Isabel Allende was born in Peru and raised in Chile. She worked as as journalist until she began writing fiction. Her first novel, The House of the Spirits (La casa de los espíritus) (1982), was made into a film.Isabel Allende was born in Peru and raised in Chile. She worked as as journalist until she began writing fiction. Her first novel, The House of the Spirits (La casa de los espíritus) (1982), was made into a film.
When Isabel Allende worked as a journalist, she wrote an interview with Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet. Neruda, during the interview, told her that she had “too much imagination to be a journalist” and suggested that she become a novelist.
I have admired Isabel Allende’s writing, having read The House of the Spirits, Portrait in Sepia, and my favorite, Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses.
I have loved Isabel Allende’s writings because she weaves such intricate threads with her words into tapestries of stories. Layer upon layer, the emotions and fragments of beauty come through like sunlight through a stained glass window, creating colors and shadows, and nothing is purely sunny nor is it dark. Her feminine intuition and wisdom comes through, as a deeper understanding of people as human beings.
Even her translation of love and eroticism within fiction has human frailties and passion within the pages.
Imagine how excited I was to find this erotic passage written by Isabel Allende in a Penguin Book of Erotic Stories by Women:
Our Secret (1989)
“She let herself be caressed, drops of sweat in the small of her back, her body exuding the scent of burnt sugar, silent, as if she divined that a single sound could nudge its way into memory and destroy everything, reducing to dust this instant in which he was a person like any other, a casual lover she had met that morning, another man without a past attracted to her wheat-coloured hair, her freckled skin, the jangle of her gypsy bracelets, just a man who had spoken to her in the street and begun to walk with her, aimlessly, commenting on the weather and the traffic, watching the crowd, with the slightly forced confidence of her countrymen in this foreign land, a man without sorrow and anger, without guilt, pure as ice, who merely wanted to spend the day with her, wandering through bookstores and parks, drinking coffee, celebrating the chance of having met, talking of old nostalgias, of how life had been when both were growing up in the same city, in the same barrio, when they were fourteen, you remember, winters of shoes soggy from frost, and paraffin stoves, summers of peach trees, there in the now-forbidden country. Perhaps she was feeling a little lonely, or this seemed an opportunity to make love without complications, but, for whatever reason, at the end of the day, when they had run out of pretexts to walk any longer, she had taken his hand and led him to her house. She shared with other exiles a sordid apartment in a yellow building at the end of an alley filled with garbage cans. Her room was tiny: a mattress on the floor covered with a striped blanket, bookshelves improvised from boards stacked on two rows of bricks, books, posters, clothing on a chair, a suitcase in the corner. She removed her clothes without preamble, with the attitude of a little girl eager to please. He tried to make love to her. He stroked her body patiently, slipping over her hills and valleys, discovering her secret routes, kneading her, soft clay upon the sheets, until she yielded, and opened to him. Then he retreated, mute, reserved. She gathered herself, and sought him, her head on his belly, her face hidden, as if constrained by modesty, as she fondled him, licked him, spurred him. He tried to lose himself; he closed his eyes and for a while he let her do as she was doing, until he was defeated by sadness, or shame, and pushed her away. They lighted another cigarette. There was no complicity now; the urgent anticipation that had united them during the day was lost, and all that was left were two vulnerable people lying on a mattress, without memory, floating in the terrible vacuum of unspoken words. When they had met that morning they had had no extraordinary expectations, they had no particular plan, only companionship, and a little pleasure, that was all, but at the hour of their coming together, they had been engulfed by melancholy. We’re tired, she smiled, seeking excuses for the desolation that had settled over them. In a last attempt to buy time, he took her face in his hands and kissed her eyelids.”
This erotic passage read beautifully to me. It shows two people as erotic and human. There is no idealization of the erotic, no fixation of body parts or intentions. The passage felt beautiful, melancholy, and real.
The book I love of Isabel Allende’s the most is Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses.
“I repent of my diets, the delicious dishes rejected out of vanity, as much as I lament the opportunities for making love that I let go by.” ~ Isabel Allende
Aphrodite‘s non-linear form is a melting sensual pot of her romantic and culinary recollections. She blends in her stories like a chef in the kitchen, adding spices and herbs. The book has recipes, erotic excerpts, mythology, poetry, travel notes and stories, and aphrodisiacs. Aphrodite is “a mapless journey through the regions of sensual memory, in which the boundaries between love and appetite are so diffuse that at times they evaporate completely.”
“Appetite and sex are the great motivators of history … All of creation is one long interrupted cycle of digestion and fertility.” ~Isabel Allende
In Aphrodite, Isabel celebrates the aphrodisiacs of many dishes with given recipes and sensual suggestions for their uses. Caviar, for instance, is “the supreme stimulus for lechery” and tells the tales of caviar and its sordid history. When cooking omelets, like making love, “affection counts for more than technique.”
Allende describes her dream of swimming in a pool of creamy arroz con leche, her favorite dessert. She gives her precious recipe for the soul food of rice pudding at the finale of her book. She suggests that we can slather it on a loved one, and slowly lick it off. She notes that, in this instance, the calories would be justified.
