Sunday, May 31, 2009

"Shhh" By Ralph Greco, Jr.

I'm very pleased to be able to present another excellent essay by my pal, Ralph Greco, Jr. Enjoy!

Remember, if you have a story you want to share with the smutty world through Frequently Felt just zap me a line:

Ralph Greco, Jr.

Here we go again, somebody else getting some bad press for something they said.

Since when does anyone’s opinion matter all that much to command such ire from the public, insults from a judge, ousting from a radio network; what the hell ever happened to sticks and stones? Yes, California beauty queen Carrie Prejean’s remarks were seen and heard by a bunch more people then will ever hear our opinion on the subject of gay marriage, yes Imus had a radio show (which I might ad, he has again) and poor ol’ Mel was drunk at the time, but really, aren’t we entitled to our opinions? Isn’t every man woman and child in this land totally free to make a total free and absolute ass of him or herself (if what you feel they say or did does bring them donkey status) and not be vilified, crucified, loose their job over…if what they say, is, their opinion?

I am not defending defamatory speech, but I am defending, in fact I am championing opinion, especially when they deter from public opinion or incite controversy. I like heat, turmoil, the tug-of-war of loud disagreement. I detest towing-the-line, walking-on-egg-shells discourse that leads truly to no discourse at all. I don’t want everyone to agree with me, how boring would the world be if everyone did? In fact, it does the country no good at all if we march blindly into a milk-toast wave of political correctness, which we saw way too much of in the past three decades.

The question of course, at least for me, is: is Miss California under undue scrutiny because of her unpopular remarks-her opinion-about gay marriage given during the question/answer portion at the Miss America pageant on 4/19/09? Is she being tarred-and-feathered because of these remarks, and extra attention given to her semi-nude photos and other behavior supposedly at odds with her contract because she is now a pariah?

We loose the point if we ride a slippery slope. Yes, nude photos-actually failing to notify the pageant of them-which Miss P. posed for way-back-when and speaking out on behalf of organizations opposed to gay marriage both violate the pageant’s contract. But rumors abound over nude photos of these girls all the time, supposedly Miss Rhode Island has a few racy ones herself (though, to be fair, what is there to do in Rhode Island other then take racy pics?) and I wonder, if Miss Prejean spoke at a battered-women-rally, but this said rally was supported by a Christian organization, would there still be an uproar? Wouldn’t the pageant see this as a violation of Prejean’s contract, though not speaking directly about gay marriage but for an organization that, by its very tenant, opposes it? Is it the organization or what the girl is saying? Can’t we stretch intolerance a little bit further so almost anything could be seen as a violation of pageant rules if we truly dislike the girl in question or what she says?

I postulate, nay I state unequivocally, that Prejean came under the scrutiny she did because what she said about gay marriage is unpopular to mainstream, don’t-ever-offend-a-soul media. I champion the pageant’s right to kick Carrie Prejean to the curb if she violated their contract rules as I do Donald Trumps’ right to keep her, which he has. (Trump heads the parent company that owns the pageant and by the same rules which the pageant evoke to get rid of Prejean, ‘the Donald’ gets to have the last say on the matter).

And if Prejean wants to speak publicly in the future about same-sex marriage, she will have to go through the Miss California USA pageant officials. As co-executive director of the California pageant Keith Lewis says, Prejean should answer honestly about her views (that’s pretty big of him!) but pageant officials will help her “fine tune” her response so that it “is accommodating to both parties.” She is their representative after all.

That word ‘accommodating’ scares me witless though. That’s the milk-toast-ing, legislating of language that has been coming down the pike, from both sides of the political spectrum, for decades. It is nothing more then another way to control you and me and control, if you believe it or not, is what all these originations, from religious institutions, to politicians and TV talking-heads, to pageants are about; controlling you so you accept their opinion, ideals and world-view without a dissenting one of your own. Even how you phrase you opinion is now fodder for the mill, as pageant judge Perez Hilton remarked, the man who asked the question about gay marriage in the first place: "The way Miss California answered her question lost her the crown, without a doubt!" The ‘way’ in which you answer? Are we now not only damning what is said but how it is said?

And how can one loose a pageant, job, what-have-you because of an opinion?

The irony shouldn’t be lost on anyone, especially Mr. Hilton here, that protesting the spirited, boob-enhanced (And what’s with that? Who cares if she had her boobs done and how does that counter her Christian values?!) Miss California is about as intolerant as those who have damned his lifestyle so much he feels he ahs to defend it so vehemently

But hey, that’s just my opinion, what do I know?

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Hold That Pose

Olga Desmond (born Olga Sellin 2 November 1891 in Allenstein in East Prussia, now in Poland; died 2 August 1964 in Berlin) was a German dancer and actress.

Olga Desmond studied drama and earned her living as a model for artists and painters in Berlin. In 1907 she joined a group of artists and appeared as Venus during the group’s nine-month tour at the London Pavilion where they put on “plastic representations.” In Berlin she co-founded the Association for Ideal Culture and gave shows called “living pictures” in which she posed after the manner of ancient classical works of art. These so-called “Evenings of Beauty” (Schönheitsabende) were prohibited on more than one occasion starting from 1908, because the actors usually posed nude or wearing only bodypaint.

The “heroine of living pictures,” Olga Desmond became one of the first to promote nudity on the stage in St. Petersburg, Russia, when in the summer of 1908 the German dancer arrived there with her repertoire of performance. Olga Desmond’s Evenings of Beauty quickly became the subject of a great debate in the Russian media. At least one of the representatives of official “justice” wanted to haul Desmond into court for “seduction.”

Olga Desmond herself persistently defended her right to appear naked. “Call it daring or bold, or however you want to describe my appearance on the stage, but this requires art, and it (art) is my only deity, before whom I bow and for which I am prepared to make all possible sacrifices,” she told the Russian press. “I decided to break the centuries-old heavy chains, created by people themselves. When I go out on stage completely naked, I am not ashamed, I am not embarrassed, because I come out before the public just as I am, loving all that is beautiful and graceful. There was never a case when my appearance before the public evoked any cynical observations or dirty ideas.”

Asked whether a stage costume would interfere with her, Olga Desmond answered: “To be completely graceful in a costume or even in a tricot is unthinkable. And I decided to throw off this needless yoke.” Objecting to the claims that she excites “base instincts” of the public, the dancer said: “I purposely set a high admission charge for my shows so that the street would not get in, for it has little understanding of pure art, but so that people with broader demands for it would come, people who will look on me as a servitor of art.”

The authorities in St. Petersburg paid little attention to the explanations offered by the dancer from Berlin, and her first appearance in the imperial Russian capital was also her last: further shows were forbidden by the mayor. Many artists in the capital took the side of the authorities. For example, Konstantin Makovsky sharply denounced what he called the “cult of the naked body,” saying that “beauty, like much else in life, must have its hidden secrets, that we don’t even have the right to expose.”

