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Erotica In Error
by anah childes
oriarty throws me this tidbit: He is going to NUUUORLEEANS to gather "arrogance" and he is taking Gunter Grass's "The Tin Drum."
I don't want to be dumb so I go netting to find out who Gunter is. I find "The Tin Drum" and an excerpt, "no telling of one's life can be authentic without some allusion to either set of grandparents."
The same day I hear an interview with a man who has written a book, "Titan," concerning JD Rockefeller. The author spills enlightenment about the richest man' father, Big Bill. Seems the elder Rockefeller married for money endowment and convinced his wife, Eliza, to allow his beautiful mistress, Nancy Brown, to become a live-in maid. "Devil Bill" later married another woman, fathered children, and never informed her that his legitimate son was the most wealthy man in the world during the turn of the century.
Amazing, tales we tell--amazing more--tales, we don' t tell.
I have a tale. For some reason, I want my son to know my tale. I am admonished that perhaps my son should not know my tale until he is twenty-one. Perhaps not, since my tale has lurid, luscious moments of s-x. Propriety still exists
I ponder. I want the world to know my tale. And perhaps I am just telling my tale for me. Writing validates me. Writing is the only way the future knows that the NOW bleeds the same. In truth, I felt completely isolated from like ilk for years until I read Plato, Thoreau, Hesse, and Nietzsche. When I was twenty-eight I read Plato and thought, my g-d, this man thinks like me.
Writers can help you go home. I want my writing to help someone go home. a blank page to tell the stories of lovers possessed is monumental. How many pages can I fill?
My friend, K, and I sit on her sofa in her cavernous house, sipping champagne. We have excessed on Sohbet and the divine spills into the sexual. K asks How many lovers have you had? Of course, this question will demand a diatribe from me. How many lovers have I had? I parrot her query and we sit facing off one another with secrecy of motive perhaps in revealing the truth.
Will we tell the truth? K astounds me when she throws out a ballpark number of five hundred? Well, certainly I was not expecting that big of a number as a reference. Easily however, a hundred. Is that a lot? I wonder aloud.
I answer, Certainly not Solomon proportions, but for a woman, who will tell, a lot! Of course I have this whole belief that every one is lying when it comes to how many s-x partners they have had. Or, maybe I am a slut.
I was a virgin until I was twenty. "Virginity hold out" until twenty ought to merit me some credence with the moral of the world . It was a conscious spiritual choice. I think it is important that I did not know what a hard-on was until I had surrendered my virginity.
So the page begins, when I was very young and very virginal, I met a mentor. He was a writer--a Ker o u ac. He told me I reminded him of My Brilliant Career'. He pointed me to read Joseph Campbell as if I were brilliant enough with my weak Weltanschuung to understand the hero within'. He read me his short stories as I sat at his feet like a disciple to Jesus. I owned no point of reference. He would come to my employment and walk on his hands in front of the plate glass window.
My G-d!! Look at that man! my employer would squeal. He' s walking on his hands.
I would pretend to ignore his antics and continue to arrange flowers, wax leaves, and tie bows at Polly-Jo Florist. How can a good girl like me (sounding ever so much like a line from a Billy Joel song) fall in love with a man who walks on his hands? We made love twice. I bled on his sheets. He showered me and swathed his hands over my big girl body telling me, You are a Madonna. I felt worshipped.
He asked me to run away to Georgetown, Va. and be a street performer with him. He always thought I would make a sultry songstress, belting blues in some dive. Of course, he would write, write.
I always regret that. Not going. Returning back to a college that stifled anything free and spiritual within me. I always regret destroying the copy of Kahlil Gibran' s The Prophet he gave me. I thought he had the devil in him. It was the devil that separated us.
I reinvented virginity until my marriage night. We had s-x all night long. My husband, older by 13 years, and I stayed at a motel on I-20. The room was big. There was a king-sized bed. My mother and I had purchased beige lingerie for the whole wedding night charade. My husband and I did not make it through the door until he was f-cking me. It was wedding dress to nudity. There was no in-between. We loved one another.