Sensuality and food is explored, revered, and celebrated in this saucy book of erotica excerpts, personal stories, aphrodisiac ingredients, and orgies are mentioned along with possible menus for such decadent events.
Isabel Allende’s Works
Happy July the 5th… I am creating some new articles for a few publications and for both blogs (Erotica du Jour and The Sensual Foodie) Plus, there have been so many things going on in my private life. My son is in baseball camp as well as ‘all stars’ league, so lots of baseball mom action: making sure he has enough water, food and rest, basically. And doing laundry. Constantly laundry. Then, my two younger girls are, well, young girls. They wake up early and refuse to go to bed (so I can write). But, I have perfected the art of banana pancakes recently, which is no small feat. Yes, I have finally mastered the ‘fluffy pancake secret’. Add bananas to that, and you have very fluffy, delicious banana pancakes. And, I have attempted to go to bed early(er) and get up early(er) although I do hit the snooze button quite often. Despite my snooze button fetish, I have promised myself that I would get into great shape this summer. Yet, waking up early for a walk/run on the beach has happened once this past week. I had hoped to do it every day, but when I don’t get to bed early enough, well, I do need my beauty rest. I weigh out the positives while I hit the snooze button. More sleep (beauty), or more exercise (fitness)? Or, more articles to post (intellectualism)? So, I hope to catch up with creating fresh and interesting articles for my love child Erotica du Jour. In an effort to make this a dynamic and sexy blog, I decided to create two new categories for your pleasure:
It was snowing in Kyoto. I was walking all the way to my Master’s house, carrying my koto close to my chest, facing the falling snow. The tiny snowflakes touched my face like light kisses. It was a pleasant feeling. I hadn’t noticed how cold I was while the little flakes were touching my face. It was a game I was playing with myself while walking, a distraction, to ignore the rest of my body being so cold. My tabi socks were becoming damp with every step, as my geta were not high enough to manage the snowy walk.
Over many years of visits, I became more relaxed while alone with Master Genji. I was becoming older, and had already had my mizu-age. I found that I could choose the men that I found attractive, and create an idea in my mind of what they might be like to make love with. I held their face in my memory, and fantasized about them later when I was alone in my bed. Master Genji was quite handsome. He was a tall man, with a slight build, and a bright, intelligent face. His body exuded a quiet strength, much like a beautiful river. When he was very near, to help me with my koto strings, he had the soft fragrance of tea. There was another, more masculine scent mingled with the scent of tea. It was a compelling scent, to be near him. Master Genji was older than most of my other teachers. However, he was still young looking, at the age of fourty-six.
“Your face, it’s so pink Koyuki-chan,” Master Genji exclaimed. “let me warm you, here, you’ve got snowflakes all over your face.” His large, slender hands brushed the icy flakes from my cheeks, eyebrows, and lips. This was surprising, as I had never felt a man so casually touch my face before. He immediately grabbed me solidly by my shoulders, and hurried me into the center of the house, near the hibachi. The room was deliciously warm, glowing with heat. Master Genji was dressed in his usual attire; an indigo dyed yukata, which complimented his ivory-colored skin. After he brought me close to the hibachi, he went into another room and fetched a different kimono.
It must be his wife’s kimono, I realized.
In his hands were dry tabi, and a cloth. He took my koto, which I found myself clutching still, as I was very chilled. Master Genji brushed my face with the cloth. “Koyuki-chan, I am sorry, forgive me, but the house maids are not here today, and my wife has gone to visit a friend in Nara.” He looked apologetic, and a little embarrassed. He brushed off the snow gently. He sat me down near the blazing hot hibachi, and slowly, began to remove my tabi sock from my left foot. He stopped. He was nervous. His hands were shaking.
“Forgive me, Koyuki-chan, please…” as he cautiously removed my tabi, revealing my bare foot. The heat of his hands on my bare skin felt like nothing I had ever felt before. His smooth palms felt like the softest silk, contrasting with the rough tips of his callused fingers, from constant koto playing. I gasped, from the touch of our skin. His hands pulled away. “Oh, so sorry Koyuki-chan, I only want you to be warm.” He was sweating, damp on his forehead. His face looked like a teenage boy’s, an amazed look of wonderment. “If you don’t want me to remove your tabi, but, you see, they are wet with snow, and…”
“Genji-sensei, I don’t mind. Please,” and I guided his shaking hands back to my bare foot. He caressed my toes with the movement, putting on the dry tabi. My big toe was cozy inside the warm, dry sock, then the other toes followed, encased in the fabric. He finished pulling the sock up to my ankle, as both of his hands lifted, the motion causing his fingers to graze my leg while administering the sock. He then removed my other tabi sock, and replaced it again with a dry tabi.
“I will now have to help you into this kimono, Koyuki-chan,” he stammered. “We cannot allow you to stay in your damp kimono, or you will become ill.” My koto was placed near the sitting area by the fire. I remembered Master Genji’s fine hands helping me place my own fingers upon the strings. He was a caring teacher. All of our lessons were leading to this moment, I felt, and suddenly I realized what the older geisha were discussing about men. This was what they called desire.