Olga Desmond was no less the subject of controversy in her own country. In 1909 her appearance in the Berlin Wintergarten was the cause of such a scandal that it became a subject of discussion even in the Prussian State Assembly. But “scandalous” also meant well-known, and as a result of her renown, there were cosmetic products that carried her name. She traveled through Germany on numerous tours until 1914, when she married a Hungarian large landowner, and went off with him to his estate.

From 1916 through 1919 she appeared in various films including Seifenblasen (Soap Bubbles), Maria's Sonntagsgewand (Maria’s Sunday clothes) and Mut zur Sünde (Courage for sin). In the latter film she played opposite the later well-known German actor Hans Albers. In 1917 she separated from her husband and returned to the stage. Her first appearance took place on 15 April 1917 at the Theatre of the Royal University (Theater der Königlichen Hochschule) in Berlin. In the same year she appeared in a performance of Carmen in Cologne. She presented dance evenings and other things in Warsaw, Breslau (now Wrocław), and Kattowitz (now Katowice). During the First World War she married her second husband, Patrick Pieck, a businessman.

Thereafter, she made fewer public appearances and from 1922 devoted herself entirely to teaching. Among her best-known students was Herta Feist, who later became a member of the dance group of Rudolf von Laban. Her husband had to leave Germany due to his Jewish ancestry when the Nazis came to power. Olga Desmond took over his studio for stage equipment. She died on 2 August 1964 in Berlin.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Boobs Are Okay!

(compliments of Mick Dementiuk)

Buy These Books!

Jude Mason is not only a fantastic writer but also a very dear friend ... and she has not one, not two, but three new books out that I'm encouraging you to pick up. You won't regret it!

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

"What Are We Doing?" By Ralph Greco, Jr.

I'm very pleased to be able to present another fantastic essay by my pal, Ralph Greco, Jr. Enjoy!

Remember, if you have a story you want to share with the smutty world through Frequently Felt just zap me a line:

What Are We Doing?
Ralph Greco, Jr.

God forbid our sex symbols get old. If you’re a woman, it’s doubly bad. You hit that rise of forty and even though it supposed to be the ‘new thirty’, TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, even CNN lays waste to you with as many unflattering, base-ball capped, running-around-town-without-make-up shots they can plaster across websites and TV. It’s disgusting really, not only our fascination with celebrity but our need to see our rich and famous taken down a few hundred pegs for our visceral vulture-like vicarious thrills.

Sure there are the Lindsay’s, Britney’s and Paris’s who court this attention. Is anybody really surprised when these star-ulta-talentless run round town sans panties, still do we need to see the evidence (I assure you famous vagina is no different then the regular common-variety). These women bring the attention on themselves, seemingly making it ok for the ‘news’ organizations of the world to intrude on the models, actors and actresses, pop stars, who just want to be able to run into a Dunkin Donuts and not be hounded.

I guess it all became a little too real to me this week when I saw all those tragic pictures of a dying Farrah Fawcett. Can’t we just let the lady take to her hospital bed in peace? With F.F. the sycophant paparazzi (boy are those two words a redundancy!) are having their cake and eating it yum-yum-yum to; here’s a woman who was, at one time, recognized to be one of the most beautiful on the planet (how many guys of my generation got to know themselves over that famous poster?!) and not only is she older now, which would invite those sneaky ‘before and after’ exposes on sites like “Pop Eater” she is also sick, so she looks even worse. Talk about kicking someone when they are down. This is not the hideous joker-like face of Joan Rivers’ self-inflicted plastic surgery and her sad need to reveal same, or even the bald snatch pics of the tart queens I mentioned above; Farrah is sick man! Here is a dying woman and all anybody wants to do is get a picture, not to illicit sympathy but to show how bad this lady looks as compared to how beautiful we remember her.

We should all be taken across the proverbial knee for liking this stuff, you and me both. You know we all look at the pics, some of us more then others, we all either click our mouse or spin the cable channel to catch glimpses of stars acting badly or looking even worse. We’re all to blame for the preponderance of this snarky celebrity ‘gotcha’, from showing Jennifer Love Hewitt’s normal-sized, quite nice (if you ask me) bikini-covered rear to tittering at a brand new celebrity mom’s ‘baby fat’ to guessing who is now sporting plugs or a weave.

Can’t we all just get a life?

Care for a ...?

Thursday, May 21, 2009

"Ambassador" By Nobilis Reed

Here's another fantastic piece from the always-great Nobilis Reed.

Remember if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at or

Nobilis Reed

"Oh, Miss Walker, you're finally here." The man leapt from behind his desk to shake her hand.

Kay put down her travel bag so she could accept it. "You're Mister Chumley, then?"

His grip was weak and trembling, and the haunted look in his eyes betrayed many sleepless nights. In the papers she had been given, his posture had been proud, but those broad shoulders were now stooped, like those of a man twice his age. "Yes, yes, Victor Chumley, that's right, that's right. I hope, ah... I hope you had a pleasant trip? Can I get you some water, maybe something to eat? They have... they have food we can eat here. Let me get some for you, okay, Miss Walker?" He spoke too quickly, the words tumbling over each other to get out.

"You can call me Kay. That won't be necessary. I ate before the transference. You're going home."

"I am? Oh, oh..." Relief washed some of the stress out of his face, and while he didn't look any less broken, at least he wasn't going to collapse in pieces on the floor.

She patted his hand lightly. "Everything will be just fine. I'll pick up where you left off." A little knot of tension sprang up in her stomach, causing a wave of nausea. She let go of his hand again, and it quelled. This was going to take some getting used to.

"What? No. Oh, no. Oh, nonono. I can't ask anyone to go through what I've gone through. It's too much."

"With all due respect, ambassador, you were unprepared for it. When your first reports got back to Earth, the State Department knew immediately that you didn't have the right skills. That's why they sent me."

"You—you know what happens here, and you came willingly?"

"I have special qualifications."

"I don't know." Victor glanced around the room, as if the walls were about to suddenly crash in on him. "I don't know if anyone is prepared for this. The affinity—you don't know what it does to you."

"Mister Chumley, I worked in one of the most exclusive escort services in Berlin for six years. I built up a reputation as the girl who would do anything, with anyone, and do it with a smile. I really don't think there's anything here that is going to be more than I can handle. The scans and samples you provided ruled out the possibility that there would be any medical consequences. Given that," she shrugged. "I'm ready for anything."

"If you say so, Miss Walker. I warned you."

"Duly noted. I assume all your reports and files are up-to-date?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Yes. Let me show you." He went back to his desk and laid his hands on a small plastic board, aligning his fingers with the outlines printed on it. His eyes glazed over for a moment, and then he pulled them away again. "There. I've given you access to everything. All you need to do is register."

"Interesting. Alien technology, yes?" She sat down and put her hands into the two outlines, and the virtual interface of the computer sprang up in her mind's eye. Opened a few files at random, she scanned them, making sure that she had the access she needed. Then she disconnected. "Looks good. Now I want you to brief me."

