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Close Enough

April 2, 2014

2stonesClose Enough

Cool cord and hot skin and already my heart is beating fast. I loop the rope snug around her wrist, she barely moves. But she watches me.

Tying off, her neutral gaze follows my hands as I raise her arm and tie it to the headboard post. No complaint, no encouragement. But she’s breathing deeper.

Why I’d asked, why she said yes, asked and answered two evenings ago, but other questions remained, unanswerable until now.

Her other hand clasps mine briefly before I begin binding it.

She’d said, “I wouldn’t let anyone else,” and I almost wept then and there.

Her second wrist secure, I run my finger around the border of rope and skin. Am I not equally bound at this moment? Constrained by the trust I have somehow earned? Well, no. Of course not. The question makes me chuckle, and she quirks an eyebrow.

Why explain? How about instead, I glide my hand down her arm, across cheek, across breast, pausing, pausing, and then down her sides to hips. Fabric, silk-like between her skin and mine. A blouse, now a skirt that I smooth down over her thigh until reaching the hem, and a stocking lower down.

It’s only on the second ankle, her last free limb, when she tenses. An almost-resistance. I feel it, but she relaxes before I have to tighten my grip. Her expression isn’t quite so detached anymore, but I don’t recognize it. A new, unfamiliar look after a year of knowing each other. I inhale deep, so does she. I finish winding.

Stretching her leg to tie off the rope to the fourth post on the bed, I encounter the limits of her skirt. Keeping the tension in the rope and the room, I push the hem up one thigh, then the other until I have enough space. When I’m done, I sit back and watch her test, stockinge feet flexing, arms and legs tightening and pulling in turn and together. She’s not going anywhere. Her breath comes just faster than mine.

Her skirt is just above the tops of her thigh-highs; the little band of exposed skin makes me growl inside, and I don’t restrain myself from running a finger across it.

“Mine.”

“Yes,” she says.

I smile. As if her agreement meant anything right now. As if now she could grant or forbid me anything.

Read more…

Visitation

March 27, 2014

After restless solitary sleep
spots tender to the touch
under your fingertips
upon waking.

In morning light
faint discolorations on skin
in your mirror’s reflection
dimpled impressions of teeth.

Neck
Shoulder
Underside of breast
Inner thigh

Don’t worry.

It was only me.

What I Learned by Writing Erotica

March 22, 2014
  • This is an essay I wrote in response to the Belle Knox controversy. I shopped it around various outlets but have had no responses. So, here it is. It may be a fitting way to begin the end of my erotic writing career. I’m not short of ideas, but I feel as though I’ve said most of what I want to say. One of my favorite works of literature growing up was Goethe’s Faust. What made Goethe’s Faust so interesting was the deal he made with Mephistopheles. He sold his soul for knowledge but with this proviso: Mephistopheles could only keep his soul if Mephistopheles also corrupted him. In the end, Faust kept his soul. No matter Mephistopheles’ temptations, Faust’s love of knowledge was never made complacent. I have much more writing in me, but erotica may be largely over. I have more than a few loose ends but I guess I’m like Faust in that regard. Ideas are my temptations, no sooner tried but I want to explore the next. Expect fewer stories but those that I do write will be better, I hope — or very different at the least. The last few years I’ve been primarily an erotic writer. No more. Now I’m just a visiting friend.

What I Learned by Writing Erotica

Nasty bitch. You’re wet. Rain rolled down my face like tears. I shook my head no and pouted like a little girl. “Oh yes you are,” he growled. He shoved first one finger, then two, then three in and out of me. My chest began to burn with lack of oxygen. He expertly flipped his wrist and unsheathed a switch blade. He pressed it into the place on my neck that bounced with my rushing pulse.”

I removed a few explicit lines from the passage above, but you get the idea.

I write erotica. I’ve been writing erotica for several years now. I share a blog with three other writers, two women and another man. The blog has received almost a million and a half visits and has been voted, depending which list you consult, as among the top 25 erotic blogs on the Internet.

This wasn’t the kind of readership I ever expected.

What prompted me to write this letter is Belle Knox’s post “I’m Finally Revealing My Name and Face As the Duke Porn Star”. I didn’t write erotica while in college, nor while obtaining my Master’s degree. It didn’t occur to me and, if I had, it probably would have been awful stuff. 18 to 20′s is the perfect time for a young woman to be a porn star. Do I really need to explain why? A woman’s body, for all the obvious evolutionary reasons, appeals to men with a beauty that all the world’s gold never will. We can only hope she is as wisely ready. The time for him or her to write erotica, on the other hand, is probably a little later. Erotic writing requires some reflection, introspection and a cunning ability to lie.