We f-cked a lot. I thought about f-cking him when we attended church while the preacher preached heaven and I could not wait for the invitation. I would invite s-x after Sunday lunch.
My husband, shortly after our marriage, had to go to Indianapolis for four days of training and I crawl-curled on the bed in our blue bedroom and mourned his absence. I curled in withdrawal. When he returned, we f-cked for hours--closing the blue drapes, impeding light that might exist, cocoon in a s-xual womb. Perhaps it was s-x that drove me from the marriage. I wanted to make love with someone else. Names could be inserted here but I think it was more I wanted to be intimate with myself and the confines of a marriage did not let me wander far enough to include a variety of life experience. I stifled me more than my husband stifled me. I could not live a lie. S-x as intimacy. S-x as g-d. S-x and g-d. I began holding secrets from my husband. Our intimacy was strained. I quit allowing us to have s-x. It began to be rape.
Dissipation led to emancipation. I wafted west to California. The girl is gone mad. So string s-x began.
Fisherman' s wharf and I am sitting second story, looking out of open glass panes. Late September San Francisco, he walks below and glances up. We smile like we know one another. He cruises by several times, I owe allegiance to the band playing and the crowd below. I motion him up after his third peruse. Come up!! come sit by me!! come keep me comfort!! I might as well as said Come f-ck me. It was the intimation.
Small talk and small talk all over through strains of music, through tussle of bar talk, through his being from upper peninsula Michigan, through his staying in Milbrae.
We walked all the hills back to Union Square. He invited me to ride the train to where he stayed. What an awkward prelude to s-x. The luminescent lights of the train, the other passengers trying not to notice our hands groping about on one another. Then the settle back to wait to arrival. We both took showers. He was staying at a Hyatt or such. He was good to me. Really good to me. We f-cked more than once during the short night. He left early to return to his soul mate he had married in a new age ceremony. He left me money to ride the train back. I was grateful. I did not have enough money to get back to inner city San Fran.
The last leg of the journey, I met a boy with Rastafarian dreadlocks, guitar, dreams of Haight Ashbury. We exited the train together at Union Square. He asked me to go with him and make fine music. I declined and left for my cubby hole of an SRO. I needed to shower the s-x off of me.
I have written erotica. Not particularly to turn anyone on but to chronicle a soul' s orgasm. I think every act of s-x has been looking to find a grace from g-d , a note of purity made from love, a wisdom hidden in a climax. I certainly am no SUSIE BRIGHT !!
I have made love to moments, not men. I have made love to the senses inside of me in different locations. Somewhere in time passage, from s-x to s-x, you really do lose your virginity.
A hundred lovers, there about, more/less, a dozen here/there. No, no, I do not think Solomon apologized for his proclivity of women. Who did he confide in concerning his intimacy from the night before? Did his confidants whisper among themselves as he entered the chambers dressed for the morning with fine array, guessing which lovely concubine, which notable wife had shared his bed the night before. Did Solomon ever want to forego the business of the day for the pleasures of morning spent frolicking with the frill of s-x? I ask my current lover, John the Beloved.
He is the talk of his little berg, Iola. They accuse him of having S-X!!! John, do they still rib you at Iola Cafe about having a girlfriend? Why yes----- he drawls with the most intimate of southern genteel. Not sure you would think John would be able to tussle so in s-x. He is fifty-four and when we couple, he entering from the rear and me spread for his control, he grabs my hair and pulls like a man riding a wild mare. When we come, we growl and grope and bite and push until one is the victor in love. Victor in love.