"It's all there in the reports..."

"Victor. You and I both know that not everything makes it into the reports. This transition will run more smoothly if you do this personally."

"I... I don't want to think about it."

Kay had a job to do, but Victor needed stability. She stood up and put her hands on his shoulders. It was a gentle touch, but he flinched. "Let me help you," she said.

As the contact continued, she could feel a trembling take hold in her fingers, and a weakness in her knees. It felt natural, like the fear was her own, but she rode it out until she felt the tension drain out of his shoulders. His expression softened, and he sighed.

Kay smiled. "There now."

"Thank you."

She kept her hands there, letting the effect continue. "I was briefed on the affinity effect back on Earth. I understand how a little sharing of emotions can help the diplomatic process, but one thing seemed a little confusing. How does it help with the language problems?"

"The affinity effect goes far beyond mere empathy. The closer the contact, the deeper the affinity; at the deepest levels you can transmit information and ideas freely. Most of the races here speak languages we can never hope to learn in any degree of fluency. We just can't make the sounds, when their languages even use sound at all. But to get to those deep levels of affinity..."

"You need to have intimate contact. I see how it works. I also see how threatening it could be." Kay could feel the trembling subsiding. "Victor, I want to ask you a very big favor."


"I want you to show me this deep affinity."

He gave a puzzled look, and then his mouth fell open. "Oh, my." He pulled away, his gaze dancing away to the corners of the room. "I don't think the Department would condone that kind of thing."

"The Department isn't here. And the sooner you can give me the information I need, the sooner you can get back home."

"But... my wife..."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to see you." Kay extended her hand. He took it, and Kay felt a fresh blossoming of fear. The aliens terrified him, true, but the affinity effect scared him too. He had been brave indeed to face it for the three weeks he was stranded here. "Where do these meetings happen?"

"Each embassy has a place, a sanctuary of a kind, where they can make the guest ambassador comfortable—at least physically. Let me show you." He let go of her hand and crossed to a side door, which opened at his touch. Beyond it lay a circular room about four meters in diameter, with portals scattered around the walls and ceiling. A soft amber light shone from the ceiling, illuminating a shallow bowl-shaped floor scattered with pillows.

"Very nice. It's missing a few things, but it's workable." She wrapped an arm around his waist and led him into the room. She went slowly, monitoring his feelings through her own, trying to keep him from slipping into full-on panic. "Let's just sit here a while." Kay pulled up a large firm pillow and sat him down on it, then took another and sat at his feet. Gently, she took the plain black shoes from his feet, and began massaging.

He let out a deep sigh as her fingers deftly worked out the knots in his muscles. It was becoming easier for her to segregate his feelings from her own, recognize the ones that were alien to her. It felt a little like a drug, operating on the most primal parts of her mind. She tried to analyze the feelings, the guilt and shame and anxiety that did not normally form a part of her professional life, to find if there was anything that would identify them as foreign.

The feelings faded, however, gradually eroded by the sea of comfort and good will that she sent to him along with the massage. There was little reaction when she gently removed his shirt and turned him over to work on his back. "This doesn't seem too unpleasant," she said, keeping her voice low. He murmured some vague syllables of agreement.

There were some stirrings when she turned him over again, and laid gentle kisses on his forehead and lips, but they faded quickly. His emotions stirred again, a mix of guilt and anticipation, when she opened his trousers and wrapped her lips around his flaccid cock. Slowly, that tension melted into the warmth of arousal.

She was not one of those women who walled herself off from the people she serviced, but she wasn't used to getting turned on this soon in an encounter. Usually she relied on fantasy or memory in order to ignite those emotions. Not this time.

Victor's desire was flowing into her through the affinity, lighting fires wherever it went. Regardless of the source, her body was reacting. Her breath came sharper. The room felt warmer. She could smell not only his scent coming up, but also her own, even through her clothes.

"You see?" he said, in between breaths. "Even like this..."

She decided that it wasn't going to agitate her. After all, wasn't it a good thing to be turned on during sex? Who cared whether the arousal was home-grown or imported. She was going to enjoy it just the same—and maybe even learn something. Surprised, yes. She was surprised The single-minded maleness of the drive, the unrelenting, testosterone-fueled power, was very unfamiliar. But that didn't make it any less appealing.

While she was sucking his cock, she quickly pulled off her clothes. This skill had served her well in Berlin, but this time there was an added urgency. She wanted him in a way she had never wanted a man before in her life. It didn't matter who he was, it didn't matter that he'd be leaving in a matter of hours, it didn't matter that she'd probably never see him again in her life. She needed to fuck him, and needed to fuck him now.

She climbed up onto him, took his cock in her hand, and lowered herself onto it, driving his hips into the pillow underneath. She gasped as the sensation broke through, feeling not only the delicious fullness of being penetrated, but also the incredible pleasure of being the penetrator. Simultaneously, she was the fucker and the fuck-ee, riding and ridden, dominant and submissive. She could feel his hand on her breast, and feel her breast in his hand. The buoyant, driving, ecstatic synergy was like nothing she had ever felt. She cried out, growling and weeping and squealing in pleasure. Her mind was a shout caught in an endless echo chamber of ecstasy, an image caught between two mirrors.

Orgasm came quickly, more quickly than she had ever had before, and with far more power. Her heart thudded in her chest, sweat broke out everywhere, and their combined screams echoed from the bare walls, and then...

She was not alone. Victor's thoughts were there, a mostly-unintelligible mass of impressions, thoughts and feelings, until one finally rose to the surface.

>>Thank you.<<

>>That was incredible,<<>>I should be the one thanking you, but I understand.<< Of course she understood. The information was right there, offered to her, and she took it.

His mind had been coming apart. He dreaded every day working at the embassy, but going home was just as scary. Would anyone be able to help him? How could they heal a mind that had endured things no human had ever endured? But those worries were gone now. By bringing him here, into the affinity, and giving him a human mind to connect to, she had saved him. Like a cast, guiding a broken limb into its proper shape, her mind gave him the support he needed to pull himself together. He wasn't healed, not yet, but she could see he had the resources to do it now.

>>Now comes the hard part,<<>>My memories, plans, all my thoughts of my work here. It isn't pretty.<< The experience of contact with Victor through the affinity wasn't a strictly visual one, but her mind resolved the memories as a ball of sticky black bubbles, held together with slime and webbing and wire.

She hesitated. She could feel Victor's unease radiating from it, and no matter how she prepared herself, it would not be pleasant to absorb those memories. The fear reflected back to her from Victor and she knew that the more she waited, the harder the job would be. Bracing herself, she sent back, >>Go ahead.<<

The memories enveloped her. The terrifying encounters flashed through her too fast to interpret, but the emotional context was clear. This man held a profound shame about sex, which was violated and inflamed every time he needed to contact one of the other races. Knowledge came with these images, knowledge of trade deals and technology transfers, but they were inconsequential compared to the memories of what he had been forced to do to obtain them.

