Anais Nin has been a great inspiration to me. I read her diaries, her erotica, Delta of Venus, and Little Birds, during the years that I lived in New Orleans. I feel that Anais is a part of my soul. Without her existence, without her writing erotica, it is possible I would have not attempted to write erotica myself. I was writing poetry, living as an exotic dancer, and as an artist, in New Orleans. My life was infused with sensuality and art. It was natural, then, that Anais spoke to me in a dream, and inspired me to follow in her footsteps.

{This story was written in homage to Anais Nin}

He could not sleep. It was too hot, even in the late evening. There was barely a breeze from the open window of the cottage. The sheets were rough upon his skin, as he shifted his body against the bed. He felt restless after seeing her that day.

He was walking alone, heading towards the beach, as the late afternoon rain showered everything with color. Turquoise water, emerald green leaves, every color, sparkled in the light. Clouds drifted into vapor, becoming a brilliant violet. As he walked along the sand, taking in all sensations, rhythms, colors, he felt as if he were entering a dream, the vibrancy of the setting sun changing the world into a magnificent and indescribable hue. Then, something else in the distance took his eyes off of the sunset. A shape, a woman, against the dark rocks. The sound of waves breaking, the roll and whisper upon the shore, the sound of everything meeting together; heat and water, ocean and sunlight, as his bare feet brought him closer to her.

Her naked skin, drops of rain upon her body, beaded like jewels. He was keenly aware of his breath, inhaling the voluptuous summer air, as his eyes dazzled along her with all of its sparkling light. She was not just a woman; it seemed, but some kind of mythical sea siren. Constellations of water, an entire galaxy before him, the wonder of her flesh as she dozed in the heat, there, washed ashore like Venus, born from the sea foam.

It was this image of this woman that rippled inside him. He soaked in the dampness of the air from the passing tropical rain. Within him, it conjured sadness, an ache. He missed Sabina.

He had been alone this trip, returning to the posada on the remote beach where he had once brought Sabina. It was when they were first lovers. He returned there to remember their happiness, and to soothe himself of their parting. To complete the circle, of eight years together, he decided to return to the place where it began. It wasn’t, at the time, so important to him. He thought impulsively to bring her to this beach, just so that he could be alone with her, without his family, hers, all of the bustling city life and complications in the way. He had barely known her for long. It was just a simple place to be alone.

And then, he loved her. How it entered his heart without him knowing. He loved her with an immense love, and the realization that she was no longer his, pained him deeply. He tried not to remember the sound of her voice a few months ago, when she told him she loved another. Here, on this beach, he would only remember their happiness, their desire.

Getting out of bed, he decided to go for a swim. The thick foliage of cashew and mango trees surrounded the little cottage; their swaying silhouettes cast dark blue shapes in the full moon’s light. The scent of musky fruit hung in the air, as pungent as the memory of Sabina’s body underneath him.

He walked along the path to the ocean. As he reached the shore he quickly stripped off his white linen pants, throwing them down on the sand. Swimming at night without clothes on made his body feel exhilarated, alive. He ran into the surf; the warm, dark water flowed like liquid silver under the light of the brilliant moon. Stars glimmered thousands of eyes, points of light, so far away. Everything was breathing with the luminous moonlight.

His body felt buoyant in the salt water. He noticed the pleasant way his limbs felt pushing and pulling himself through the surf, tingling with an extraordinary sensation of being.

Looking ashore, the silver strip of white beach glowed. It was then that he saw her again, the woman. She was walking toward the water from the path. This time she wore a white dress, the billowing fabric waving loosely around her legs as she walked. It was the sight of her that seemed like a dream, with the moonlight illuminating the white fabric of her dress, her skin, the sand. Watching her, the water lapping to his shoulders, he immediately felt his penis becoming hard. As she came to the place where his pants lay, she stopped to undress, stepping from her clothing and rushing into the water to join him. The motion of the water around his hard penis, watching her swim nearer to him, he surrendered to the pleasure and wonder. She swam closer, smiling at him. He smiled, softly, naturally, and without any words between them, she swam closer still, her body touching his, the slip of her skin brushing against him. She dove into a wave, and he followed, chasing her. Laughing, the woman broke out of a wave and raised her body into shallower water, running farther away.

