I’ve been reading (and re-reading) Obsessed. Nineteen stories of erotic romance that pivots upon the g-spot of love like a 110-volt charged vibrator in search of the female cerebral orgasm. It hits the spot; the emotional and psychological soft spot that causes obsession to grow, germinate, and blossom.
In the introduction written by editor Rachel Kramer Bussel, she hopes that “Obsessed speaks to the part of you that knows what it’s like to do anything for the right person, to bare yourself body and soul in the hope that once stripped to your most secret self, you will be rewarded with someone who sees you for who you truly are.” And isn’t that where the depth of obsession comes from? Our deepest, most secret self; the raw part of us that yearns to be touched, even down to the nerve and bone. The word “obsessed” is fraught with a hungry notion that we cannot get enough of something or someone so painfully compelling to us, and that is the very point and place where we lose ourselves to it.
The Western perspective of “romantic love” has idealized this experience, making an unconscious psychological demand that the person we are obsessed with fit our ideal “other half.” The anima and animus of Jungian archetypes present this kind of obsessive love in a mythical and dreamlike state of being “in love.” In Eastern and Zen philosophies, this kind of emotion is where inner growth begins— the experience of a “red-hot coal in the throat” allows us to evolve, and, as we know, growing pains are part of the experience. Obsession can be beautiful like a thorny rosebush. If we throw ourselves into the thick of it, blood will be drawn. Like sailors entranced by sirens, we crash into the rocks despite of it all when we are obsessed. These nineteen writers tell us about erotic obsession with extreme eloquence. Romantic obsession is one subject to contend with. Add some hot and steamy sex into the equation and erotica has some literary weight.
Each story of women in the throes of erotic obsession has taken me on a journey, caressing my own passionate emotions, comforting me while I read, reminding me that I am not alone in my own experience within the tangle of obsession, sex and love. It is because as I have been reading, I have been obsessed with a man myself. It began as mental attraction, a parallel, and a familiar feeling of like-minded connection. I was a fool to think it was merely a budding friendship, for when I first saw him I was consumed by a fire that only poets throughout history can explain. Then my sexual obsession began to brew, to be sure, after our first time together. Boiling over like a hot cauldron, the flame of my obsession is now a hot pot of scalding desire. But sex is not the only reason. There are many other aspects and layers to my own obsession with my lover. Well, the sex is amazing, I’ll admit. And not for the reasons anyone might assume. It is because he touches that naked part of me that is hidden, my secret place, and he sees me for who I am inside.
There are the obvious symptoms of a woman obsessed with the man she wants: she feels an immense desire, uncontrollably so. She can’t stop thinking about him and all the things he does to arouse her lust. Sometimes, it’s someone she cannot forget. Perhaps it’s the way he smiles at her with a gleam or the tone of his voice, or maybe she doesn’t get to hear his voice at all, as in Silent Treatment, by Donna George Storey, the first erotic tale that opens this anthology of women writers. She’s on a weekend yoga getaway where silence is mandatory, talk is forbidden. During her stay at the retreat, she reconnects with a former lover without words. “He blushed, but kept his gaze fixed on me. It was, in fact, the only way we could speak. In the almost palpable weight of our silence, that prickling warmth of desire suddenly sprang to life down there. Stephen was glad to see me. There was no question about that. And he wanted to express something else with those bottomless amber eyes: Apology. A faint sorrow. And— no mistake about it— hot, smoking desire.”
Yes, I admit, desire began with the smell of his skin, the look on his face, and his kiss. The feeling stirred itself up in my gut, a tingling sensation. Butterflies in my belly. Swarm of bees in my brain. My body became lighter, and my mind dizzy with want. Obsession. It’s real honest-to-goodness passion that takes your life off the path and creates a whole new one you never thought you’d take, and as you follow your heart (and other parts of your lusty body), obsession undoes every bit of reason you thought you had.
I know obsession intimately, and sometimes excruciatingly so— and the pain of falling in love is exquisite. Obsession is a delicate matter; it doesn’t come all neat and tidy, packaged in a pretty box with a ribbon. It can be ink-stained and needled deep under your skin like a tattoo. In Raven’s Flight by Andrea Dale, a woman’s fetish for licking her lover’s tattoo begins her adventure with a silver-tongued Irishman. “I had the overwhelming compulsion to lick his tattoo, trace every spiral and intricate knot and line with my tongue.” She goes from longing to action: His kiss tasted peaty and smoky like the whiskey from his chalice, she explains, and the sweep of his tongue sent her into a full body shiver. “My nipples peaked, my clit trembled. All that just from a kiss. A kiss that rocked my world so soundly, I half thought we were having an earthquake. So I did what any right-minded hussy would: I took him home with me, and I confessed my burning need to explore his tattoo.” Tongues, kisses, and tattoos on the skin and underneath, ink-stained within the heart.
Ah, my lover’s kiss. But, there are other things about him that arouse me. I know the way the heat of his mouth grazes my lower lip in a kiss, how it travels down along the back of my neck. His kiss intoxicates me. And I’m obsessed with his hands, remembering how the wide expanse of them holds my hips firmly as he plunges deep inside. His hands rule my body. His hands are my obsession, too. Looking upon the shape of them sends shivers of longing through me, sensations I cannot describe; there aren’t any words that can explain the way they undo me, bit by bit, like sugar dissolving. In Memphisto Waltz by Justine Elyot, Lily has a reunion with her childhood piano teacher, the passionate Russian Leonid Gorodetsky. She marvels his hands: “Gorodetsky’s hand. I am holding his legendary hand. Those women outside by the rubbish bins would kill to be in my position. It’s a very nice hand, too, warm and smooth, nothing limp or clammy about his grip. It’s the hand I remember from my childhood. The magic hand, the hand that turns notes and chords into sensual experience and fill the critics’ heads with hyperbole. I feel as if I ought to light up, or crackle, or something. Actually, I’m not far off crackling.”
And yet another story about a woman’s obsession with a man and his hands; perhaps there is such a thing as a hand fetish? If so, I have an obsession for my man’s hands and what they do to me.