The bullying and sniping at Belle Knox is saddening and ignorant, but hardly a surprise. What I’ve learned by writing erotica, above all, is that almost everything I thought when I was 18, as regards women, was wrong; but not as you might suspect. That brings me to the passage I quoted above.

Are you horrified?

I didn’t write it. I haven’t had the nerve to write a passage like that – not yet. It was written by Ximena, a wonderful and incredibly talented woman with whom I’m lucky to write. By the time I was 18, the attempt had been made: I had been thoroughly taught, by the powers that be, that I shouldn’t treat women as sexual objects. Little good that did. From about the age of 12 on, I imagined girls, my own age, and women to be just that – sexual objet d’arts to be pornographically manipulated by the mind’s eye. By 14 I knew that I was a monster.

I used to go into my friend’s room, while he wasn’t around, and sort through his hidden stash of Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler magazines. I preferred Hustler, since Hustler didn’t pretend not to know what goes through the minds of young men. They laid it all out in glossy photos, for which I was immensely grateful. There was one photo that riveted me, however, and I can still see it as though it were yesterday. This was a black & white photo of a woman hanging upside down by her feet, her wrists bound behind her.

There were whips hanging on the wall behind her. I was, without doubt, a monster. The sheer erotic beauty of her body, and helplessness, fixated me. To have a woman like that, willingly no less, and to be able to erotically explore her, freely and uninhibitedly, to whip her, to see how she moves, how her hips move, her eyes, to be able to make her come, and possibly even against her will! I was a monster and I was hooked.

Such images have, at times, been driven firmly underground and alternately outlawed. They encourage the objectification of women, the exploitation of women, misogyny, rape, abuse, and are construed as a gateway to sexual deviancy and harm.

Fast forward some fifteen years. I had read Anne Rice’s Beauty Trilogy. The trilogy was an eye-opener not just because of its content but because it was written by a woman. The content of the erotic photo that had riveted me fifteen years earlier paled next to the eroticism and desires expressed by Anne Rice. To be clear, Rice’s novels are full of bondage and the whip. I tried to find more erotica, but nothing online compared and erotica, at the time, was much more difficult to find at the average book store. I write in many genres. I tried to publish fables and fairy tales, but no one was interested.

One day, I decided to write the kind of erotic story I wanted to read. I can’t tell you what it’s like the first time you write the word “cock” or “pussy”. Try it yourself. I wrote the story and promptly locked it away. I was ashamed. That first erotic story, though, was like the first woman. Once you’ve tasted that kind of pleasure, there’s no going back. I discovered something else, erotic stories flow from me like water. I’m the Hans Christian Andersen of erotica. I think it was Agatha Christie who said that she could turn anything into a murder weapon. Say ‘salt & pepper shaker’ to Agatha Christie and watch out. Me? I’ll turn them into sex toys. Turns out, I was born with a gift for writing erotica; and I never wanted it.

Belle Knox, like Anne Rice, was born with another kind of gift and her sheer physical beauty is only part of it. We don’t choose our gifts and we shouldn’t allow others to dictate to us whether or not we have the right to express them.

And what have I learned by finally using my gift for writing erotica? What I’ve learned is based on hundreds of comments, public and private, mostly by female readers. I learned that while I was imagining tying a woman upside down from her ankles and whipping her, there was another woman imagining that she was being tied and whipped to a humiliating orgasm. I learned that while I fantasized about the anonymous woman in the alleyway, there was a woman imagining the anonymous man, turning her toward the wall, lifting her skirt and spreading her ankles. I learned that women are monsters too. I learned that our sexual fantasies, just like our bodies, are beautifully and mysteriously reciprocal. Men aren’t monsters. Women aren’t hapless. In short, I learned that the erotic desires of women were often, and startlingly, the mirror image of my own.

I learned that what attracts us to each other, as far as science currently knows, is unique to the human animal. Since a female doesn’t display her readiness to copulate, nature must ensure that we copulate as often as possible. How does nature do that? By evolving the erotic imagination. We can imagine the past and future. We remember the sex we’ve had and we imagine the sex we want – the ability that is at the root of all erotica. It’s possible that our ability to imagine the past and future arose as a necessary element of erotic desire (the need to perpetuate our species). As every other carnivore that has ever existed has amply demonstrated, and over hundreds of millions of years, we emphatically do not need a sense of past and future to be successful hunters.