The torrent ended abruptly, and Kay felt the contact fade. She became aware of her surroundings to find herself still straddling him, though his softened cock had slipped out. The strange sexual urge that had taken her was gone, and she felt a strange combination of relief and loss. She rolled onto a nearby pillow and let out a long, calming breath.

Victor's eyes, clearer and steadier, regarded her. "Will you be alright?"

"I think so. Now that the contact is broken, the memories don't have the same emotional impact. I'll be able to handle things, I'm sure of it."

"Good. I wouldn't want to hurt you."

She smiled. "I know."

"I guess that doesn't leave much to say, does it?"

"No. It doesn't."

He chuckled and pulled himself up off the floor. "I guess I'll go pack up my desk. Let me know if you need anything." As he collected his clothes, Kay saw that he stood with shoulders a bit straighter, back a bit less bowed.

Kay didn't bother getting dressed. "I think I'll just get cleaned up."

"Oh, certainly. There's a bath over in the residential pod, behind the office." He helped Kay to her feet.

"I know. That's where I'll be. I need some time to process all this." Kay tapped her temple, walking past him on her way to the bath. The briefing she had received on Earth had told her that she'd have to operate alone for three months before anyone would be coming to relieve her. Skimming through the memories Victor had given her, she felt confident that she could do the job. Where her predecessor had felt guilt, shame, and humiliation at the encounters he had gone through, for her it was the assignment of a lifetime. She bent down and pressed the blue button on the spigot aimed at the tub. The green button, she knew, would provide an analogue of seawater; the yellow one, the near-boiling sulfurous water of a hot spring. Bathing in either of those wouldn't be useful.

As the tub filled and she settled down into the shallow basin, she called up the memories Victor had given her. Many seemed familiar, but that didn't come as a shock. According to the theories advanced by the dimensional scientists, the other worlds that sent ambassadors here were also Earth, but in alternate time-lines where different species had evolved sentience. There were cat-people, dog-people, pig-people, bear-people, parrot-people and dolphin-people, but also elephant-people, crow-people, orca-people, squid-people, and bee-people. There were even a few varieties of dinosaur-people. She was curious about all of them.

The only commonality between them was that they had sex. In every sentient species, the drive to procreate had been sublimated into a drive for physical connection and sexual pleasure. It seemed to be a universal constant, a hard line between animal and not-animal. Here on the Embassy, that was enough.

It would be a challenge, but Kay was ready. She made a mental note to send an invitation to the dog-people ambassador. From Victor's memories she knew he had quite a tongue.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The Perils of ... Tawny Kitaen

Julie "Tawny" Kitaen (born August 5, 1961) is an American actress and media personality in Southern California. She became famous in the 1980s for appearing in several heavy metal music videos, most notably Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again", where she appeared in 1987 with her future husband, David Coverdale, to whom she was married from 1989-1991. She had recurring parts on multiple television series such as Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, and co-hosted America's Funniest People from 1992–1994. She was arrested for drug possession in 2006, has been in and out of rehab programs, was part of The Surreal Life cast in 2006, and is one of the patients in Season 2 of Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew ...

... In 2002, Kitaen was charged with committing domestic violence against then-husband major league baseball player Chuck Finley, having beaten him with a stiletto heel. Three days later, Finley filed for divorce. The couple were married for 5 years and have two daughters, Wynter and Raine, and remain close.

In November 2006, prosecutors charged Kitaen with possessing 15 grams of cocaine in her San Juan Capistrano home in Orange County. They said her two children were home at the time, and Kitaen had given deputies permission for the search. In December 2006, she entered a six-month rehabilitation program in exchange for the dismissal of a felony drug possession charge.

Submit To Me!

Please don't think I've been posting my own stuff here because I'm an arrogant so-and-so. The fact is I've run out of the old stuff you've all sent me - so get off your lazy asses and submit stories, reviews, suggestions to

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Pornotopia: Welcome To The Party

The following is just one of a bunch of pieces I’ve been working on for a project tentatively titled Pornotopia: The Ins and Outs and Ins and Outs of Sex and Erotica. Enjoy!

I didn't know it was going to be THAT kind of party.

Attractive little house in Oakland on a quiet, dark street. At first I thought I'd gotten the day/date/city wrong: the street was much too dark, way too quiet. No music, no laughing voices.

BART had taken longer than I'd thought. I was not impolitely late, but not politely late either. After a single knock a man, smiling, opened the door. I went into a house unlit except for a few flicking candles and -- in an ode to good taste -- a churning lava lamp. A couple of nervous heartbeats later my eyes adjusted. Maybe four couples, a few people I even recognized, sprawled on the sofa, in various chairs on and a rug in the middle of the floor. All naked.

Returning a couple of happy smiles I started to strip. I think that's when I started to think about it, how strange my life had gotten that I'd walk into a quiet, dark house and into a intimate little orgy without batting an eye.

Part of it, I know, was because I'd been free and experimental with my ex-wife. We hadn't been swingers, but we had been open minded. Before long we'd found ourselves running with a very erotic, sensual crowd: the San Francisco Leather Community. At first it put a kind of erotic haze over everywhere we went, everything we did -- but then all these people we met ... they became friends. Sure, some of them liked to be chained to crosses and have their backs and/or asses turned into tar-tar, or get dressed in latex French maid costumes, or drink their own piss -- but to us they were just Bob, Carol, Ted and Alice. Stan likes computers, Renaissance Fair, Orson Scott Card (no accounting for taste) and sucking cock. Linda likes vintage clothes, any black and white movie, photography and being fisted for hours on end. With these kinds of people around what shock and fear slowly melted away -- it's hard to be frightened of something sexual when a devotee (or, as we prefer to be called, 'pervert') helps you move.

For me, that party might have been an unexpected treat, but it was also a sign of the world I inhabit. Some friends, dim lights, condoms and lube -- a casual evening of sex among friends: much happiness was had that night, some of it even mine, and when it was over we kissed good-bye ... until next time.

Like other times ... some of them I'll wander through in this little slice of cyberspace, but for now I'll hit some demonstrative points: watching Bob Flanagan (bless his perverted soul) put a ten penny nail through this dick, sex with a pair of lesbians, sucking cock to gain entrance to another party, a night in drag (I'm an ugly woman), bullwhipping someone in the middle of the Gay Day Parade, reading filthy smut (my own, from one of my books) in the middle of Barnes & Noble, fisting on acid, teaching safe(r) sex to teenagers, and lots of other times and events and many more -- naked or otherwise -- parties.

I guess my life is unusual -- compared to other people's. Lots of sex, lots of adventures, lots of writing. But what I really think is strange is that it -- well -- doesn't feel strange. Sex is fun, sex can be wild, sex can be slow and relaxing, but what's really unusual is that it just feels like life, my life. Not frantic, not tragic, not hollow, just me, my friends, and my work.