In Rachel Kramer Bussel’s piece, I Want To Hold Your Hand, Shelly’s obsession is her husband. When he lost over two hundred pounds, he changed from the sexy teddy bear of a giant to more like a linebacker. Her desire is rekindled when she feels jealous over the new attentions her husband receives from other women. But, Shelly admits, she liked her husband heavier, in fact, she preferred him bigger. Knowing that some things don’t change, as Ron still had the heft of his hands and his cock, Shelly thought of what reminded her about falling in love with her husband: “his hands, though, were big, strong, powerful; there was nothing he could do about his man hands. Ron had always been able to speak to her with his hands, even on their first date, when he’d reached for one of hers and massaged it, his thumb tricking along her palm, his fingers tickling her skin, making her curious about him, about what he could do to her.” Shelly and Ron run off to the movies and in the seats of the theater they rediscover their desire for each other, remembering why they came together in the first place.
The whistle of the kettle reminds me of an afternoon when we were in the midst of making tea, and suddenly his hands clasp my waist, then my wrists, and he pins me to the wall of the hallway, the whistle screeching with boiling hot water, his mouth on mine, going down further, until I am forgetting what the sound of steam is persistently calling out for, as the heat of his mouth on my sex causes me to lose control. His tongue dances on my clit, inscribing something, some kind of language. I’m obsessed, and I’m in love. Like a kettle on the stove to boil and whistle, I’ve spouted out “I love you” during the heat of passion, but he doesn’t express the way he feels for me in words. How he feels is secret, hidden. In Secret Places by Adele Haze, Marian’s mouth shaped the words I love you during sex with her lover, Dan, or as she calls him “the boy,” in an unusual coupling between once-strangers on a subway commute, who become tender lovers that hide their emotions from each other. “Underneath it all, there is so much tenderness, so much of the unnamed, unknowable feeling. The other’s pleasure is the ultimate reward for each of them; they compete to bring each other to the brink. Out of bed, they race to make each other tea, to give comforts, to spoil the other with small kindnesses. Still, neither of them will say the words.” And during their lovemaking and revealing of their innermost places during sex, Marian decides to use her finger to tell her lover what she feels. “With the tip of her finger she writes on his naked shoulder: I L-O-V-E Y-O-U. Her heart whispers the invisible words.”
Obsession is an attraction that goes beyond the ordinary, a feeling that inspires as well as terrifies, because a woman obsessed is a woman that will do anything for the man she so desires. Obsession runs deeper than lust. It tangles up the mind with feelings you never thought you would ever have. It’s irrational, passionate, and a little crazy. It’s sometimes dangerous. It’s risk and pushing your boundaries. Feelings that overwhelm you when they are near, the smell of their skin, the chemistry that has you obedient like a dog on a leash, the nearness of the one that you desire emanating power over you like gravity, like magnet pull. And sometimes your obsession can be your ex-husband, shaking you up with aftershocks of your desire in Aftershocks by Bella Andre. “Oh god. They’d just survived one hell of an earthquake in a room full of dangers and instead of crying, instead of freaking out, she was wet. Soaking through her panties from nothing but his arms, tight around her, his breath whispering over her ear. She’d been looking for adventure, had been wanting to live on the edge for so long, that instead of frightening her, the earthquake had been foreplay. That was why she knew that the biggest danger wasn’t going to be from aftershocks and falling boxes. It was staying here with Darren. Because if she wasn’t careful, she’d give in, and they’d be right back to where they always had been. Back to good. But good wasn’t good enough— not when she wanted fireworks and breathless need and desire so strong that pleasure was almost pain.”
I think of my obsession during the day when I’m at work, and I replay scenes from our moments together. He’s just a drive away from me. I have had the pleasure and fortune of having my lover know about my obsession with him, where as Vivian Sinclair, the executive assistant in One Night In Paris by Kayla Perrin, had to fly all the way from Dallas to Paris to let her lover know how much she wanted him. I suppose I would do the same as she did— act on her desire and make her obsession known: “You’re like a fever I can’t shake. Ever since that time we were together, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
Portia de Costa’s eloquent Concubine tells a historical erotic story much like Scheherazade would have done. Merry weaves a romantic and juicy tale within a tale, as she tells her convalescing lover Rick a naughty story about the Concubine Merissa and her obsessive love for her Lord Alaric. Concubine Merissa’s body is moist with longing by the memory of their first night together as concubine and prince, with the memories of their love building within her a desire as strong as his princely male magnificence took her that first time. With her intense and steadfast love for her prince, she brings him back to his virile strength after a battle injury that caused him a momentary lapse in masculinity. “It was almost a miracle, but where had it started? In her mouth, or with him, as she sucked… or in her sex, through the unstoppable force of love?”
Love and Demotion by Logan Belle is about a woman who leads a secret life as a stripper, obsessed with her boss at her day job at a publishing house. Around her obsession Declan she felt like the world was in Technicolor, and when she was away from him, black and white. Hiding her moonlighting burlesque occupation from her employer was as difficult as it was to hide her Vargas girl tattoos onstage while she stripped down to Marilyn Manson’s “Heart-Shaped Glasses,” dressed as a sexy Lolita.
Obsession can be dark, full of the shadows of our souls. It can be wild-eyed lust until our throat is hoarse from moaning out of sheer animalistic fucking, from being taken, and surrendering and submitting to the man of our dreams. It can be voluptuous and full of black magic. Obsession holds us like a voodoo spell. In Spellbound by Garnell Wallace, Kia Monet goes back to her roots in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, under the spell of Jonah’s smile, his voice, and his magnificent cock. “Even his long, tapered fingers buried deep in my pussy can bring on multiple experiences of what we French call “la petite mort,” or the little death, when you are so inflamed with passion at the moment of surrender it feels like you are about to surrender your soul as well.”
Sometimes obsession is a fantasy. In Hooked by Ariel Graham, the obsession is a thing that provokes a woman’s erotic curiosity and dares her to explore it. A couple, Ricki and Jody, just move in to their new home and in one room there is a mysterious hook in the ceiling that fascinates Ricki. It’s too heavy duty for a plant and the light isn’t good in the corner either. Ricki wonders about the hook and imagines all kinds of scenarios that the hook could be used for. She wants to tell her lover Jody about her wildest fantasies involving that curious mounted hardware. “Why don’t you just look back up at that hook?” he’d asked. “Like you want to reach for it.” She reached for it. On tiptoe, as if she could touch the ten-foot ceiling, she reached with both hands. An image came to mind: her hands bound at the wrist, with some kind of silken cord, maybe a curtain tie; something soft but strong enough to keep her bound, even if she struggled. Would she struggle? Ricki held her hands out toward the hook and imagined Jody standing behind her.”