Erotic desire is at the root of all art. The erotic imagination requires that we appreciate beauty. It is our capacity to recognize each others physical beauty (or what evolution has taught us to recognize as beautiful) that attracts us to each other. The erotic imagination requires that we understand metaphor and symbol. The very first works of art are pornographic statuettes that become ever more phallic and symbolic. Erotic desire may be at the root of all spirituality and religion – much to the horror, I suppose, of a certain few. How nubile and tempting are all those medieval and Renaissance angels – partially clad, youthful, and in their sexual prime. God clearly prefers his angels in the 14 to 20 year range. It’s possible that the human mind, in all its intellectual glory, is almost entirely a product of nature’s elaborate procreative scheming. And the very act of denying the same, of excluding women from both the pews and iconography, is an assertion of the same by negation.

I’ve learned that erotica is a kind of fairy tale for the sexually awakened mind. Just as there are those who read religious texts literally, seemingly incapable of perceiving or comprehending metaphor or analogy, there are those who read erotica literally. Unlike any other literature, they require that erotica be “true to reality”. Amazon.com recently attempted to ban all forms of erotica that involved procreation between human and non-human species. In other words, sex between Bella Swan and Jacob Black, the male teenager, is okay. Sex between Bella Swan and Jacob Black, the werewolf, is to be banned. (As if there really are such things as werewolves and we shouldn’t want to encourage it). Apparently, it is okay to be impregnated by a dead/undead (presumably cold as a fish) vampire but emphatically not okay to be doggied by a werewolf. But I know from personal conversation that many more women are “Little Red Riding Hoods” very much interested in getting lost in the deep, dark woods.

All erotica is best read as a metaphorical expression of erotic desire. We don’t ban talking wolves and geese from our children’s stories because we understand them to be metaphors. It’s equally silly to ban animals and absurd settings from adult erotic literature. Does Amazon or Paypal intend to ban Greek mythology (and Yeats) because Zeus preferred to rape Leda as a Swan?

We are not monsters. I’ve never tied up a woman by her ankles and I’ve never whipped a woman. I’m not sure I would enjoy it (though some men and women would). But the fantasy powerfully appeals to me because of what it symbolizes – dominance and submission, the embodiment of a certain kind of masculinity and femininity, of pain and pleasure and the symbolism expressed by his self-control and her willing lack of control. But who really dominates who? The men and women who act out these fantasies, like Belle Knox, are also engaged in a symbolic eroticism. They do these things because they enjoy it. Maybe they’ll have regrets, but that’s no different than anything we do.

I learned that erotic preferences are like politics or religion. There are those who think that all liberals are mentally ill and others who think that all Muslims are terrorists. Likewise, there are those who consider their own sexual proclivities to be the norm and that all other sexual preferences are a kind of deviance to be feared or suppressed.

I learned that there really isn’t a norm or, if there is, it isn’t what some or many might think.

Pornography is a multi-billion dollar industry and by that standard alone, the pleasure we take in watching others have sex is the norm. Why shouldn’t it be? When Thomas Bagley outed Knox, he recognized her because he was watching and paying for, at $200 a week, hardcore porn. For most of our evolution we probably watched each other having sex. Why not enjoy it? If the goal of evolution is self-perpetuation, then why wouldn’t nature take advantage of the opportunity? Why impregnate just one female when nature can knock them all up? What fun. What is arguably and demonstrably abnormal, if that label must be thrown around, is the dislike of pornography or erotica. In truth, I would rather dispense with a word like abnormal or deviant. Human beings have varied sexual preferences and it is time they were recognized as just that – fairy tales for the erotically minded. The desire to tie or to be tied can be healthy and good. Let each enjoy and celebrate their own unique sense of eroticism. A young woman like Belle Knox, one hopes, shares in the enjoyment of her viewers. She also monetarily benefits; and why not?

But, one might argue, hasn’t permitting certain behaviors produced a history of sexual abuse, child sexual abuse, cover ups, misogyny and sexual exploitation? Yes. Women have suffered horribly at the whims of men: exploited, tortured, murdered, marginalized and treated like little more than sex objects to be conversely worshiped and vilified. However, and despite all this, no one is arguing that we abolish the Catholic Church, or any number of other religions, and this despite the many men who enabled and covered up of child sexual abuse. The history of the Catholicism is replete with the abuse, torture and the sexualized murder of many thousands of women.

There are kinds of sexual deviancy that are harmful and horrible, but to think that banning erotica and pornography will solve such criminality is simplistic. Franklin Graham, son of Billy Graham, recently penned a column in Decision Magazine praising Putin’s brutal stance toward the LGBTQ community. Has anyone in the pornography industry recently penned a column praising and calling for the brutal suppression of human beings because of their sexual preferences? Who is the real monster? It’s true that women in pornography can be exploited and that they’re pay and working conditions stand improvement, but there isn’t an industry for which the same couldn’t be said. To lay these sins at the feet of pornography is selective and hypocritical. fall-fog-girl-umbrella-Favim.com-164817The oppression between the nexus of politics and religion, if that’s the route to be taken, is far more damning than that against erotica or pornography. Patrick Rock, one of David Cameron’s closest aides, was recently arrested on charges related to child pornography. And what did Patrick Rock do? He was the government official most determined to block and limit the public’s access to the pleasure of watching others have sex.