“Catch me,” she said breathlessly, diving into another swell of water. He chased her, swimming quickly to reach her, wanting her. She dove and raced through the water as swiftly as a dolphin, swimming closer toward the black rocks where he first saw her.

He chased her until his arms finally clasped around her body, in the water, capturing her, her skin against his. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him nearer, feeling her breasts against him, her belly, and the soft hair of her sex against his thigh. His penis became hard again, brushing against her. She held it in her hand under the water, gently, teasing it with the softness of her touch. It was then that he kissed her, the taste of her mouth succulent, wonderful. She touched him firmly, fingers and hands searching, feeling the shape, delighting in the hardness, as they kissed. She pressed closely to him still, her hands tickling around his cock, grasping it, like some kind of wild sea anemone taking him in.

She pushed her sexual lips warmly, slippery, upon his thigh as the water waved around them. So close, he wanted to thrust himself within her, right there in the ocean. The swell of tide surrounded their bodies, as they held each other in the sea. Their mouths tasted, kissed as they delighted in each other.

Under the moon, she was more beautiful than he remembered from that afternoon. Her face, the curve of her shoulders, traced by the silver light, transfixed him. He was not sure if it was real, but the spell of this beach, it affected one like a drug. No longer was anything real as it was in the city, the harshness, the concrete. Here, it was as if his body felt more alive, almost vibrating, with all of his erotic nerves awakened.

The surf ebbed for a moment, and the softness of the light and sound surrounding them was as though a thousand feathers were falling to the earth, as though, by magic, he was drugged by desire, and had fallen into some other place. She looked into his face and whispered. “I have been waiting for you to swim at night like this. I have been in the cottage next to yours this entire time.” Her mouth was close to his. He could feel her breath warm near his lips. She held onto his shoulders in the water.

“You have been waiting, then,” he said softly.

“Yes.” Her mouth enclosed around his in a delicate kiss. He kissed her firmly then, his arms around her, suddenly dreaming of Sabina. He tried to push aside the thought of Sabina, but it was impossible. The more he thought of her as he kissed this woman, the more he felt his desire. They went to the shore, drifting closer to the shallow water. She pulled him down upon her, and with her hand, she guided him within her. The sudden intensity of sliding inside of her, exquisite, as pulsating, burning rushes of desire coursed through him like sea-tide. The sight and feel of her gleaming wet body, underneath him, sighing, wanting, gave him a delirious pleasure.

She was offering herself to him; he felt the sense that she washed him of all sadness, of loneliness, of the reasons that brought him here to this beach. The warm ocean tide rushed around their feet and legs like the rise and rhythm of their bodies together.

He tasted her kiss, savoring her mouth. He was lost in the world of her, afraid that it was a dream. Yet, it was real; the still tropical air, the heat of this mysterious woman beneath him, the sound of the waves. Her breath against his mouth, her hands, arms, holding to him fiercely, her sex clutching around him, stirring him to push harder, whirling his sensations into a wave a desire. He kissed her feverishly, wanting nothing but their desire as the sound of their sighs and the waves melted into each other.

Laughing as if drunk, they held each other there upon the shore.

“Come,” she said softly, “let’s go and rest.” They rose and walked together, grabbing their clothes, and nakedly, under the bright moon, went toward the cottages. She held his hand and smiled, and both were quiet, no words needed to be said. He felt content just being with her, entranced by her beauty, her gaze.

At his cottage door, he brought her into his room. He wanted to pleasure her more, and so, as she lay upon his bed, he parted her legs, drawing his mouth near to her sex. In the veiled morning light coming from the slatted window, she looked like some kind of Venus, born from the sea foam, open before him, seashell, abalone, pearl-skinned and radiant. Her breasts high and full, the arc of them curving, her belly, round and fertile, pale and luminous. His tongue lightly brushed the little pearl, her clitoris, her sex like an oyster, as the bottom of his lip grazed her sexual lips. Her scent was fragrant, a mixture of warm rain, musk, and the taste of salt from the seawater, with the sweetness of mango fruit. She responded to his tongue, sighing and moving against his mouth. Her sex was like a wide-open flower, the bud of her arousal like the pistil of an orchid.