I’ve enjoyed all of these adventurous, wonderful, and genuine stories about obsession and reasons why women become obsessed. Reasons why women stayed obsessed, and things that caused them to follow their hearts and nether parts to explore the wilderness of the erotic landscapes they could not keep from traveling. Reasons to be irrationally lost in the arms of the one they are obsessed with.
Obsessed is a treasure full of tenderness, raw lust, longing, and all of the many things that fill our sexual lives and erotic minds. The nineteen stories written so fluidly fills the oceanic depths of desire where obsession lies. Perhaps the word “obsessed” is as elusive as the state of being it exists in. Like a drug, we want more. More stories, more lust, more sex, more love, and it’s never, ever enough.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
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setting fire to my smokin’ hot mojo
“I’m a fountain of blood. In the shape of a girl.”
~ Björk
I’m counting down to orgasmic ignition now that I’m on bio-identical estrogen cream and a testosterone cream to blast off my libido. Not that my libido needed anything. But like a pleasure glutton, I said “Sure, why not?” when my doctor asked me if I’d like some testosterone to boost my, um, libido. It’s like asking me if I’d like more chocolate cake, or another helping of garlic mashed potatoes.
All it requires (to get my groove back) is smearing on estrogen cream to my inner arms every morning: two dabs to the inner wrist, circling my wrists around and against each other, rubbing it in, imagining it absorbing into my bloodstream. I am visualizing my feminine body circa 1970′s model to be back to what it was before the symptoms started: as plentiful with estrogen as the plump lips of my thirteen year old self during puberty— glistening with strawberry lip gloss, ready to be kissed. The symptoms? Oh. Well, it began with night sweats and a sudden intolerance for red wine— Chianti to be more precise. It was my one pleasure, my one comfort, a glass or two of red wine. Instead of the usual soft and fuzzy feelings from a big goblet of vino, I got heart palpitations and insomnia. Wine tastings out the window, I was dismayed by this “Second Spring” as the Chinese call it so poetically. What about “Second Orgasm” or “Second Glass of Wine” or something?
I’m going crazy. I’m standing here solidly on my own two hands and going crazy. ~Tracy Lord (Katharine Hepburn), The Philadelphia Story (1940)
It can’t be happening. I’m too young. Aren’t I? But, maybe it was the birth control pills? I began them at age fourteen. I was happy to have sex and not get pregnant. I wanted to have sex with as many guys as I wanted back then. To be filled with their come and not worry about a thing. I didn’t worry. I was young and on the pill, so why worry about anything except remembering to take my pills? Had I known how it would affect my body later? Perhaps the years of taking the pill affected my hormone levels and who knows if it has anything to do with beginning menopause so early. But I feel like I’m not myself. It’s not me. It’s someone else. I feel like I am going crazy. I want my estrogen back. I hear it on the loudspeaker at the grocery store: “Ms. Butterfly, your estrogen is waiting for you at register 9, please come to the information desk.”
And what about my groove? My mojo? My oh lala? Where did that go? Do you think Joseph Campbell knows where I can find it? Is it in my closet, or in the messy sock drawer? I just can’t find it anywhere. It must be with my pearl rabbit vibrator. I just know it.
“When smelled, an estrogen-like compound triggers blood flow to the hypothalamus in men’s brains but not women’s.” (Ivanka Savic of the Karolinska Institute, Stockholm)
So when I am low in estrogen and feeling less than my usual juicy self, my peri-menopausal mind is confused. I want sex, I want sex, and I-want-sex. But my body is off playing golf with the boys. She isn’t undulating with estrus anymore. She isn’t the Aphrodite she once was. No, in my case, I am wondering where the sexy vixen (a.k.a. my former body) went. Why did I feel like my body and my sexuality were two different and separate things? My mind was contemplating filing a ten-year restraining order against menopause. Do you think a G-Spot vibe would alleviate the symptoms? Hot flashes. Every other minute. During sex. I’m burning up, burning up for your love. Madonna, how did you know? I’m a woman in heat, that’s for sure.
It was supreme… the chicks will cream… for grease lightning… We’ll pound ‘em in the dashboard and duel muffler twins, oh yeah, with new pistons, plugs, and shocks I can get off my rocks, you know that I ain’t bragging, she’s a real pussy wagon, Greased Lightning. ~ Danny Zuko, Grease
Testosterone cream, when applied to the labia, has caused some pretty magical wonders. For one, I wasn’t sure where it came from, but I squirted during masturbation the other day. I hadn’t done that in about ten years. So I tried it out the next day. And it happened again. The G-Spot. Let me tell you folks, I just discovered that I had one. After all these years of looking for it. Female ejaculation is caused by pressure on the G-Spot that releases fluid. More specifically:
“All women have a functional prostate gland, about the size of their thumb, that surrounds their urethra. (Important Note: A medical article published in August 2011 indicates that while all women have “gland-like” structures surrounding their urethra, only 50% may have “a female prostate”. Read more) Just like the male prostate, it produces fluid, beginning at puberty. Within the prostate gland there can be an area of increased sensitivity, more commonly referred to as the G-Spot. The G-Spot is located somewhere along the length of the urethra. When the prostate gland is stimulated, many women experience female ejaculation, and a distinctive type of orgasm, a vaginal orgasm, one that is different from that experienced during clitoral stimulation alone. Some women cum, as in ejaculate, during sexual arousal, prior to orgasm, even without G-Spot stimulation. There is muscle tissue that surrounds the prostate gland that contracts during orgasm, potentially expelling its contents. There is some debate about the origin of all the fluid that is released during female ejaculation, as the prostate gland itself is relatively small, yet some women release up to two cups of liquid. Nevertheless, the liquid released during female ejaculation is not the same as urine. The best way to stimulate the G-Spot is through rhythmic massage with fingers, a penis, or dildo. It may take practice to locate and connect with the G-Spot, and to learn how to experience vaginal orgasms that are accompanied by female ejaculation. G-Spot and vaginal orgasms aren’t nearly as common as clitoral orgasms, some women always experience them, others never.” (the-clitoris.com)
I have never been a woman of extreme female ejaculation capabilities, barring two exceptions. Once was way back in my early thirties, when I drenched the bed (during sex) with my amrita or nectar of the goddess. I was surprised that it all came from me. It was truly amazing to realize that I had ejaculated so much mysterious fluid. Second time was during masturbation, again, in my thirties. I was using two vibes and double penetrating myself (there is an art to this) when suddenly I was coming so intensely, feeling this warm and wet rush of wetness goosh out of me. My lips were swollen, my body was responsive, and I was wet in between my thighs all the way to my knees. It was, strange to say, similar to when my water broke before giving birth. Warm and rushing like amniotic fluid. Pleasant. Not really like peeing yourself, which would be embarrassing. Mainly, I’ve been a ‘clit girl’ with my orgasms beginning with the slippery pressure to my swollen clitoris, and amplified by penetration. Of course, I can orgasm without penetration, but the combination works well. Anal sex is an additional subwoofer to my orgasmic sound system. Did you know that the most powerful subwoofer (for cars) is called the Jackhammer? And here I thought my minivan disc player was antiquated. But, what is worse is me.