What I’ve learned is that for the vast majority, the pleasure in reading about sex, in all its metaphorical and symbolic guises, and the pleasure taken in viewing others having sex, is good, healthy and normal. What is abnormal is the attempt by some to marginalize the sexuality of others, whether by government officials, by religious officials, or even by feminists. What is abnormal is the kind of bullying that Belle Knox has been subjected to – and much of it because she is a woman. If the labels must be used, then this is what is deviant, abnormal and unhealthy. To condemn the choices of Belle Knox is to condemn the sexual preferences of tens of millions of men and women. Specifically, it suggests that women shouldn’t want or shouldn’t enjoy the kind of eroticism expressed by Belle Knox, especially educated women. Contempt for Knox is no less a phobia than homophobia. If there’s one thing I’ve learned by writing erotica, it’s that women are just as monstrous as men, that it’s a wonderful thing, and that celebrating our complimentary and reciprocal sense of eroticism is good and healthy.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that the best erotica, like all that’s best in art, music, and literature, proceeds from and is an expression of Love.

·

Will Crimson: March 21, 2014

Rejoice in Love

King Stork

March 8, 2014

King Stork
an erotic retelling by William Crimson

  • “King Stork” is a fascinating literary fairy tale. My starting point is the version rewritten by Howard Pyle and illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman. The illustrations by Trina Schart Hyman are some of the most erotically suggestive of any illustrated children’s book I know. For erotic connoisseurs, take a close look at the table in Hyman’s illustrated version – a very close look. I’m more than a little surprised that the publisher went along with it. There’s an urban myth that the book was re-issued with altered illustrations. As it is, Hyman’s version needs no help from me. She herself erotically retold the story. The princess exudes sex. The original story is by Wilhelm Hauff and is fascinating because it’s easily read as flatly misogynist and patriarchal. In truth, it also needs no help from me in terms of an erotic retelling. A young woman, with little desire to marry (and who has “symbolically” beheaded her suitors), is beaten (or symbolically beaten) into sexual submissiveness to become a good and submissive wife. It’s the kind of story that horrifies feminists but ought to secretly tickle the fancy of the erotically inclined (who don’t take stories like these literally). In other words, plain and simple, it’s a D/s fairy tale. (My version is probably gratuitously sexual and obvious.) However, there’s a lovely ambiguity in Hyman’s final illustration. The drummer eats. The “submissive” wife, beginning to grow new wings, seems to be looking out the window, but take a closer look at her eyes. Does she look out the window, or does she look, with a knowing smile, at the crown and dagger hanging within reach? It’s a strange moment. We like the drummer but we also secretly root from the princess.

There was drummer who walked the high road, or rather, a midsummer’s well-trodden path of dirt. He wore nothing but his bare heels and a cinch of provisions slung over his shoulder. He was returning home from the wars. By and by he came to a wide, but shallow river; and there sat a gnarled old stork4woman. A ring of long white hair flowed from her shoulders and a little white beard from her chin. She smiled toothily as the sturdy young man approach, thoughtfully twisting her slight little beard between her fat thumb and a long, wrinkled finger. “Are you crossing the river?” asked she.

“I am,” says the drummer. “And then some if my legs are true.”

“And will you not help a poor old body across?”

The drummer straightened his back good-naturedly and turned a stem between his teeth. “What would I be to the world, or the world to me, if I didn’t carry those who once carried me?” With that, the young man loosed his leather vest, cuffed the sleeves of his white shirt, and heaved the old woman onto his back.

“Now you must carry this too,” said the old hag, handing him a black quill.

The drummer thought nothing of that at all. Away he started across the river.

But this was no ordinary favor. Each step the drummer took was heavier than the last. He squared his jaw. He set his brow. His gaze turned hard as stone. When he was half way cross his legs shock with the load. Sweat dripped from his nose and chin. The sun felt three times hotter than when he’d walked the dusty path. By and by, the drummer reached the opposite shore and the old women jumped lightly from his back.

“By my troth!” said the drummer laughing. He put his hands to his hips and straightened his back. “I’ve paid my debt three times over!”