I continue my inquiry. Why do they tease you John? Because they know I am having s-x and most of them are not. They are all married. I go on to exchange, We see people and we know they have s-x but it is undetailed what it is that makes for s-xual partners. Do you see your best friend doing in bed what you do? Or do you unclothe your mother and find her writhing like you do when the orgasm is so strong inside it causes your stomach to pinch shut your air. I am the only one having s-x!! During my California hiatus, I thought to list all lovers one day. At that time there were forty or so.
A blonde g-d from Holland with an accent as thick as Jesus, spouting wisdom--Chief Seattle--as he stood on the seawall at the end of Golden Gate Park where it dumped into the Pacific. We dined in the Haight coffee shop cafe. He scooped food off of my salad, splashing it into my lap, he reached into my lap and ate the refuse and I moistened there. We ended up across the bay, kissing like children playing s-x, overlooking San Francisco from the North side of the bridge. Deer wandered below us. We f-cked with our fingers, hands elongating across one another. I still ask close friends or beginning lovers, have you ever f-cked with your hands? It remains a measurement to sensuality to me. Now, no names exist. Like faceless tombstones in my mind. Graves with memories and no names are left. A Frenchman, oui, oui , I met in a Mill Valley bar after I called a left behind love knowing he was returning to Tammy and his two children. The Frenchman spoke little English but his thighs spoke my language. He was a soccer player with the largest thighs--muscle and muscle and a beautiful dick . OUI, OUI , I screamed before the night was gone.
Sneaking F-cks like learning intimate corners of your soul where you would not let the outsider in but a one night stand can stand the dark and light of the outlawed corner. You clumsy find a deserted room in a turn of the century hotel in Truckee, California and gold rushes as you lie prone and a tourist from San Francisco does you. Sneaks you. You sneak him and then you sit together discussing G-d, big business, infidelity, family, and why free spirits are left to sprout in places least expected.
Of course, f-cking PAL in front of a fireplace, while winter cold is all over the mountains outside. PAL rides horses for a living. PAL is built bow-legged, cowboy hard. PAL can seduce you with a martini. No one ever asked you if you wanted a martini. Accepting martinis, accepts the fire' s glow, that leads to his hands undressing you over a bearskin rug, and there you sleep the night, rising early, leaving pre-dawn, leaving forever.
Miniature relationships that mimic grown-up extensions of love in beginning stages. You meet, you pretend to see potential. Do you remember dancing with me in the aisle of the grocery store? Do you remember hiking up the Emerald Bay pass to the waterfalls? Do you remember me telling you that you would mature into a beautiful man? Christopher, if you made it that long. Some form of cancer played tricks on your inside. I made your ego better. I held you one night until the dawn punched holes in the Tahoe night and listened to your pain of short life. Do you remember saving me from the cocaine party? I still own a momento of you that I carry around from move to move--it was your Morrow name tag from the ARMY. A to-MORROW was your wish.
You would think, in naivete, eventually lovers would repeat themselves in some sort of sameness. But I have deduced the combinations are insurmountable. Any combination with me creates new smells, new moves, new foibles, new successes, new excellence--new awareness. I have found all lovers own one trademark move that makes them superior or perhaps it is the superior of s-x in me that make the superior emerge.
Bobby Small taught me about superior something that made each lover overly proficient in one thing and there are only so many ways to do variations of the same thing--f-ck! But hell, tell R.Burton that with his Kama Sutra translation spread out as he covers each inch of his Catholic wife with a candle glow--to see her imperfections making her perfect . Bobby Small could/would milk a breast til it voluntarily gave fresh milk. Bobby boyishly curved his mountain bike around to get a better look at my thighs. Twelve Hundred miles on a Bianchi Bicycle searching for G-d via back roads and Texas-sized adventure, had made me a Robert E. Howard heroine. I sat on the Galveston seawall, waiting, eating yogurt, reading Siddhartha, trying to ignore this blonde on tan beach bum. Bobby persisted. Later, stomach down in the Galveston beach surf, Bobby told me, you remind me of Jesus. I patted my hand in the give-way wet sand and was turned on by my transformation from the Madonna to the Christ. I would accept this comparison.