I’m functioning like a tape deck with a raveled tape, and what I need is an upgrade. What I need is a good tune-up, an oil change, and a new sound system; and I’m a fast pussycat all ready for speed. After estrogen, and a little dab of that testosterone cream, I’m slick, I’m greased lightning. Thank you for the hormone fix, doctor!
“Cultivate your curves – they may be dangerous but they won’t be avoided.” ~ Mae West
With the onset of perimenopause, I started getting curvier. Yet a vegan diet and raw foods only made the matters worse. I ate kale and avocado salads, and I worked out two hours a day. Nothing budged. Curves were accentuated. Then. My orgasms weren’t as, well, they weren’t as… they weren’t as orgasmic. It was like eating your favorite dessert but only you have a cold and you can’t taste it as much. You know it’s good, but it’s just hard to taste. Sometimes they would be darn elusive, get so close, and then without warning…kapow! Thankfully, I’d have a good one. But still, it wasn’t the same. Now, I’m a hyper-sexual gal with a libido that matched an entire professional football team (said my ex-husband when we were married). What exactly does that have to do with estrogen?
Menopausal symptoms all conveniently occurred simultaneously with the hottest sex of my life. Fortunately, [the hot sex god that is] my lover is capable of making me have incredible orgasms and knows how to please me in many ways. Including kissing. I thought my orgasms were gone with the wind. Then I discovered passion, or it discovered me. However it happened, chemistry. Bang! Fireworks! Hot flashes! Wow-wow!
“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” ~ Mae West
The night sweats, the hot flashes, the insomnia, the feeling of discontent, edgy thoughts, bursts of aggression. Nearly hitting my ex-husband and telling him I’d like to sock him in the face, for instance. Fiery-tempered, hot-headed. I’m a stranger to myself. What was my problem? 
Other things were changing. And fast. No period for four months. Nothing. No blood. Wanting to come harder and get wetter, but instead I’m not so wet and my orgasms are really good but, occasionally, muffled like before. I worried. I didn’t think it could be anything but hormone fluctuations. Passion and desire certainly helped the situation, and for a good while, distracted me from the issue.
I come frequently, immediately sometimes. Multiple orgasms, yes, yes, yes! Oh, good, I sighed. My orgasms are back in full swing. Maybe that momentary pause was due to a dampening relationship. Was it emotional? Probably. Maybe it was the end of a relationship kind of mystery lull. A new lover has sparked my fire. Orgasms, ho! Yes, the best sex of my life and a real, honest-to-goodness lover that is a good listener with not only his ears, but his hands, his mouth, and his intuition. Amazing sex happens in between the ears. His brain circuitry makes my pussy wetter than any cream, um. Yes, pardon the pun. But he gives me neural and cerebral O’s.
And I was denying it, the onslaught of menopausal verklemption. What happened to my waist? My arms? Why did my six year old daughter tell me I reminded her of Mrs. Doubtfire while I was putting my bra and panties on in the morning? Exact quote: “Mommy, you remind me of Mrs. Doubtfire, but you’re prettier, and you’re a girl.” But I felt like Mrs. Doubtfire. I wasn’t happy about that. No, I’d rather be told I looked like Nigella Lawson with the sashay of Marilyn Monroe and the smoldering appeal of Ava Gardner. How about a dash of Rita Hayworth? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Being forty-one years old, I would have never suspected menopause would interfere with what is supposed to be my “prime” sexual peak. This myth of a woman’s sexual prime being between 35-50 years old isn’t that mythical, especially when I experienced a surge of libido after giving birth to my third child. I thought for sure it would last. I was a believer.
A man’s eroticism is a woman’s sexuality. ~ Karl Krauss
And yet, my sexuality has blossomed in the midst of menopause. I found my G-Spot. I have estrogen and testosterone and everything is groovy. I’ve reached a deeper level of pleasure with my lover. Deeper and wetter and yummier. I’m having amazing sex with someone that turns me on more than the largest electric generator facility in the world turns on over 36,000 incandescent lamps— I explode when he breathes on me, when his fingers ignite my clitoris and even when he nibbles on my neck, ear, lip— I am saturated, swollen, drenched with want. Thank you, Dr. Estrogen, for giving me my groove back. Or maybe I should thank the heavens that I finally found my G-Spot?
I won’t sweep my blossoming sexuality under the rug at forty-one years old. I just won’t. I’m just beginning to have soulful sex and understand my body in ways never before imagined. Like female ejaculation, finding the elusive G-Spot, and discovering that sometimes kissing is just as good as really good sex. Maybe menopause is a blessing, coming out to help me clean house and get ready for satisfying sex. Sorry Micky Jagger, sorry Austin Powers, but I’m getting all of your mojo in a cream and getting some real satisfaction.
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There are two books I am reading right now, and both are of the Chinese Taoist approach to sexual energy and vitality. After a blissful acupuncture session yesterday with Dr. Maoshing Ni, known as Dr. Mao, I am revitalizing my yin essence. Dr. Mao is known on Sex and the City as “Dr. Wow.” He is a thirty-eighth generation doctor of Traditional Chinese Medicine. I am reading his book, Second Spring, which contains a wealth of knowledge of natural secrets for women reaching their midlife transition. Regeneration and revitalization of a woman’s life force allows her to blossom into her potential. The Chinese call a woman’s midlife transition (perimenopause and beyond) her Second Spring. Dr. Mao explains:
A woman’s Second Spring is the renaissance of youthful vitality and sexual vigor she enjoys when she takes advantage of the secrets and natural powers of Chinese medicine. When the body begins to undergo the changes that take her through perimenopause, menopause, and beyond, in the Chinese perspective, this is a time for celebration in a woman’s life, when she is possessed of wisdom and graceful beauty. This positive outlook on aging stands in stark contrast to the Western stigma against growing old. Second Spring describes an important opportunity for self-discovery and renewal in women’s lives.”