This is my life, and welcome to it.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

More On Kitten -

Kitten Natividad (born Francesca Isabel Natividad on February 14, 1948) is a Mexican American film actress and exotic dancer, noted for her 44-inch chest and appearances in cult films by her ex-partner, director Russ Meyer.

Natividad was born in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, the eldest of nine children, and did not speak English until she was 10. At that time her mother married a U.S. citizen and they moved to Texas. Natividad attended high school in El Paso, where she was her senior class president.

After moving to California, she worked as a maid and cook for Stella Stevens and as a key punch operator for IBM before turning to go-go dancing to make ends meet. Her stage name Kitten came from her shyness. At age 21, she had her first breast implant surgery in Tijuana, where it was legal, in order to move into topless dancing. Due to the tragic results of her breast enhancements she deeply regretted having been talked into doing it (see below).

Kitten Natividad was introduced to Russ Meyer by fellow dancer Shari Eubanks, a performer in Meyer's 1975 film Supervixens. Meyer hired her as the narrator of his movie Up!, where she was shown sitting nude in a tree, quoting the poetry of Hilda Doolittle and acting as a Greek chorus to the nonsensical action. Meyer was so impressed he wanted her to star in his next feature, Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens (one of several collaborations between Meyer and film critic Roger Ebert), but he paid for a second breast enhancement and voice lessons to eliminate her accent. She left her husband for Meyer during the filming, and they lived together as a couple for most of the next 15 years.

After this, Natividad moved into pornographic modeling, mainly doing glamour or girl-girl shoots with the likes of Candy Samples, Uschi Digard, and Patty Plenty. The appearances increased her dancing income many times over. She incorporated a giant champagne glass into her act (similar to Lili St. Cyr), accompanied by Bobby Darin hit "Splish Spash".

In 1970-1980s she took part in some short-footage "sexy wrestling" films, mainly with companies like Curtis Dont and Triumph Studios. During the 1980s, Natividad began appearing in hardcore productions, initially limiting her performances to appearing topless, but eventually doing hardcore performances, usually with younger men. She also founded the private photo and video studio Kitten Klub. She famously appeared as a stripper at the bachelor party held by Sean Penn to celebrate his 1985 marriage to Madonna.

  • Kitten Natividad appeared on The Gong Show in the late 1970s.
  • She appeared in a 1980s music video for Mitch Ryder's version of the song, "When You Were Mine", which was written by Prince.
  • Kitten Natividad had a noteworthy topless scene as a prostitute in the film My Tutor, where the sight of her large bosom causes her young client to pass out for some moments, only to regain consciousness and pass out indefinitely as soon as he actually touches it.
  • In August 2006, Kitten Natividad appeared in Playboy in "The History of Bikinis"

In October 1999, Kitten Natividad underwent double-mastectomy surgery for treatment of breast cancer. After her breasts were removed, it was discovered that the silicone used in her implants was of an industrial grade. She currently lives alone with a pit bull and three cats (all featured in the 2005 documentary movie Pornstar Pets), and supports herself with sales of her porn videos and phone sex, with an international clientele. She appeared in the Adam Rifkin independent feature A Night at the Golden Eagle; according to her, Rifkin remembered recognizing her when their cars were both stopped at the same stoplight 25 years earlier.

In January 2008, Natividad was inducted in the Legends of Erotica Hall of Fame.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Burning Love

Pyrophilia is a relatively uncommon paraphilia in which the patient derives gratification from fire and fire-starting activity. It is distinguished from pyromania by the gratification being of a sexual nature.

While the erotic focus immediately raises the diagnostic issue of pyromania, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV classifies this disorder as an impulse-control disorder, with nothing to indicate or suggest an overlap between this disorder and the paraphilias.

Other than the purposeful act of fire-setting itself, there is no mention of the possibility that the tension or affective arousal experienced before the act; the fascination with, interest in, or attraction to fire and its situational contexts (for example, paraphernalia, uses, consequences); or the pleasure, gratification, or relief when setting, witnessing, or participating in the aftermath of fires might be sexual in nature or even contain a sexual arousal component.

Some described cases of pyrophilia do not include behaviors commonly associated with pyromania, such as being a regular “watcher” at fires in his neighbourhood; setting off false alarms; deriving pleasure from institutions, equipment, and personnel associated with fire, spending time at the local fire station, setting fires in order to be affiliated with the fire department; and either showing indifference to the consequences to life and property caused by the fire or deriving satisfaction from the resulting destruction of property. Sexual gratification need not involve actual fire; arousal or masturbatory aids may include fantasies or talk of setting a fire. In other instances, the patient may derive arousal primarily from setting or watching their fire.

Pyrophilia has been diagnosed in very few instances, and is not fully accepted by the general psychological community.

Fuck This Shoe

From The Onion:

BEAVERTON, OR—In yet another first for the world's premier athletic footwear manufacturer, Nike announced Tuesday the nationwide launch of the Air Fornicator, a lightweight copulating shoe designed to maximize sexual performance.

"Nike is proud to continue its commitment to new and innovative products with the first ever sneaker developed exclusively for sex," president and CEO Mark Parker said. "Stylishly sculpted and contoured for enhanced comfort, the featherlight Air Fornicator provides superior energy return to reduce fatigue and boost the libido."

"With this shoe you will last longer, experience more pleasure, and fuck smarter," Parker added.


Friday, May 15, 2009

Welcome to Weirdsville: Gay Samurai

Gay samurai. Sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it? Military intelligence, jumbo shrimp, compassionate conservative, gay samurai – yet there was a time in Japanese history when Japanese warriors, and Japanese society, wasn’t just accepting of queer life, but actively encouraged it.

Japan today is not exactly a model of tolerance for gay men and women. Mishima, their celebrated author, was definitely queer, yet there’s rarely a mention of that in all his ‘official’ biographies. Sure, say that he killed himself in ritual seppuku after a very failed coup attempt, but never, ever say he sucked cock. While some of this is changing through the efforts of some very brave and persistent activists, Japan is still notoriously homophobic, at least in public. If it’s locked away, it’s fine, but don’t hold hands where anyone can see you.

But for a very long time, gay love was an accepted part of Japanese society. While there’s a lot of evidence that gay love was popular in Japan for hundreds of years, the Tokugawa period (1600 – 1868) really put it out there. Called “nanshoku” -- which means “male colors” but was the nearest ancient Japan had to “queer” – gay life in Japan was obvious, active and flamboyant: commoners, court officials, royalty, priests, and especially Samurai were obviously, actively, screwing around with each other.

But it wasn’t just fooling around on a futon, because for samurai nanshoku was also a way of bonding warriors and clans together -- battlefield romances turning into lifelong partnerships and alliances. Nanshoku was also an added dimension to novice and master relationships: during this time a young man trained under a master samurai in more than one way, and in more than one version of “sword play.”