He felt his arousal again, his cock hardening and full against the cool sheets of the bed, as he lay between her legs, his mouth upon her sex. With her eyes half open and drowsy with pleasure, she gave a soft smile and pulled him upon her. She wanted him within her again, yet, as he knelt before her, she stopped him with her hands.

She wanted to look at him in the amber daylight, whispering, telling him to lie down, to let her look at him, touch him. She smoothed her hands along his body, washing along his strong legs, wide ankles, feet, toes, gliding her hands, everywhere, upward, to his sex, teasing his hardened cock with her hands again, then his belly, his chest, arms. She knelt between his legs, meeting his eyes with hers, taking his sex in her hands, then within her mouth. Her warm tongue lapped along the length of him, taking it entirely within her lips, savoring the shape of him, languidly, sensuously. It was such an exquisite feeling that he could not bear it; the rhythmic sliding of her hands, her mouth.

The feeling came over him hungrily, impatient, wanting to possess this woman, this woman from the sea, with each undulating sensation she gave him. His body was full of fire as if all the heat of the sun were burning through him. It was as if she embodied every woman he had loved. Reaching for her, pulling her upon him, he entered her moist sex ardently, pushing into her with a surge of passion that rose from his longing.

He made love to her this way, bringing himself close to his own pleasure, and staying within her, waiting. It seemed as though hours had passed, nothing but her, shuddering and rising into the waves of her climax, diving into soft kisses, caresses like water, whispers like sea foam.

Soon the sun was strong and beating through the shade of the trees, through the slats of wood from the windows. He had surrendered to the woman from the sea, a Venus without a name, falling asleep in her arms. Not until he fully awoke in the late afternoon did he realize she was gone.

He looked for her in the cottage next to his. Glancing through the open door, he saw that nothing was there but the simple furnishings; no luggage, no sign of her. The day was shadowed by a late afternoon storm. The breezes picked up as the rain began, and he found himself running towards the hotel office, to see if she was still there, to find her. He asked the clerk at the front desk if the woman in the cottage next to his was still checked in.

“Sex has been called the original sin, but there is nothing original about it, nor is it sinful.”~ Osho

More often than not, I prefer what is called, the Missionary position. A terribly unsexy name, I must admit. It conjures up visions of Missionaries, and I’m not sure if they have a sensual connotation for you, but it’s not something I find sexy.

Having difficulty in imagining a so-called Missionary, I can only begin to imagine the dowdy brown tunics they must wear, and of course, the fabric isn’t made of silk. Silk robes, like the Chinese ones, would be sensual. The feeling of silk is suggestive of skin against skin, and the deliciousness of it all. Oh no, my Missionaries wear wool. Scratchy brown wool. The brown wool isn’t a lovely chestnut, nor is it espresso. It is brown. Without any imagination whatsoever. Brown as blah as brown can be. And why bring Missionaries into the naming of sex positions if they won’t talk about it? It’s like naming ice cream flavors with someone who is lactose intolerant. Did Missionaries actually have sex? It a good question to ask if they are involving themselves as enforcers of sex positions that are the proper way.

It’s like naming ice cream flavors with someone who is lactose intolerant. Did Missionaries actually have sex? It a good question to ask if they are involving themselves as enforcers of sex positions that are ‘the proper way.’

The myth of “Missionary Position”, the name, came into existence because of Christian Missionaries. Thus, the appellation “Missionary Position” was coined due to their teachings. They taught, like a celibate schoolmarm, that the “man-on-top” position was the only appropriate way to have sexual intercourse. They believed it should be face-to-face, “man-on-top” so all the semen flowed into the woman’s vagina properly enough to conceive. And, of course, that would be the only reason to have sex. Goodness.

We can only guess that Missionaries themselves weren’t doing it doggy style, or they would have chosen that position as the “only proper way.” The sole purpose for doing it in the first place was simply to make babies. Naturally. Horses do it from behind, and so do many animals, including our doggy friends. But it works for them. (I cannot imagine dogs or cats trying other positions). However, Bonobos monkeys, gorillas and armadillos do it, ahem, Missionary style.