Since I am now beginning my own Second Spring, I am inspired by the Chinese approach to women’s rejuvenation. The treatment I received yesterday begins my series of acupuncture with Dr. Mao, to revitalize my jing. “Jing” is our life essence. In Taoist philosophy, three aspects of our whole being are shen, qi, and jing. Qi or Chi, is our energy. Shen is our spirit. Jing is the juice, the mojo, the juicy life force that has to do with our sexual energy, reproductive, and also our life passion. I’ve been wearing a lipstick called “Jing-a-ling” lately. How serendipitous. Maybe my mojo is having a little jing-a-ling Second Spring?
Sexuality has everything to do with our energy and all that makes us. To bring awareness to our sexual passion can infuse a whole new perspective on life. To rejuvenate our love of life. The concept of food as medicine also enters the picture when revitalizing one’s sexual energy. Aphrodisiacs for our life’s passion, not just sexual potions or libidinal elixirs, are part of the path of rejuvenation. An active sex life is very important for our health and well being.
A few excerpts from SECOND SPRING:
The second book I am reading is called The Multi-Orgasmic Woman by Rachel Carlton Abrams, MD, MHS
From the Introduction, Power of Pleasure:
A woman’s pleasure is as powerful and intoxicating as any force on earth. You may not yet feel it, but within you is a wellspring of vitality that can transform your sexual pleasure and illuminate your life. We often think of sex as separate from the rest of our lives, but nothing could be further from the truth. Our sexual life mirrors our general health, our relationships, and our emotional well-being at the deepest level. It is certainly true that who we are and what we have experienced affects our sexuality, but it is also true that making changes in our sexual lives can transform the other parts of our lives, including our relationships.
Taoism, an ancient Chinese system of healing and spirituality, has always understood the fact that sexuality is an integral part of our health and wellness. The ancient Taoist physicians would ask about desire and sexual activity as a routine part of assessing one’s health. They might even prescribe lovemaking at certain times of day or in certain positions to treat illnesses. In this book, Mantak Chia and I will combine this Taoist knowledge with insights from modern medicine to offer an effective program that will kindle your desire and magnify your sexual pleasure.
About the Authors:
RACHEL CARLTON ABRAMS, MD, MHS
Rachel Carlton Abrams, MD, MHS, received her Medical Degree at the University of California-San Francisco and a Master’s Degree in Holistic Health and Medical Sciences from the University of California-Berkeley. She is Board Certified in Family Medicine and is a Fellow of the American Academy of Family Practice. She is also Board Certified in Holistic Medicine and a member of the American Holistic Medical Association. Dr. Abrams co-founded and is the medical director of Santa Cruz Integrative Medicine & Chi Center in Santa Cruz, California (www.santacruzintegrativemedicine.net), a multi-disciplinary clinic which offers a dynamic and effective approach to healthcare by fusing the profound wisdom and ancient practices of the East with the cutting edge medical advances of the West. The Chi Center offers regular workshops and ongoing classes in the movement arts to complement the healing and energizing effects of its integrative practitioners.
Dr. Abrams has been a student and teacher of Taoist sexuality, with Taoist master Mantak Chia, since 1994. She and her husband have published three books on Taoist sexuality, the best-selling The Multi-Orgamsic Man, The Multi-Orgasmic Couple, and now the much anticipated The Multi-Orgasmic Woman. She teaches workshops regularly at the Chi Center (www.santacruzchicenter.com) and at Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California (www.esalen.org) as well as teaching and lecturing throughout the country. Rachel loves the ocean and the redwoods and spends as much time as possible in each. She enjoys cycling, gardening, traveling and cooking. Most importantly, she is happily married to her husband and co-conspirator, Doug, and the mother of three fabulous children, all residing in Santa Cruz, California.
MANTAK CHIA
Mantak Chia is the world’s best-known teacher of the Taoist arts, from Tai Chi to Taoist sexuality. He is the co-author of the bestsellers The Multi-Orgasmic Man and The Multi-Orgasmic Couple as well as the twenty other books, including the self-published classics Taoist Secrets of Love and Healing Love Through the Tao. He lives in Thailand and teaches in throughout the world. You can order other books by Mantak Chia or view his workshop schedule through his website www.universal-tao.com.
With Chinese medicine and Taoist philosophy, a woman can become a goddess of sexual vitality. Couples can benefit from the wealth of knowledge out there to help them stay loving and enhance their sexual relationship.
To enhance my sexual rejuvenation, I cannot wait to watch the erotic film SEX & ZEN…
3-D SEX & ZEN is a HONG KONG made erotic 3-D film that was released this past April 2011. As mentioned by The Huffington Post: ”Sex and Zen” is a remake of a 1991 Hong Kong movie by the same name – features full nudity and camouflaged lovemaking scenes but does not show actual sexual intercourse, as is common in pornographic films. The movie, which stars Japanese porn stars Hara Saori and Suo Yukiko and Hong Kong actress Vonnie Liu, tells the story of a sexually frustrated scholar in ancient China who loses himself in the harem of a duke he befriends.
[Click the Sex & Zen Poster above to watch the You Tube trailer]
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Born into poverty in a squalid East St. Louis slum, a child out of wedlock, wearing newspapers for shoes, she hustled for food and was subjected to abuse. Her grandmother then took her in, loved her, and brought her up on fairytales. Later on, as a young woman, she created her own fairytale as a supreme goddess.
She was the darling of Paris. It was 1925, the curtain rose at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, revealing an all-black revue. Goddess Josephine! There she was in her magnificent splendor of gyrations, legs flying, arms hypnotic, mesmerizing everyone with her Charleston dance. She was the “Ebony Venus” and “Creole Goddess” of the day. She gave all of Paris an erection.
Completely nude except for a bright pink feather between her thighs, she ushered in the Jazz Age with her black magic. Now, Jazz used to be Jass, which was a euphemism for “screwing,” and that was a smutty term for the uninhibited swing of music during those days. Jazz… Josephine was Jazz. She was a sorcière du jour, and men everywhere fell under her spell. La Belle Sauvage she was called. She was most famous for her “banana dance” or “La Danse Sauvage,” wearing only bananas.
Picasso painted her, Calder sculpted her.