And then, wonder of it all, the old woman was a hag no longer. Here was a woman who looked for all the world like a raven-haired gypsy born in a caboose. The black quill, as heavy as himself, she took from him as lightly as if it were no more than the feather that it was. She tucked the quill behind her ear so that fluted straight back. She touched the drummer’s lips with the tip of a finger. “Who do you suppose I am?” But the drummer had no more idea than a duck out of water.

Read more…

3. The Genie’s Gift

February 28, 2014

The Genie’s Gift
an Erotic tale by Will Crimson

tumblr_mzgl783zwu1qfbon7o1_1280I had a dream and in the dream I ruled a desert Kingdom.

A thousand gifts were given me: pearl, diamonds, books inscribed with leaves of gold and blue inks ground from azurite, rare herbs and spices, carpets, Jimson cloth and gingham, an apple from the Caesarean tree and a coco de mer from the lands beneath the sea. But above them, and most to my liking, you — a gem among gems with eyes like the desert sky and hips like the willowy palm.

A dozen Lords and Ladies are gathered in my tent. Beautiful servants, in few clothes or none, display my gifts. This servant I recognize. That one I do not. This one had been a Lady. That one, in another dream, had been a Lord. In dreams, as in life, we play a thousand parts.

You, my beautiful gift, how shall I receive you?

Dance before me. The smell of the air is dry. The sun slopes westward and the dunes turn reddish. The Lords and Ladies are seated in a circle and the circle is a tent that is thirty paces. They sit in splendor, recumbent on silken pillows and cushions of purple and gold fringe. The cushions are themselves lain on each other and circumscribe the center. In the center are overlapping carpets. The sand is under them, mixes in their tassels, and scatters like a tickling gold dust atop them. Read more…

2. if now

February 23, 2014

·
·
·····if
·····now i
want to write a poem
about love–
·····making
my window says
the snow
is
simply
·····white
·····on evergreens
and
my door says
there must be some mistake—
and i
cannot compare
the gray
·····sky
·····to you and not the black trees
to anything
like
the softly,
··········red up–
···············welling
of your nipples so following my fingers
·····this morning—
or
the purple
·····odor
·····of you
·····you dye me with and –you – i want already
········you
········again– and
tumblr_n0p6biMMU51qfbon7o1_1280the stain
of tasting you between my lips
·····so
much color
·····that a woman
·····is
and i
·····want
··········to be
··········in–
·····expressibly
·····in

·

·

February 23 2014 • by William Crimson

Prize

February 21, 2014

Prize
Erotica by William Crimson

tumblr_n0qh04PLj21qfbon7o1_1280I remember you. I remember your slimness. Your short black hair. Your energy.  I remember how your one-piece, sleeveless dress hung loosely over your hips, how I could see your nipples, and your effect on my cock. In your dress, your motion, and your confidence you all but told every man in the room that you knew what they wanted, that you were young and a beautiful girl. That was a hot night and I wasn’t the only man to dance with you. I felt the promising indentation of your spine beneath my hand. I felt the firm suggestion of your slender haunches against mine. I paid for your drink. I complimented you. I asked if you lived close by. I was going to be staying in the bayous. I had a plan. I had money. I was going places. I had a dozen men to work under me. You told me everything I wanted to know and left. I told half a dozen men they could find their own way home. Walk if they had to. Hitchhike. This was the forties. I didn’t give a damn. I told them I’d meet them in the morning. I found your home – half cabin, half ramshackle hut. The windows were wide open and there was broad wood porch with wicker chairs. The air was moist and warm. The belching of frogs and the whoops of birds and animals sounded in the heavy, black and brackish air. There was an oil lantern burning inside. I loosened my tie. I climbed the porch and pushed aside a heavy purple curtain. I saw you. My fingers froze. You were asleep. Your clothes were tossed to the floor, one after the other. You were flat on your back, naked, legs open, with one knees bent over the edge of the bed. A bare foot was on the wide plank floor. The other legs was straight. One hand hung loosely over the edge, in mid-air, each of your long fingers curved in its own exhausted splay. Your panties were tugged down, just enough, and stretched just below the divide of your thighs. Your nipples jutted, still alert, still acknowledging what had happened. They glistened in the dark light like little black marbles. The moonlight pooled around the tight dimple of your belly button. Your breasts rose and fell. The tuft, the line between your thighs – the panties were pulled down just enough – gleamed with a thick, deep, pearlescent shot of semen. And I’ll never forget the vision, the way you lay there: taken, surfeited, the youthful energy of your hips expended, used, penetrated, quick and by a quicker man than me; and saw what a prize a woman is, every woman, and that all men are landsmen, and that I’d never make a mistake like that again.

— February 21 2014

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