What’s more remarkable than how common all this queer love was is how much it was celebrated and acknowledged. Samurai – while not exactly being able to walk through castles and courtyards hand-in-hand – were pretty much free to do whatever they wanted with each other.

Artists and playwrights churned out endless plays and illustrated queer sex manuals celebrating nanshoku loving, or bi-do “the beautiful way.” One of the really popular subjects was the love of Atsumori and Kumagae, two samurai who go through kinds of trials and tribulations, yet always stayed together (in more ways than one). Atsumori and Kumagae and other queer samurai couples were on paintings and prints were everywhere – either with one femmed up like a geisha or as butch-and-butch couples like Atsumori and Kumagae. In nanshoku pillow books – sex manuals traditionally given to newlyweds – samurai queer loving was depicted as only artists of the time could: with huge cocks, and very eager orifices. Aside from the risk of being executed for any number of social faux pas it was a damned good time to be alive -- and a samurai.

The Tokugawa years were so queer, in fact, that is even spawned male-only onnagirai (“women haters”) cults: groups of samurai so dedicated to male love that they actively excluded women from everything they did and anywhere they lived. Even in supposedly celibate Buddhist monasteries, nanshoku was practiced – with the wonderful logic that celibacy could only be violated with a member of the opposite sex, so screwing around with another monk was perfectly fine.

But this just wasn’t the gay-nineties of Japanese history because nanshoku lasted for hundreds of years – well after Japan was united under one shogunate in the early 1600’s and the need for thousands of samurai vanished practically overnight. Nanshoku was now as much a part of Japanese life as rice and sake. The old samurai ways became sporting events – like kendo and judo – and nanshoku went from being an honorable lifestyle choice to a commodity: in the big cities brothels and red light districts opened where nanshoku love was bought and sold right out in the open.

Nanshoku was so much a part of Japanese life that when Portuguese showed up – everyone remember the book/movie Shogun? – and they tried to convert the ‘heathen’ Japanese to Christianity they only hit one major stumbling block: when they started talking about the awful ‘sin of sodom’. In the early years of trade with the Christian West the traders and missionaries quickly learned to keep their homophobia to themselves – especially when displeasing the Shogun could get your head cut off by samurai -- a very gay, and very pissed-off samurai.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and as Western traders and missionaries – i.e. rich foreign devils – influenced the Japanese more and more, nanshoku began to fade from the scene. The foreigners were rich, powerful, and their missionaries brought the sure-fire sex-killer, the most dangerous weapon in the Christian arsenal: guilt.

So now Japan has a love that dare not speak it’s name. If you look in certain books, in dusty archives, though you can see a different Japan, a Japan where a man could love another man -- openly, lovingly, hotly – and where the best kind of samurai was a very gay samurai.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Russ Meyer & Kitten Natividad

From No Smoking In The Skull Cave

Just A Reminder --

Logical-Lust is proud to announce the release of six special-edition short stories from the celebrated author M.Christian!

These six quick-read stories offer something about anything for anyone -- gay, straight, lesbian, BDSM ... you name it - including stories that have never been previously released or published!

"MOVING" - Straight BDSM erotica
In Sylvia’s dungeon, when you’re told not to move you’d better not ...

"TWO MEN IN A BOAT/ON THE SCREEN" - Includes gay erotica
Two steamy tales, of two quite different types of passion!

Sometimes meeting your big screen hero doesn’t end quite the way you wish ...

"HACK WORK" - Speculative, futuristic, straight erotica
In the future, we may use others remotely for our own pleasures, but what of the one ‘taking the ride?’


"SUNLIGHT" & "HER MASTER'S VOICE" - Includes gay and BDSM erotica
Another two scintillating tales of sensuality, both quite different.


"A LIGHT MINUTE" - Lesbian erotica
Online, Sasha has breath-taking control over Alyx. How far will she take her?

These special edition erotic stories are available as PDF, Mobipocket/Kindle/PDA, WORD, TEXT (with Microsoft Reader & HTML coming soon!).
M.Christian is an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll.
M. Christian is the chameleon of modern erotica. One day punk, another romantic; one day straight, another totally perverse and polyamorous. But always sexy and and gripping.
- Maxim Jakubowksi, editor of the Mammoth Book of Erotica series

M. Christian is to erotica what Swarovski crystals are to Liberace: essential.
- Clint Catalyst, author of Cottonmouth Kisses

M. Christian's stories are the fairy tales whispered to one another by dark angels whose hearts and mouths are brimming with lust. He goes beyond the pale, ordinary definitions of sexuality and writes about need and desire in their purest forms. Readers daring enough to stray from the safety of the path will find in his images and words a garden of delights to tempt even the most demanding pleasure-seeker.
-- Michael Thomas Ford, Lambda Literary Award winner and editor

For more information check out:

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

An Excerpt from As She’s Told, by Anneke Jacob

I'm extremely pleased to be able to feature an excerpt from the amazing novel. As She’s Told, by Anneke Jacob. You can buy it - and you most definitely should - from Pink Flamingo.

As She’s Told
Anneke Jacob

I looked down at the enormous hands engulfing mine. Calloused, hard, long-fingered, warm. Profoundly reassuring. Disturbing as hell. That first touch silenced me; for a long moment it silenced us both. I looked at his hands and he looked at me.

I finally took an audible, shaky breath and went on. I said things I’d never said out loud in all my life.

“I spent years thinking I was – attracted and horrified by the same things – pain, imprisonment. Helplessness.”

His grasp tightened. “I used to wonder too. How I could want to inflict such things. But really I knew it was different. The world’s violence and ours are not the same thing, Maia. One has victims. The other doesn’t.”

“I know,” I whispered. “Consent. Choice. There we go again.” I turned my head away, took back my hand and laughed.

“You do have a choice. I can’t help that. I won’t kidnap you.” He smiled. “Unless you need that.”

I gave him a swift glance and laughed again, this time more genuinely. “No.”

“What do you need, Maia? Believe me, I won’t keep consulting you if this works out for us. But I need to know if it could work at all.”

“But if I tell you…”

“I know, it’s taking control.”

“No – yes – it’s more than that. I’m – I need…god this is hard…” I gathered myself. “Look, what if what I am is too extreme and you think I’m – I’m sick?”

“I doubt it.”

I shook my head and looked down at the hands in my lap, plucking and folding my dress.
“Do you want to be damaged? Scarred? Dismembered?”


“Be used as a toilet? Have sex with animals?”


“Do you want to be sold off to white slavers?”

I gasped out of tension, blurted a laugh and shook my head. “No.”

“Then I doubt there’s anything you want that I don’t want more.”

The shock and clang of the last few sentences gradually faded. I looked up at him, painful doubt in my eyes.

“All right,” he said slowly, “let me tell you what I want. What I need.”