The author Hemingway called her “the most sensational woman anybody ever saw.”
She had a sexual appetite of an Amazon goddess to boot. She was super sexed, erotic, and commanded the right of a sex goddess to have as many lovers as she pleased. Having tried conventional ways (she was married numerous times) no one could pin her down or put her in a gilded cage— she had Counts, Princes, and Lotharios alike all showering her with gifts, money, jewels, and adoration.
Even in her 60′s she still had the magical aura of a goddess and captivated the world with her sexuality.
Josephine Baker has been compared to an African female deity, Mawu, a creator goddess, associated with the sun and moon, with a “personality like thunder.” The Brazilians believed she actually was a goddess, because as she danced, she revealed the cosmic secret of the drum, and brought that power to the earth.
She spent the rest of her life in France.
The Official Site of Josephine Baker
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“Tired of bein’ lonely, tired of bein’ blue,
I wished I had some good man, to tell my troubles to
Seem like the whole world’s wrong, since my man’s been gone
I need a little sugar in my bowl,
I need a little hot dog, on my roll
I can stand a bit of lovin’, oh so bad,
I feel so funny, I feel so sad”
~ “I NEED A LITTLE SUGAR IN MY BOWL” BESSIE SMITH 1931
Where to begin? This is a phenomenal read. The stories, personal essays, and confessions of sex, love, sexuality, and all that connect, by women, are real, timeless, and full of life. Real life.
This anthology of “Real Women Writing About Real Sex” is a treasure of experiences and stories by women. These women speak about their lives, They tell us about sex in all its many forms: marriage struggles, love and getting pregnant while abroad in Spain (“A Fucking Miracle” by Elisa Albert), stories about childhood sexuality: caught kissing and playing doctor in the closet (“Peekaboo I See You” by Anne Roiphe) and hilarious motherhood observations, parenting dilemmas, and marital-bed sex (“The Diddler” by J.A.K. Andres). There are internal contradictions, secret erotica publishings and prudish thoughts of a sex novelist (“Prude” by Jean Hanff Korelitz) and love discovered during one-night stands (“Sex With a Stranger” by Susan Cheever). Longing, first time sex, losing virginity, and a bottle of Cointreau (“My Best Friend’s Boyfriend” by Fay Weldon). Take a wild ride with hot sex (“Love Rollercoaster 1975″ by Susie Bright) and fall back into an ex-boyfriend’s arms for a one-night fling in a luxury hotel to indulge before a double mastectomy (“Everything Must Go” by Jennifer Weiner). There are so many touching, moving, and brilliant stories by a myriad of amazing women writers, telling their tales of sex and everything that goes with it. There is also, to our delight, a short, short story by Erica Jong titled “Kiss” about her encounter with “a kiss that moistened oceans, grew the universe, swirled through the cosmos.”
Erica Jong begins in her introduction: “Why are we so fascinated with sex? Probably because such intense feelings are involved—- above all, the loss of control. Anything that causes us to lose control intrigues and enthralls. So sex is both alluring and terrifying.”
Elegantly, poetically, Erica Jong introduces the book by exploring the subject of women writing about sex, her process in handling the emotions of contributors, and her observations on what has changed much, and what has changed little, in the realms of women writing about sex. She comes to a conclusion that “writing about sex turns out to be just writing about life.”
Erica Jong, the author: award-winning poet, novelist, and essayist best known for her eight bestselling novels, including the international bestseller Fear of Flying. She is also the author of seven award-winning collections of poetry.
Her contributors, all marvelous real voices of women writers, telling us about their experiences, ranging from fiction to non-fiction. A well-crafted crazy quilt of sexual patches, making up a whole of fabric, many colors and stories of sex. The innocent curiosity of childhood sexuality, losing virginity, sex and illness, pregnancy, urgency of lust, desire, the best sex, the worst sex,— all aspects, facets, and layers of sex and sexuality in the experiences of women.
“Sex is life— no more, no less. As many of these stories demonstrate, it is the life force.” Sex is about being human.
Contributors:
Karen Abbott, Elisa Albert, J.A.K. Andres, Susie Bright, Susan Cheever, Gail Collins, Rosemary Daniell, Eve Ensler, Molly Jong-Fast, Susan Kinsolving, Julie Klam, Jean Hanff Korelitz, Min Jin Lee, Ariel Levy, Margot Magowan, Marisa Acocella Marchetto, Daphne Merkin, Honor Moore, Meghan O’Rourke, Anne Roiphe, Linda Gray Sexton, Liz Smith, Jann Turner, Barbara Victor, Rebecca Walker, Jennifer Weiner, Fay Weldon, Jessica Winter, Erica Jong
**I have worked very hard to find all the links above, but cannot find J. A. K. Andres mentioned anywhere except for Erica Jong’s Sugar in my Bowl mention. Please authors: if you are linked (or unlinked) and need to update me, please contact me at [email protected] or twitter: @butterflydujour
A uniquely sexy website that displays beautiful, all-natural women having delicious sex. I’m so excited to have discovered this. You will be too.
Sexy, sensual, artistic, erotic. 100% Unique and Natural. Intelligent. Not your every day porn (thankfully). Erotic stories, quality photos, and unique, explicit films directed by UK born director Cherry Chapman. She does a brilliant job at displaying real erotic moments.
Beautiful, real girls, filmed with professional high def cameras, proper lighting and sound. Cinema Erotique offers up a collection of erotic feature films with a focus on plot and character development.
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!
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I cannot name this something. No words describe well enough, the sensation that occurs within me when I see a handsome Asian man. It begins deep within my body, full of mysterious lightness, like thousands of tiny bubbles, percolating and floating throughout, until my mind is intoxicated with daydreams of erotic exhilaration, and my whole being is floating in a swell of champagne giddiness.
It is a mystery why this sensation happens when I am around an Asian male whose chemistry sparks mine. Curious, this feeling, when I search for the origin of this fascination.
There are those who prefer blonde hair, some black skin, exotic and dark, some like brunettes. Classifications of all human beings tend to feel superficial. I never imagined I would become so entranced by a particular type of human being.