We wafted to a bar with blues, I caught our images in the bar-back mirror. G-ds golden. G-ds golden. I will never forget our tresses, mine all tussled and sunbleached and his straight and blond like wheat. We were gold. I kissed him merely because I liked the way we looked together. I liked that once in my life, I liked the picture I saw when I gazed into the mirror behind the crowded bar. We were golden s-x.
Our pawing led us to the manicured lawn of the San Luis Resort. We huddled a hole beneath flowering Rhododendrons. Bobby began sucking my breast. Nursing my breast. Tipping my nipples with his tongue until they stood like buds on rose bushes. His tongue, my nipples, his mouth, my aureoles, his blonde soft hair, my hand resting lightly on the rear of his head, feeling the bob, bob of his lips, knowing I was some kind of salvation. A lifesaver between fear and lost. I was Jesus with breasts.
I have often thought that it was my personal responsibility to offer salvation through my vagina. As if the drawing in of the full penis into the empty of my vagina was the perfect picture of salvation.
John, the Beloved, is amazed that I can say I have never done that with anyone, after we experiment with some new placement of bodies in tandem. I am amazed that I can say that too. Is there an exhaustion of s-xual newness. I have not found the end. It may be the rooms, the music, the placement, the scents that surround the same act repetitively pervert it anew enough to cause an appearance of I have never done thus, wow, never done thus!
Do we seek the perfect lover? I do not own a lover. I have never owned a lover. A thousand lovers like a thousand moments are the perfect fit. I want, I want, I want to lean into Plato' s description of the lover other that is the completion of the circle of me, having been separated by centuries of lost time. Or the Hindi twin flame, we were cosmically separated and now in the lovely twist of earth eternal fate, we unite and combustible, EXPLODE like a supernova of love. The return of the perfect lover, the find of the perfect lover, mine, me, one.
You were my perfect lover! You young boy soldier, bred to kill, bred to sneak up on me in brackish lake water, holding me perfectly still with your eyes, limpid, pool blue eyes. You standing like some f-cking McArthur in the doorway of my Patchouli House with cigar smoke rising around you like heat from the bowels of disengaged warfare. I loved you in the moment. You loved me like there were no moments and our history did not extend past the truth, I was your older woman, you were my younger man--and as age faded me, age spurred you. You will have a child by a blond woman. You will always remember me--holding your gaze in the old mirror positioned behind my bed, as you f-cked me from behind. It was our eyes that were in intercourse. The body' s were throw in, they did not really exist. You were my young boy soldier perfect lover. Oh, I try to express to my friends what I could possibly see in that man causing me to make love like a wild woman in heat. Look!! It is his balls that hang low. He lies when he says he is 51. He is 57. I opened his passport and snuck this knowledge. To make love to me he positions himself in sort of a side saddle-move. He just doesn' t get that hard. I adore making love to him though. This ancient king reappeared now in my life as a Californian lawyer, president of all the lawyers from San Diego to San Francisco, makes me his prisoner for five days. He feeds me soup, grapes, he f-cks me on his counter, he provides me with weed, good weed' to get very high and very horny. I wake to sweet jasmine all around. I plan a future of nothing from his Eichler home and when my body completes some version of love, I want to say, I love you, R' for taking my waif body close to you.
The king is a fool and does not know the thought of intimate. He deceives himself and I am a pawn of the pauper.
AC/DC-- YOU shook me all night long, YOU shook me all night long. My most adored fashion of S-X. All night long. I am still fresh enough into my relationship with John the Beloved to can' t wait until that moment we are undressed for bed and he slips into me, me opening to him, and the wonderful rise and fall of eternal lovers begins. When all is completed and the physical resolves itself to the spiritual conversation that occurs between lovers of merit, we will sleep and my last thought is I cannot wait until we recover through rest to couple in the morning with fresh appeal. The first feel of him in the morning is his twitch of manhood against the part in my buttocks. He wants me and I want him more.