In Western civilization, writing about sex (and sex positions) was generally frowned upon. Henry Miller and Anais Nin were daring and revolutionary, writing erotic stories for an unknown patron. Why, then, after such brave writers have written about sex, blazing the trail for sexual freedom, do we not rename this luscious position? Why do we still call it… Missionary?

Tuscan Italians call the position “Angelic Position”, which feels downright appropriate.

It’s heavenly.

Historical sex position preferences are found to differ around the world for various reasons. The Greeks preferred it from behind. Marrying young girls, bending them over beds, and taking them was preferable. Of course, young boys were also favored this way. But that’s another subject entirely.

The Chinese were superstitiously inclined to choose “man-on-top” due to their belief that males were born face down and females were born face up. Some Colombians liked the “man-on-top” position because the woman could hold still: if the woman moved during sex, the earth would fall, because the four giants who supported the earth on their shoulders would be shaken and therefore drop the planet. It took much female shaking to cause world disaster. Sex with the “man-on-top” was a primary safety precaution in Colombia. A woman should not move her pleasure-filled body, lest the world be ruined. Indians in Kerala believed the “man-on-top” position created warriors. Brazilian Indians avoided Missionary Position, as they preferred equality during sex, with neither partner above or under one another. The Balinese also avoided the “man-on-top” position and favored the “lotus position” with the man sitting and the woman squatting and moving her hips.

Curious to think about this wonderfully intimate position as approved of by the Medieval Catholic Church. And let’s not forget our friend Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas believed that it went against nature to have sexual intercourse in “unnatural” positions (with the “Missionary Position” being considered the only natural one). Everything else was full of sin and lust. Alright, Thomas. We like the idea of a little lust in our sexual explorations and pleasures. But maybe he didn’t like sex very much.

And while we are on the subject, why is the slang for penis a “John Thomas” anyway? Thinking of poor Thomas Aquinas, I think of his sad John Thomas, aching for a roll in the hay. And “Lady Jane” is 19th century slang for vagina? Of course, once again, because our brave and daring writers! Dear D. H. Lawrence had to come up with names for sex organs in order to write about sex. He would have been much more adventurous if it wasn’t for the pressure of censorship.

“Thrusting alone is typically insufficient to bring a woman to orgasm: “What does bring her to climax is having a nice stiff penis in there, plus weight, pressure, and friction on her entire genital area (especially the clitoris), as well as on her thighs and stomach. It’s the way a man presses down on her, puts his weight on her, and rubs her with his body that makes her have an orgasm.” ~ Xaviera Hollander

I must agree with Xaviera Hollander, because that explanation is why I love the, um, Angelic Position.

home decor at it's best.

And while we are on the subject, I found a few things to decorate the bedroom with.

Check out Cafe Press : http://www.cafepress.com/+missionary-position+pillows

You wake me,

Part my thighs, and kiss me.

I give you the dew

Of the first morning of the world.

~ Marichiko

Spring Solstice, Dream, 6:30 am

Labor had begun, and I was remembering all the other births of each of my three children. As I was walking around the room, feeling each wave of pain rise and subside, I was thinking about sex. How like me to think about sex when about to give birth.

This dream makes me think about the similarity between orgasm, first time sexual anticipation, and birth. All are wondrous, magical moments, but you just don’t know until you get there. You can’t imagine what the next orgasm will be like. It might build, rising like a wave, and perhaps it fills your entire body with exquisite sensations. Or it might be less than you thought it would be. Or, you might feel a sudden, overwhelming full body orgasm. The first time you ever had sex, the anticipation, and the wonder. The same with birth; you could have had three or four children, but each time, it’s different. You cannot know until that moment.

The dream I just woke from was wild, fertile and just the sort of dream that happens on a full moon during the Spring Solstice. I’ve been preparing for the birth of Erotica du Jour for nine months, and the due date has been set for March 21, 2011. The Spring Solstice. It is also a Full Moon. The fullest moon we have had in 18 years. Erotica du Jour. She’s been a little seed in my mind, growing, and I’ve been setting up her room and picking out her clothes. Little Erotica du Jour is almost ready. But I won’t know what she will look like until the moment she comes into existence.