I’ve traveled my mind’s landscape, explorations from what men I have found compelling, and my entanglement with those I didn’t find attractive at first. I’ve had many different kinds of lovers, never fixating upon a type before. I’ve been with African-American men, European, French-Canadian, Cajun, Persian, Israeli, and ruddy-faced redheaded, freckled, and tattooed men. All sorts and shapes of men, and some women, to add to the bouquet of former attractions. I’ve gone to orgies and had multiple lovers; I was a nude dancer for many years. I’ve been naked onstage; I’ve danced in private booths. But, when the man I was dancing for in a private booth was Asian, my body became humid with a jungle-like aliveness. I was drunk with desire for a man from the Asian continent.
If he has that certain something, it is inevitable. My breath quickens, the blood in my veins simmer, and a velvety sauce of desire oozes throughout my being. My lips become as uncertain as a teenage girl’s, my eyes blur, and I begin to feel my body soften like a syrupy poached pear. I can barely hear him if he speaks to me, my mind is buzzing, hypnotized. All I can do is watch his mouth form the words, and imagine his lips in the most erotic situation. To explain this fascination of mine feels like mapping out an unknown territory. I don’t know where I am or how to begin.
I am simply lost in the mystery of why I am erotically drawn to the Asian male.
Two Chinese men, standing near me in the elevator. Elegant suits. Glossy black hair. Scent of heat, pheromones, signals to my body, flushed with longing. Voluptuous sensations evolve from the nearness of the men in the elevator, causing hidden earthquakes to ravage the inner landscape of my being. My breath shallow, heart racing. I couldn’t be more restless with desire.
Just for a moment, I want the elevator to stop. Just one moment. In my mind, as the elevator rumbles upward, they both surround me, with their hands furtively searching underneath my clothing, all mouths, hot breath and kisses. One man has my breast cupped in his hand through my filmy summer dress. He rubs his cock, hard through his dark slacks, against my hand. I undo his zipper, feeling along his outline, eager, so achingly hard. I caress his sex, and then hold his velvety erection, yearning in my hands. Already, in my mind, the other Chinese man has his hand up my skirt, pulling aside my lace panties, his long tapered fingers sliding inside me. He is also outside of his pants, an ivory stalk of honest desire, pushing his sex into my wide-open hand. As the elevator shudders upwards, the two Chinese men are excited, both their cocks hurriedly thrusting toward a quick climax in each of my hands. My own excitement causes me to swoon into a sudden orgasm. By the time the doors open, I have their sticky semen covering me, all frothy, covering my fingers, palms, everywhere, like honeyed milk.
The elevator stops, the doors open, and my daydream ends. They both get out of the elevator, without noticing that I was dreaming about them.
“Good butter sauce is an art. It takes time. You stir finely minced shallots into melted butter, then heat it over a very low flame. No shortcuts.” ~ Haruki Murakami
A Korean man, a friend, leans close to me, setting the warm plate down. Dining at his restaurant, our flirtation was food, our language of lust. Upon arrival, his ardent embrace, so confident, his arms draw me firmly against him, and I am thrown into a flurry by his seductive odors. His hair smells warm like coconut oil in a pan. His body emanates with the aroma of hot oil from making tempura. As my face is closer to his, near his neck, a balmy fragrance of curry and sesame. Warm smells. He is a handsome man, athletic and tall, long-limbed and vibrant, flashing his almond-shaped eyes that glimmer with flirtation at me. His creamy skin is somewhere near color of turmeric dashed lightly into a bowl of milk with a healthy swig of whisky tossed in. He talks about how to cook a fish. How he prepares a meal. He is passionate about sauces. It must be alchemy, the way his hands create food. A magician. Pots and hot stoves are his territory, a warrior of spices. On a rainy night, he makes scallion pancakes, ‘pa jun’, delicate as lace, crepes of heavenly delight. ‘Dip them into the ginger sauce’, he suggests, employing the spell of his cooking to hypnotize me. I will never forget him standing by the stove, the indigo blue of his chef’s coat, his warmth, and the melting flavor of those scallion pancakes in a magical ginger sauce.
Observing the smoothness of his skin, the tenderness of his mouth, my being is stirred into a consommé of creamy thoughts. I’m daydreaming, my thoughts stirred and simmering when he walks through the café door. He chooses a table close to mine. Perhaps it was the curve of his cheekbone. Maybe it was the inky blackness of his hair. Set against the pearled color of his face, the blackness of his hair gleams like silk. He’s Japanese. Mid-thirties, elegant features. A strong face, glittering with health and intelligence. My breath nearly stopped when I looked quickly into his eyes, for they were bright and penetrating. As he noticed that I was watching him, his body adjusted itself, his mouth, full-lipped, dewy as the flesh of fresh fish. He is sitting at the table across the room. My eyes avert into my book, feigning to read my Murakami novel while I eat slowly. I relish every word like savory bites while reading. I eat my lunch languidly. Butternut squash tortellini in brown butter sauce. I try not to look at the Japanese man at the other table.
Even novelist Haruki Murakami expresses his erotic fetish for plump women. “Around young, beautiful, fat women, I am generally thrown into confusion. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because an image of their dietary habits naturally congeals in my mind. When I see a goodly sized woman, I have visions of her mopping up that last drop of cream sauce with bread, wolfing down that final sprig of watercress garnish from her plate. And once that happens, it’s like acid corroding metal: scenes of her eating spread through my head and I lose control.”
For Murakami’s affections, I would eat with absolute abandon, I think to myself. I would be most happy having dinner with him. I’d be just his type: the beautiful plump woman eating with pleasure. And he would be mine: the mature, handsome Japanese man, eating before me with desire. The restaurant would exist within another dimension, deep inside our minds, where we would be lost together, happily licking butter sauce off each other’s lips.
Watching the Japanese man dining at the table nearby, I dream. Like my adored writer, I am thrown into confusion. When I see a man like that, I am unable to think clearly. All I can think of is what he is like to make love with. I am pretty shameless about it in my mind. As I watch him eat, I cannot stop the reaction within me: my mouth parts distractedly, my eyes glaze along his face, soaking up everything about him. I try to be discreet, but I am as transparent as sautéed onions. The Japanese waiter smiles at me. I leave him a perfect pink lipstick imprint upon my napkin when I am finished with my meal. I think he knows this. I must be known as ‘pink lipstick woman’. Every time he serves me, he has that look. “Here she comes,” he must say to himself, “the pink lipstick woman.”
I watch a sushi chef at the counter while imagining the erotic things his deft fingers might do. That develops into dreaming of several sushi chefs surrounding me as I lay upon the restaurant counter, as they place cold slivers of artful sushi upon my skin, drizzling ponzu, squeezing oyster sauce upon my body. Then the banquet: tasting it off, the heat of their mouths and hands sending me into an intense state of desire.