I nodded. I was relieved that he would be the one to say these things, these unspeakable things, not me.

His voice dropped to a low, intimate thunder that resonated somehow at the back of my skull. “I need to own a woman and control her, twenty-four hours a day. I want absolute control, not a vanilla relationship with some s/m trimmings, not some sideline bedroom thing. I’ve settled for less, and I may have to do it again, but that’s what I need. I don’t want to play games, I don’t want to scene, I don’t want to negotiate, I don’t want someone who’s free to walk away. I want a slave, a real one. Human chattel.”

His words entered into me at some level, along with meaning, but they had to sink slowly through the mire in my brain. The sudden heat of my body was slowing all my synapses. There was a faint ringing in my ears, and for a minute I could hardly see.

Through the fog came his voice, dropping another note or two. “If you were mine, Maia, I’d take good care of you. I’d take the greatest care not to damage you. But there would be beatings, constant control, humiliation – I’d treat you like an animal and worse. If that’s beyond what you can take, we might as well know it now. That wouldn’t mean there’s nothing for us, but it won’t be long-term.”

My vision was clearing; in my line of sight were his fingers, pressing the table until the nails went white. I could feel his desire coming at me in a wave, so strong it was all I could do to resist the undertow.

His words had coalesced in my head, and now were like balls in a basket that clicked as they collided and banged. …a slave, a real one… an animal…. A very small Maia lurked in a dark basement with two curved wooden blocks held around her wrist, secretly playing at being chained in a dungeon. I’d been four or five. By nine I’d spent each night in elaborate fantasies of slave civilizations. The stories by the age of twelve were darker and saturated in humiliating sex and fear. It was the one hidden, overpowering constant of my life.

And yet every other voice I’d ever heard had told me I was wrong. Wrong to relinquish control, wrong to submerge my self, my being. Even the other subs.

I forced myself to glance beyond the intent circle of our two bodies. Even Lena and Nikki were gone. The restaurant was in its mid-afternoon lull, and the waiter had long since given up on us. I suddenly noticed the noise of traffic from outside, something I hadn’t heard for hours.
The man beside me watched me quietly. I looked down at my hands. They weren’t shaking.


I looked up into his eyes. Clear, aware eyes, kind eyes.

“It’s not.”

“It’s not what?”

“It’s not beyond what I can take.”

The look he gave me was of such concentrated heat and sweetness that I felt filled with light, hollow enough to float. For a while I just focused on breathing in, breathing out.

At last I anchored myself carefully, and found more words. “You just described me – what I am. Or at least what I’m meant to be. And the details – what happens – how far it goes – that’s not up to me. What matters is who is in control. And it can’t be, it shouldn’t be – me.”

He let out a long, slow breath, and took my hand again, his eyes searching my face. At last he gave whatever he found there a nod of recognition. I felt his thumb stroke the back of my hand, back and forth, back and forth.

“And are you saying it should it be me?”

Monday, May 11, 2009

Blast From The Past: Georgia Holden


Georgia Holden was an American busty nude model and Strip Dancer.

Her father was a Polish immigrant, and her mother came from Holland.

Before she was involved in the exotic scene, she had a career in dancing and she had some involvement in films. She did some choreography and some dancing in Singin' in the Rain and she assisted in the choreography for some of the older western films that involved dancing girls, and she even had a minor role in the film Right Hand of the Devil".

She died in the summer of 1971. She is buried in the San Fernando Mission Cemetery in Mission Hills, CA under Georgia Kingston.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Welcome to Weirdsville: The Golden Rivet

For as long as men have sailed the seven seas they’d tried to keep women off their boats. It’s a sad fact, but for hundreds of years -- and in the case of certain civilizations, thousands of years -- water and women simply haven’t mixed.

That’s not to say that as the ships have rocked and rolled on the high sees the crew didn’t do their own kind of rhythm magic. Women might have been banned -- with extreme penalties in many cases for any attempts to break the rule -- but sex and the sea have always been part of a sailor’s life.

The logic behind banning women from being sailors appears sound -- for about a minute: to keep the swabbies in line, and to prevent in-fighting among those who might be getting, and might not be getting, it was thought better to keep the ships all male. In response to the obvious homosexual outlet for all that testosterone juice, many admiralties prohibited sex between crewmates -- with punishments ranging from simple monetary fines to floggings.

The fact though was that the big-wigs with the fruit salad on their chests were hundreds or thousands of miles away, so it was usually the discretion of the Captain on whether queer sex was a good thing or a bad thing.

Some captains and ships even bent the rules considerably, and thus was born the Captain’s Wife or Daughter: a courtesan brought on board simply to service the officers of the ship. Other Captains obeyed the letter of the law, while not embracing the spirit -- and thus allowing their crews to ‘embrace’ their own smuggled-aboard women, cross-dressed as fellow swabbies.

Even pirates, who some would think would be lax when it comes to rules and regulations, were much more stern in their sharing of the sexual favors of their fellow crews. Always concerned with equality among their crews, some pirate charters went as far as requiring ‘stranding’ on a desert or severe floggings as punishments for bring aboard women. It’s ironic that two of the more legendary pirates, Anne Bonny and Mary Read, were women -- and who managed to escape the gallows by the singular female plea of the time: “we plead our bellies” meaning they were pregnant.

Pirates, by and large, during this time treated women -- particularly women captives -- rather well. Part of it was wanting to stay on fairly good terms with the authorities (nothing like ravaging some women to get your ship hunted down) but also because women fetched high prices as merchandise as well as in ransom from rich fathers and husbands. A crewman guilty of harming a female captive was treated as someone who had either stolen or damaged merchandise -- a very serious charge in pirate law.

While women (when they weren’t captain, that is) were banned from ships, sailors managed to keep their sanity by keeping any number of common-law wives in a variety of ports. The system worked actually rather well, since the pirates were at the whim of the wind and available profit -- and many of their wives were also the wives of other pirates, sailing on other ships. The only time there was a problem was when there was a question of seniority, such as when a husband died and his goods had to be divided among his wives -- in such cases the women he was married to the longest usually won out, unless the younger one had children. Pirates, for their mush-maligned reputations, were remarkably civilized.

Other pirate societies, such as the buccaneers, created a form of partnership that often included homosexual love. Matelots were a form of permanent relationship between two men that served in many ways the needs of both financial as well as emotional well-being. Many men were more protective and emotionally tied to their matelots than their own wives -- going so far as to will them their lands and goods.

Early Christian Missionaries -- and puritans in general who sought to kill or capture pirates -- often used these forms of same-sex marriage to condemn their society, though it’s telling that the fact that these men where practicing homosexual love and marriage wasn’t as damaging as the rumor that was also spread that some of the gay pirates were converting to Islam -- a more accepting faith (at least at the time): religious intolerance obviously being a greater motivator than simple queer sex.

