic nature of it will play out. Particularly given your fantastically grotesque descriptions of Mr Thomas. Love the suppository up a rectum simile!
You have evoked Dylan Thomas' style so beautifully with your writing. I like to teach my students about language and imagery with a lesson called Dylan Thomas Portraits.
I love your description, "The gigolo of juxtapositions, the seducer of sounds – Dylan, ‘Mr Thomas’ to him, drunkardly-dirty, hung over in the small doorway, is now looking at me." Fabulous stuff.
I shall have to order a copy of Open - in plain brown wrapper it would appear!
Jayne
Comment by Cibbuano
20/20 Filmsight
Science News
Hunt Famous
Orble Post of the Day
Fat Cult
Techbreak
Comment by Joanne Fedler
Secret Writers Business
Cib, I think that might just be my problem. Writing erotica turns out to be a bizarre experience I can't really take seriously. Actually, it sounds so corny, that if I can't write about sex in a way that feels truly fresh, I feel like a porno-peddler. Maybe I'll post my masturbation scene from The Dreamcloth here next and you can let me know if it is bizarrely satirical or even just a little erotic.
Jo
Comment by Olivia Knight
Just dropping by to get a taster of your story and your - possibly ashy - tea, and remind you & your friends to stop by Lust Bites to discuss the Open anthology today. I'm looking forward to getting an excerpt of your masturbation scene, too
Love,
Olivia
Comment by The wonderful Peter Yang
The wonderful Peter Yang's No.1 blog
So I have to say. it is...interesting
Cheers
Comment by Renkan
SO THE SKY IS THE LIMIT.... GO FOR IT AND BEST OF LUCK.
BRILLIANT, ENTERTAINING READING, THANKS !
AS ALWAYS
REN
Comment by Michaelie
Flick Wit
Fantastic.
Michaelie
Comment by JP Shaw
Sassy Ink Author
I particularly love this line ‘Come closer now….’ I thought he’d say. But instead, from the grave of his ashtray, he lifts the still burning stub of an already-the-eighth-today cigarette and eases it in between two huge liver-spotted lips. Its mouth-piece disappears like a suppository up a rectum.
It gave me a chuckle and has forced me to go back to my English book to brush up on my descriptive adjective use for my own writing. You are truly brilliant!
Comment by Leonard Marlborough
Racing Write
Anyway.
Even the most well regarded authors fumble badly at times (all thumbs and mumbles) when producing sex scenes in their work. Each year I always look forward to the Bad Sex In Fiction Awards. In 2007 Norman Mailer won (posthumously) with an 'interesting' depiction of sex.
And we will all continue to engage in this act (of writing, though in privacy and so, so solitary with the comfort of a locked door and the sensual clickclack of our keyboard as our eager and loud companion).
Actually, I haven't written a sex scene since my last attempt at a novel. Oh, the memories (blush).
Bad Sex Awards