In my dream, the doctor was naked, and so was I… he was massaging me and giving me acupuncture. It was a sensual ritual: the doctor was smoking pot, lighting incense, and having all the others in our birthing group light a stick of incense as moxa, and stick the acupuncture incense “moxa” into my scalp. Lighting my intellectual fire, perhaps? How crazy is that?

The stoned, sensual doctor looked like my sexy Japanese husband at times, and then, as dreams shape shift, he was sitting behind me, caressing my hips and giving me more acupuncture, he looked just like my sex crush, chef Ming Tsai. Sigh. I was becoming really aroused by his hands.

The ultrasound reading showed that baby Erotica du Jour was still not ready. She had her head positioned for birth, but she’s still got some time yet. The doctor announced March 25th as new her due date. Well, we will just announce her birth today, so you can anticipate a sexy new arrival to the Internet.

The idea behind this journal was to exhibit erotica in all forms. Venus, emerging from the sea of sensuality, her naked beauty born from sea foam (semen) and the womb of the ocean, is coming out into the world on a sea shell (vagina). Here she is.

Erotica du Jour is a journal of sex and sensuality. Eventually it will develop into a creative, bohemian collective of artists, writers, photographers, and filmmakers of erotic expression. I want it to be truly sensual, real and poetically rich in spirit.

I will be adding in my own erotica writing and poetry, while I select those special writers, poets, photographers, and artists of many facets, to come and join our circle of Erotica du Jour.

Spring is early this year.

Laurels, plums, peaches,

Almonds, mimosa,

All bloom at once. Under the

Moon, night smells like your body.

~ Marichiko

Erotic. The word comes from the ancient Greek god of love, Eros.

“Eros” is mentioned in the Iliad by Homer. He embodied love and desire. The son of Aphrodite (goddess of love, beauty, and fertility), Eros was also known as Cupid to the Romans.

You approaching me

With the smell

Of fresh cut

Morning grass:

My nipples turn hard.

~ Yuko Kawano

Erotica evokes all the senses. The sound of the word conjures up an aphrodisiac cocktail of the mind; filled with memories, scents, visuals, sounds, and sensations.

If I were to create this magical cocktail for a lover, it would first start with reading him an erotic story. While reading, he would hear my voice, sultry, soft, and feminine. Listening to my words he would then visualize the story. The scent of pheromones, my voice, his imagination, and …the art of erotica would emerge like a genie out of the bottle.

My dream...

In celebration of the beginning of Spring, my dreams have been full of fertile awareness (such as my dream last night, on the eve of the Spring solstice, of being pregnant) and so… the Japanese festival that just passed on March 15th in celebration of fertility is called Honen Matsuri 豊年祭 “Harvest Festival” in Komaki, Japan.

This festival is one that I must attend. It looks like so much fun. Thankfully, I have a Japanese husband to take me along on this wonderfully phallic journey through a parade of penises. Although, he likes to take me on his own private journey through his own private celebration…

And I always love to celebrate the amazing penis. Although, honestly, size does not matter to me. I just love the idea of huge penises being paraded around town. We really should celebrate this way more often. There’s got to be a festival, past or present, for the celebration of the vagina. (My next research opportunity).

Back to sexy Japanese penis parading. So, during Honen Matsuri, a parade of huge phalluses goes through the town, with Shinto priests playing musical instruments, lots of sake for celebratory drinking, and a 620 pound, 96 inch long wooden penis. The wooden phallus is carried from a shrine, and rice is thrown (the symbol of semen) to bless all with prosperity and fertility.

Here is more on the Honen Matsuri festival : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H%C5%8Dnen_Matsuri

And great photos : http://www.japan-photo.de/e-frucht.htm

It’s truly a dream to imagine being surrounded with monumental penises and Japanese men who parade them through the town. Better if the men carrying the penises were all naked and erect as well, but I’d be quite happy nonetheless to watch this exciting festival.

Next year I hope to be there and… write about it. Of course, photos are a must.