In more rough-and-tumble pirate societies, such as among the famous South China sea pirates, sex and love between men became a political force as well as a sexual one. Kidnapped as children from raided ships, the boys would often form long-lasting sexual relationships among themselves as well as their captors that later helped hold together the scattered pirate tribes.

While women were always a question, at best, or a big problem, at worst, on ship there was a long-standing tradition of sexual release in the form of the cabin boy. For many years, the position of cabin boy required duties that weren’t on the usual cook/captain/first mate’s job description. Often, however -- especially for those ‘boys’ with experience -- the other requirements were pretty obvious, in other words to sexually service either the officers or the entire crew.

For those not familiar with these duties, the crew had a special tradition to ‘enlighten’ a new cabin boy. What makes this tradition interesting is the masking they used to lure the young lad into the bowels of the ship. The story they told was of an ancient maritime tradition (presumably concurrent with keeping women off-ship), where each and every ship -- when it’s keel was laid -- was given a special, good-luck, gold rivet.

It’s taken thousands of years, but finally women are serving without a problem on ships -- both civilian as well as military (well, depending on the country). But if you’re on-board an get an invitation to view the lucky golden rivet I would still think twice -- unless you’re into that kind of thing, of course.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

"Sarah in the Spring" By M. Christian

Couldn't let you guys have all the fun ....

Sarah in the Spring
M. Christian

Spring always makes me think of Sara. Not the obvious: that she bloomed, or even had locks the color of a rare, hothouse flower. Yes, she had brilliant red hair -- but more like freshly stripped wires than exotic roses; yes, a wide-eyed amazement at the little things that she seemed to discover every day -- but more for overcast skies, and biting winds whipping across empty parking lots, those deserts of suburbia.

I don't like to mention Sarah when virginity comes up: instead I just tinker with a adolescent fumbling or two, mixing and matching them into third base rather than an honest first or second. Sarah doesn't deserve to be itemized like other firsts. Sarah remains special: a memory of heavy rains in Los Angeles, a deep laugh, and small, cool hands reaching out for me.

We met in college -- Orange Coast College, to be exact, in Costa Mesa -- out LA way. In a Reader's Theater class to be even more exact. I was painfully shy, but burning with a writer's fire (that has yet to be extinguished), that made me a bit obnoxious. We were asked to introduce ourselves to the class. I can't remember what I said, but it made this chubby girl in the front row -- one with brilliant red hair -- laugh.

It rained our first date; a pattering of heavy, oily drops on the windshield of her old car. We talked, and somehow my virginity came up. Later, in a deserted parking lot, she kissed me. I remember the cherry lipstick she wore, covering the slight bite of what tasted like sour milk. The kissing continued all the way from that wet asphalt plain to her little apartment -- and her big bed, with its big, soft comforters.

Sarah had this way about her -- you could see it as innocence in that sex hadn't fucked her over: it was fun, like a favorite toy that never gets old. Or you could see it as a very worldly attitude, that getting naked and coming long and hard was the best was to spend time. Whatever the end of the spectrum, for Sarah sex was something to enjoy, to giggle over, to play with.

A few months was all the time we'd had together. My father got a chance to work in Europe for a few years, so my whole family packed up and went to live in Belgium. Sarah promised to write, but never did.

When I got back, I tried to call her only to find her number disconnected. I imagined her behind the wheel of her squeaking and irascible Saab, laughing and giggling at the world.

Later, I found out that she'd passed away -- the victim of some hungry cancer or other. I remember spending long ours trying to collect all the fragments of Sarah, all my warped or broken memories -- but only really coming up with a sense of that wet Spring in Los Angeles. It depressed me for a long time, that someone who'd touched me -- and not just my body -- for the first time, would leave just a few quick impressions behind.

Now, though, while I always think of Sarah in the spring, I know my little chubby, red-haired sprite lives other places as well. When I kiss, it's opening a present; when I see a lover naked for the first time, there's always this excited laughter bubbling around us; when it goes farther it's like a wonderful game of touch and joy. Sarah's gone, but for me she lives in love -- my own little pocket Aphrodite.

I feel -- even to this day -- that I didn't get a chance to thank her for what she showed me. So I try, with each kiss, caress, and beyond, to give thanks to Sarah, and that special spring.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

"Why We Don’t Want It As Much As You Do" By Ralph Greco, Jr.

I'm very pleased to be able to present another great essay by my friend, Ralph Greco, Jr. Enjoy!

Remember, if you have a story you want to share with the smutty world through Frequently Felt just zap me a line:

Why We Don’t Want It As Much As You Do
Ralph Greco, Jr.

When I think about the whole pomp and circumstance of the pomp and circumstance, especially now in my late 30’s (so late I am 47), I come to wonder if that old sexual conundrum is really true. It does seem that ladies over 40 are a little more ‘in tune’ with things, carry a confidence, a certain style (dare I say it, ‘skill’) and want ‘it’ more then men of the same age (sorry, I speak to only the heter side of the street here).

But what I’ve come to consider, realize, agree with, is that we men don’t really loose our desire for sex, we loose our desire for…bullshit.

Consider a guy in the bloom of his youth, say early 20’s. ‘Young, dumb and full of come’ as I have heard it described and as it certainly was with me at that age. I would do anything, anything, to get close to female skin. It was all a wonderful wonderland of wonder way-back-when for me, for any guy just exploring himself, the world around him and his sexuality. It was a glorious time, maybe a little heated and desperate, but fun all the same. And since it was all so sparkling new and fun I would do mostly anything to keep deep in the cleavage of things.

Take me now, decades later. Maybe a bit wiser, certainly more jaded, definitely more experienced then the ‘cock-of-the-walk’ ‘legend-in-my-own-mind’ young guy I was in my 20’s. Sex, and all its trappings, while still pretty nifty peachy keen, while still pretty much on my mind 24/7, is not a top priority, but not because my sex drive has lessened, but because I will not jump through hoops for it. I will not court, cajole and connive a woman until I’m embarrassed, drive miles for potential, make a square peg fit in a round hole when I really might not be all that attracted to that peg in the first place (or the hole, sorry I always forget which one I am). The urge, still as strong (or at least as strong as I kid myself into believing it is) is superseded by my ‘urge’ not to deal with any static to fulfill the urge.

What little self respect a guy has left after so many years on the planet, through the added pounds and gray hairs, the diminishing of our importance in the world, the exhaustion in leaving our dreams behind just to make a buck, simply will not allow for games of any kind. We won’t (and excuse me for saying so) get up for much in our 40’s, from having sex to buying that new car to taking a shower if the stuff we have an urge for has too much stuff in the way of it. You wonder why the need for Viagra is rampant in our society? It is because if an older guy confronts static on the way to the land of the midnight ‘hey naner naner’ he will turn and go the other way, flip through the channels on the remote, shut down; we need the chemical stimulation to get us through the crappola more then we need it to engorge us and get us turned on.

Yes, desire is the key, as it is with most things, but not if there’s too much bullshit in the way.