Shook all night long!! I can never hear that humming tune that I don' t think of some no name --Mike or Jeff--etc.--young man with a BIG F-cking EGO. I met him at a cafe in Soda Springs. I had arrived for a j!o!b at a cross country ski resort and boredom sent me walking down to the cafe as the sun set, the chill rose, I sought hot tea.
Mike, or whatever, was a snowboarder. He lived in a little cabin right up the way . I drank my tea, he finished his beer, we went to his cabin. The funniest!! He asked me to shave his sideburns and his neck. I did. We lathered with shaving creme. I meticulously cut swathes along his cheek--behind his neck. We talked about scary things in closets and he scared me. I was unsure if he were not some L.A. murderer . He purposely said things to frighten me. I was the one holding the razor.
We talked until 2:30 am. When we collided, we collided. S-xual energy is a strange aberration. In actuality there is no such thing as s-x all night long. It is spurts and intervals, coming and going, tussle and tossed. We did use at least seven condoms that night though. Mike, or whatever, was a one night stand that tried to be something else. The one night was magic we never quite re-did, though we lasted two weeks or so, shoving snowboarding and f-cking in a gondola to our reparte of s-x.
Collision of s-x owns no rhyme. Attraction s-xually is primal and random. My favorite lovers have been short of Adonis in appeal but shocking one friend with my revelation, I share, I can fall in love with a man merely for his forearms. Lovers I have not consummated with physical union have existed. Word lovers, sight lovers, lovers that the most we ever completed was a consummation of the mind. They occur frequent.
Robbie, sweet lovely boy Robbie is my favourite non-lover. Robbie is a virtual candy of a man child. We have spent the night together numerous times after cycling off miles--we squirm into a state park and bed down. I am camping alone with a boy, 20--half me forty--our birthdays are the same day. I flirt with him, Robbie we are twins separated by twenty years! But it is not a twin look he gives me when he stands in my Patchouli house, naked to the waist, counting abdominal indentions, biceps like knots in taut ropes--our hugs are always close and then push away fast. I have snuggled into his back. I know if he had snuggled into mine, I would have felt the rise of his sword--bump, punch, open for me in exclamation.
He called me one night late, I had smoked a hit off a bong, to get mystical, trying to think through some spiritual shit. Let me come f-ck you!
Let me come f-ck you! He persisted.
And you know, you know the reason I have not had s-x with this child g-d--son of Zeus is NOT out of morality but the strangest little stop.
Robbie is physically perfect--really! I am forty. I don' t want him to see me less than what he fantasizes about. I know he has had me in his mind--and in his mind I am a forty year old twenty year old.
Imperfections---strange huh? The thing I think is most erotic about a lover--imperfections---and with me, I want to hide them. Perhaps that is a sin.
The Jew stress to their children, it is not the life you complicate with wrong choices that we are judged for but our lost chances of life not lived fully, of dulled down life instead of hard-hitting, sweat on the brow, climax living. I won' t be judged lacking. I slipped from the grasps of a second marriage and as I stood around in abstinence, I realized, I would probably never regret having indulged in physical pleasures but when, when, when I was eighty-seven and my body had betrayed me with wrinkles, and doorstep to eternity living, I would not have the second chance of allowing a man to press his lips to my breast, of a man' s hands glancing across my torso while I arch into, not away. I want my hips to be posts for a man' s clutching, as he forces his full into my waiting, completing the yin yang of US. I won' t regret the f-ck. I will regret the not f-cking. My spiritual sister, Catherine stands above me and judges me for being s-xual. Society sold her a morality of abstinence. Tired, tired morality. G-d would not make my body shiver with ecstasy if the pleasure was a sin. She somehow visions me as a woman who has been jaded by the search. Alas, it ain' t so. There is something virginal given to every soul I f-ck. Something of awe still found in the partner fresh. I ain' t used.