“Yes, Genji-sensei,” I answered, allowing him to undress me. He was as hesitant as my first patron, Yujiro. I remembered the sensation of being completely naked in front of a man, as Master Genji removed my obi, and then the many layers of my kimono, unraveling. Not wanting to upset Master Genji, I closed my eyes while he undressed me. I could only hear his breath. His warm hands, barely touched my belly as he unwrapped the layers of fabric. His breath went silent. Only his palm was firm against my body, unmoving. Soon after, he began breathing quickly, as I was waiting for the dry kimono. I simply stood there in the warm room, waiting, naked. His fingers, so skilled with musical instruments, traced my body. I felt his fingers, drawing along my body. I kept my eyes closed. I allowed him to touch me. His fingers, gently, traced along my collarbone, down my arms. He held my wrist, down to my hands. His large hand enveloped mine, slipped away. With his other hand, he lifted my arm, and put the dry kimono sleeve on. Half on, the kimono fabric was hanging with its heavy weight of silk down my bare back. My nipples were hardening. Master Genji traced my breasts, lightly, and touched, drawing a circle around the bud of my left nipple.
His mouth, suddenly.
The heat of his mouth was near my breast. It sent shivers throughout my body, and the tiny hairs along my skin stood on end. He traced my other breast with his fingers. He lifted my other arm into the sleeve. The kimono fabric clothed my back and arms, with my breasts and stomach, legs, exposed, fully bare. Master Genji was quiet again. His breathing stopped. He led my hand to his yukata, and I felt the heat of his arousal. His penis was so stiff, incredibly hard, like a large flute. The indigo fabric he wore was covering his male desire.
We said nothing.
The most surprising thing happened. Master Genji touched the most delicate part of my body. My eyes still closed, I could only feel his fingers, with the slightest pressure, upon my sex. He circled my clitoris with the faintest touch. His free hand delighted along my bare skin. I felt his rhythms, playing my body like an instrument. My mouth flowering apart, I heard from my breast, a sound coming out. It was like sighing. My heart was beating faster, quickening. My clitoris was alive with all sensations, as Master Genji circled it as light as the feathery flutter of a bird’s wings, as sweetly as he touched the strings of his koto. My voice was uncontrollable. His long fingers penetrated me, plunging inside of my wetness, an oyster-like slippery sensation from within my sex. My clitoris was so sensitive, as Master Genji’s fingers deftly played my sexual place. Struck by some intense emotion, he gathered me up into his arms, and brought me into his sleeping area. My eyes opened for a moment. I saw a different Genji. He quickly unrolled his futon mat on the tatami as if it were putting out a fire lit deep in his body. This was no longer the gentle Master Genji I knew as my teacher, but some demon spirit inside of him.
“Spread your legs, Koyuki-chan, please.” He demanded. I was surprised by his urgency and command. Only had I heard such a voice come from him when I hadn’t practiced enough, and made too many clumsy mistakes while playing my koto.
I did as Master Genji asked me to do.
His hands were ready to make me sing, like his koto. He slid two fingers inside of me, while his other hand circled my clitoris again. Every once in awhile, Master Genji’s mouth would wet my clitoris, and it was a great discovery to realize this part of my body. I made deep resonant sounds while his slender fingers curved and bowed into my sex. The pressure and rhythm he used, brought my body closer to the most blissful feeling I have ever experienced. I sighed, my eyes fluttering, unopened. To open my eyes would break the spell. Every limb and part of my body vibrating with pleasure, as I felt wave upon wave of rising wave, wild rippling sensations dancing through me that I had never known before.
It seemed that my body was full of music, nothing but deep and beautiful sounds rising into the air, singing as a bird, calling into the winter sky. Slowly my whole body was but an instrument of love, and Master Genji, with his magical fingers, played me, with hands that knew every sound I could create. Oh, and deep within, at the deepest part of my being, from the center of my softest place, as his fingers delved deeper, touching and tickling, circling, the more my voice cried out with the strange sounds, notes, the song of my pleasure. The unknown within me was revealed, in a shivering ripple, a vibrato of a string, my deepest and highest octaves.
As I found the courage to open my eyes, Master Genji was looking upon me with great tenderness. Something tremendous had begun. I was no longer the young girl that walked into the house of Master Genji. I was, suddenly, on a snowy afternoon, a woman.
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I have had a difficult time finding any information about director Cherry Chapman, however. All I could find out was that she was born in 1951, in the UK, studied at Eastern European Film School. She is a recluse, secretive (that explains the lack of information about Cherry), loves cinema and the erotic.
I did discover this quote by Cherry Chapman from www.oystersandchocolate.com :
“We started CINEMA EROTIQUE as we thought Porn was so un-sexy. I just don’t get it. What is so sexy about just watching people fuck? And yet just a smile or a girl dancing can be so erotic. It is in the head, the imagination and this can be created with a bit of intelligence and creativity. We want to use all the resources at our disposal to create the most erotic films possible. Ideas, beautiful women and men, sets, lighting and good sound…”
I cannot wait to explore Cinema Erotique. Just delish!
]]> https://eroticadujour.com/cinema-erotique-real-x-films/feed/ 0Anais 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.
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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.
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