Many years ago I was paid for an evening with a Chinese businessman. A dinner in a Chinese banquet room, with my date, dressed impeccably, ordering for us in Mandarin. Later, in his five-star hotel room, we made love as if we meant it.
Then there was the mysterious one. He bought a table dance from me; He looked just like Tony Leung in the film, In The Mood For Love. The one with the most erotic fingers; as he gestured, removed his wallet, touched my shoulder, his lips so close, my mind spun in a desire-induced dizziness.
A rising desire bakes inside me. I rent Wong Kar-Wai films. I replay the explicit sex scenes from The Lover. I go into a Japanese video store and explore the adult section. I wear a skirt with nothing underneath. Dreaming, wanting, simmering with desire.
My love for the Asian man… a dream… a never-ending daydream…
I dream of Lo, the Mongolian warrior, racing across the landscape on his stallion in ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’, coming to capture me. Sword wielding, bamboo flying, metal clashing and the enigma of my erotic desire, swelling up within me like a tidal wave.
Perhaps it’s my Russian gypsy blood, a Ruska Roma, we were known for horse trading, said my grandfather. The gift for dancing, dreaming, fortune telling, intertwined in my blood. Gypsy. Adventure and migration. Wanderer. Some ancestor of mine must have had a love affair during her travels through China, Mongolia. Her desire so hot; it seared its fiery passion into my body. In my mind, I follow the rugged road of the remote Siberian wilderness, with the longing to be taken again and again by a wild Mongolian.
My Japanese husband tunes in with my yen for Asian men sometimes, teases me, as he speaks in Japanese during sex. With my legs spread, I become sort of embarrassed at this point. It arouses me so much, I feel vulnerable, girlish.
Shy when it comes to the real moments. Pretend, I can manage. When I was an exotic dancer. Sensual onstage, I thought I was just a plain Jane in bed. Yet, I wasn’t the typical sort of ‘stripper’. I was the burlesque kind. Feather boas and rhythmic blues, swaying to Ray Charles. I was that girl, naked, wearing colored lights and platform heels. My encore was a slow bump-and-grind to ‘Georgia on my Mind’ in a silvery-white 40’s style gown. The finale was the slow-as-molasses way I’d pull down the zipper, showing my naked back, until the dress spilled onto the floor like a puddle of milk.
The clients I favored as a dancer were the Asian businessmen. From China, Singapore, Japan. This distant memory, my past, of being their ‘favorite girl’, is a part of my life put away like a folded stage costume. That was the beginning of my fascination, and the most time I had spent around Asian men.
It was beautiful outside. One of those blue days with white cumulus clouds like billowy bowls of freshly steamed rice. I was reading a Murakami novel again while slurping up noodles with the best feminine grace I could manage. An elegant Japanese man sat at the table next to mine. Mid-meal, he started a conversation. It was the simplest dialogue, yet my insides were simmering. I felt buttery between my legs with longing. The waitress brought a basket of cherries for us to enjoy after our lunch. He slowly ate the flesh of a cherry. He paid his bill, and said a few gracious things to me in parting. Left sitting alone, sipping my tea, I was staring at the cherry stem left on his plate.
I quickly scanned over a sentence in my book, watching the Cherry Man walk down towards the New Otani hotel:
“Good butter sauce is an art. It takes time. You stir finely minced shallots into melted butter, then heat it over a very low flame. No shortcuts.”
Closing my book, I paused, and sipped a mouthful of iced green tea through the straw. I thought about springtime, and the way his mouth took the cherry, the blossoming stain of juice on his lips. My eyes recognized him in the distance, crossing the street.
The waitress bounces by another table with the basket of cherries, pink barrettes sparkling in her dark hair. Sweetly, she smiles at me. Pink lipstick. Everything is cherry blossom pink.
I paid the check and wandered through the shaded passage toward the New Otani hotel. I made it up to the hotel garden, just as he was passing through the glass door. Following him through the lobby, I noticed him at the elevator. But the doors closed and it went to the fourth floor. I caught the next elevator up, pressing four. The hall was so quiet, like the entire world fell asleep.
An open door. Looking inside, I hope to find him, but no one is there. Just an empty room: a tatami bed, the futon with neatly made bed linens, a table, and sofa. A bottle of Chivas is on the table; next to a glass filled with cubes of melting ice. Jazz was playing softly on the radio. The room was so relaxing, I decided to close the door and take a nap on the futon.
Lying there, I wondered about the Cherry Man. Such a beautiful spring afternoon. Where did he go? Was I really hoping to catch up with him? Just as I felt the heavy softness of sleep, I felt someone enter the room. As I open my eyes barely, he looked just like Haruki Murakami. He smiled at me as I rose from the bed.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said, startled. “I was just suddenly so sleepy.”
“Not at all,” he replied, holding up another glass, “Chivas?”
“Sure, I’d love some.” I answered, thinking about the odd circumstance. He handed me the glass of whisky, and turned up the music. Ray Charles came on with ‘Georgia on my Mind’.
I watched him with bewilderment. “You’re Murakami, the writer?” I said softly, feeling the warmth of whisky expand in my throat. I sat next to him on the small sofa.
“Yes,” he smiled. He sat on the sofa, put his feet up on the table, and swirled the ice around in his drink.
“And you’re the Pink Lipstick Woman who followed the Cherry Man, all the way to my room.” He said this with a wry smile.
“Yes, I guess so.” I admitted. I felt like he knew more.
“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight, then?” he asked.
“Certainly, but I have a request.” I said demurely, moving closer to him.
“Let’s hear it,” he said as he took another long taste of whisky.
“I have a craving for a good butter sauce.”
“And Asian men,” he remarked slyly.
“Of course, silly,” I said mysteriously, taking the glass from his hand and undoing the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, deliberately, as if stringing green beans. “How’d you know that?”
“I just know,” he said.
I put my lips to his bare chest. My long hair swept over his stomach. My breath became deeper as my lips touched his warm skin, until suddenly…
It was a dream. I was alone in the hotel room. I noticed my book lying next to me. I picked it up, and turned to the author’s picture on the back. In black and white, he looks into my eyes.
“Whatever that dream was about, I still have a craving for a good butter sauce,” I say softly in the quiet hotel room. No answer comes, just the rattle of the doorknob, and the hand of the Cherry Man, opening the door.
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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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