After illuminating affair on affair, f-ck on f-ck, I realized that intimacy to me was purely an act of union with g-d for me.
My spirit wanted to remember the unity it felt in the pre-void before I was encumbered with flesh. My climax feels like my spirit flooding my suit of flesh, rising and knocking on the inner walls of my arms, my belly, my thighs, begging to flush out,to pour through my pores--climax in ecstasy is the filling of my spirit past the point of holding it inside my flesh.
I told my ex-father-n-law I was going to speak to a woman' s abuse shelter. He questioned what is your topic? I replied, I am an overcomer. Laughing he replied, That sounds nasty. Truth repeatedly repeated--- I am an overcomer!! It is the mystic love of G-d that propels me forward in the clutches of s-x. The spirit of g-d is phallic. The spirit of humanity is always vaginal, desiring the filling of the phallic of g-d.
Hell fire and brimstone explain that to your Baptist father minister. You f-ck to feel G-d? He blathers.
Yes, I f-ck to feel full. I OVER- COME!! Sometimes in my piety gone awry, I look at women who exude no s-xuality and wonder how they can know G-d. G-d looks like the face of a man in ecstasy. I supply the salvation with my gaping lips of whole. Womb and warmth--suckle and safe.
It is mute to try to write experiential relationship with HOLY. I just know this, the act of union that the Song of Solomon so succinctly initiates as the act of union symbolically between the g-d of the universe and the lover soul is blatant purity.
g-d is the lover of my soul. Every act of copulation between me and myriad man has been g-d within--expressing g-d without. Birth!
Creative!
Birth!
Slay me slut. I won' t apologize. Abraham, old and solid now, rolled off of Sarah' s aging body. When they looked down on the bodies that had just huffed into climax--they both saw, skin not so taut, wrinkles, belly' s hung slightly flab, and Sarah' s breast drooped like sad tear drops. Abraham though savoured the secure of Sarah' s womb Sarah questioned humbly, Abraham, why? She questions the promise of the seed of g-d that has not arrived.
Abraham strokes her hair, touches her cheeks, grins large into her questioning eyes.
I am here to make you better. Sarah punches back and huffs. Make me better!! I fail to create. Abraham whimpers, I am here to make you great, you hear. To make you great!! Sarah laughs. Sarah laughs.
Her belly, aged and empty. I am past point of great, she muses. Dry and empty, dry and empty.
Wisdom is always f-cked for. It is the empty that makes way for the full. I f-ck for literary reasons.
I f-ck for g-d.
August 27--Rockport---
Close your eyes, unfold your spirit
and think what it means to be a chosen one. Last Autumn, I met a man who is a pious Jew. I use the word piety with dignity. Pious often has a bad connotation in today' s society. Piety--devotion to g-d.
We collaborate on what it means to be a Jew! I am forever telling him of my Jewish heritage although my Mississippi//Louisiana roots bear no hints of Talmudic training.
He points me to read Chaim Potok' s Wanderings--History of the Jews. He admonishes it will help me understand this Jewish thing! The Kabbalah relates this fascinating tale---In the beginning, Creation was sundered by an unforeseen breaking of the sacred vessels and by the sin of Adam. The sparks of the PRESENCE had been scattered. Nothing in the world was in its proper place. To gather up the sparks--and repair the damage was the task of the Jew. Isaiah wrote--I YHWH--in my grace have summoned you and I have grasped you by the hand
I created you and appointed you a covenant people---a light of the nations...
I was struck when I read that--
I am a light---I am a wanderer in a world that seems to have spots of fit for everyone but the spiritual seeker.
I am a wanderer--placed here to gather the sparks of the Universal Presence.
I am a light to join forces with other lights--to shine in a world in which things are out of place. To my Jewish friend---that makes me a Jew.
I think there is a subtle new definition of Jewish--to be a chosen people--to proclaim Divinty--Divinity within, Divinity without.
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