First Time, Always

"When I was a kid in the suburbs of Chicago my family had a copy of the stories of Hans Christian Andersen, with beautiful, rather grotesque illustrations by Arthur Rackham, which I found so terrifying that I could not only not open the book but could not, on some of my more delicate days, enter the living room in which the book was shelved.  This terror metamorphosed eventually, naturally, into fascination, and one day when I was six I forced myself to take down the book, open it, and gaze unflinchingly, unaccompanied, at its pictures.  I believed that that day, I became a man."

From Michael Cunningham's explanation of why he chose to write a story inspired by the fairy tale "The Wild Swans" in My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me.

I am a big believer in becoming.  I remember the first piece of erotica I ever read: Anais Nin's The Hungarian Adventurer.  On the day I happened to pick up that book in a bookshop, I felt I'd found something no one else in my life had given me.  Freedom, exploration, arousal through story, permission, dare, and sexual secrecy.  Once I'd bought it, I couldn't tell a soul.  I hid it in my knicker drawer!  It was a beginning, and a great one at that.

I am very taken with Miss Maggie Mayhem's blog post entitled "Virginity" about Nicki Blue popping her cherry at Kink.com.  It's a fascinating blog post in which Maggie argues there are many "first times" -- a fact we tend to forget.  For me, personally, losing my virginity was difficult.  But the first time I climaxed during oral sex?  Now that hit gold. And my first solo orgasm?  That's the "first time" that counted most of all.  Terrifying.  Beautiful.  Like stepping into the moonlight.

So.  Of all the first times you've had sexually, folks, which one was the biggest rite of passage?  The first time you wore a blindfold?  Your first kiss?  Your first blow job?  Your first peep at porn?  Your first threesome?  Your first crush?  Your first time with a vibrator?  Your first solo climax?  And was there a first time of feeling like a woman or a man?  Or of realising you were both, or neither, or between?

These questions help us define ourselves.  I guess a good rule is to always be having some kind of first time, over and over, and being as aware of it as we can.

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Romance Writing is Sexier than Roses

I'm thrilled to announce that I'll be teaching an online course on Romance Writing at the Basement Writers Workshop.  Here's the course description:

Are you crazy about Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice"? Or maybe you're more of a "Bridget Jones" fan?  Whatever your preference, your love of romance makes you keen to craft enjoyable stories of your own.  With inspiration from a range of well-known authors, as well as writing prompts to spark our creativity, we'll harness the power of the romantic page-turner, taking advantage of a market where demand is high.  Led by a published author of romance, this course provides a great opportunity to develop storytelling craft in a fun and exciting way.  Expect to leave with at least 2-3 complete short stories and plenty of skills to take your work further.  All sexualities warmly welcomed.

This is going to be a tremendously fun, rich and exciting course.  It runs for eight weeks and you can find out more on the official website.  The Basement also run other original online courses including Erotica (with the wonderful Shanna Germain) and Rock and Roll writing with talented writer and musician Arthur Edwards, who is a fellow Nervous Breakdown contributor.  So roll on, Mr. Darcy. (Especially if he's played by Colin Firth.  Swoon).

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Live Sex, Centre-Stage: A Review of Matinee by Blue Artichoke Films

I’m often aroused by stories, but they have to be good stories.  See, while I’d love to be more turned on by the burly man of porn who arrives with a spanner and ends up shagging a housewife, unless I believe in the scenario, I feel disconnected.  Why exactly did he need the spanner in the first place?  And why is the blonde home in that ludicrous nightie?  Of course, I'm being unfair.  There is lots of porn these days that has artistic sensibilities...but rarely is it story-driven.  Frankly, though I’m pro-porn politically, explicit films rarely rock my boat.  So how come an erotic movie like Matinee can make me burn?

In the film, Mariah, (Alicia Whitsover), is performing in a production that has received mediocre reviews.  The problem?  Limp onstage chemistry.  But Mariah’s co-star, Daniel, (Steven McAlistair) has a talent scout coming to view him during the approaching matinee, and is determined to turn things around.  He suggests they improvise the sex scene without the director’s consent, but is met with resistance from Mariah whose professional background has been more traditional than Daniel’s.  It takes a nudge from a friend who believes in her ability to push Mariah to go for it and impress the scout herself.   The resulting improvisation makes for a matinee neither audience nor performers will forget.

Matinee is sexually explicit, but there are a host of other erotic elements.  For instance, the heat is turned up because as viewers we’re part of the transformative process and are aware of what’s at risk.  At the start of the film, Mariah lacks confidence, is loathe to break the rules, and isn’t convinced that true passion could transform her own character’s choices.  She is nervous.  Panicked.  The stakes are high, and the same goes for Daniel, who is visibly thrown when Mariah seizes the moment.  Of course, once the lovemaking begins, we know the ‘how and why’, which makes for a greater sexual charge than a film that lacks story.  Put it this way:  If an alchemist shows you a block of wood and turns it to gold in front of you, it’s more thrilling by far than if you’re just shown the metal.

Ultimately, Mariah and Daniel commit to their art, changing the production as well as the rest of their lives.  But what of the creative team behind Matinee itself?  Is their commitment in line with that of their characters?  As it happens, Jennifer Bell and her team at Blue Artichoke Films truly believe in both art and sex as part of a transformative process.  Bell auditions carefully for acting talent, choosing natural bodies as well as actors who are new to porn and erotic film (Steven McAlistair, for instance, who plays Daniel, comes from a ballet background and this is his first movie).  Bell also creates a bond between all involved, and isn’t hypocritical about this – in fact, she and the main actors share saunas together to build empathy and inclusion.  The chemistry and trust between the actors makes for an enticing build.  The film is well shot and directed, with no shaky camerawork and a fair amount of subtext.  As an artist, I recognise art when I see it, and Matinee is the real McCoy.

After the performance, Daniel asks Mariah, “What happened out there?”  She replies with pride: “We were finally serving our art.”  And thanks to their passion and craft, the same can be said of Blue Artichoke Films.

You can order Matinee from Blue Artichoke Films or Good For Her in Toronto.  Also, you can view the movie's trailer here.


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You Can Leave Your Hat On

Liza Minelli in Cabaret

We often think of beauty as something static, like a face or a pair of eyes, but it isn't always so.  You can be struck by the way someone touches your arm or holds your gaze as they laugh, or perhaps you're all for that lulling voice and daredevil wit.  Similarly, though the clothes we wear can make us sexy, there's something about the way we inhabit them that can doubly enchant.  Here are a few characters who've struck me not only by their attire but also how they wear it:

In Angela Caperton's Dear in the Headlights, Cass arrives at the site of her husband's broken car with very little on, and slowly walks towards him:

"The tie of my calf-length coat fluttered against my momentum, the buttons cool on my belly and thigh.  I closed the door of my car and walked toward Daniel, the coat opening at the front, the lacy bra and garter, the sexy silk stockings held tenuously in place shining in the mellow glow of the Acura's headlights, my trimmed pussy in a starring role.  I took grateful steps on the hard-packed road, the dirt firm enough to keep my four-inch heels from turning seduction into a pratfall...  I let my hips swing with the surge of my lust, savored the stroke of the garter against my waist..."

The heroine of Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber is on a train with her ominous husband, who she married for money.  In an adjoining compartment, she changes, knowing he'll soon be her first lover:

"My satin nightdress had just been shaken from its wrappings; it had slipped over my young girl's pointed breasts and shoulders, supple as a garment of heavy water, and now teasingly caressed me, egregious, insinuating, nudging between my thighs as I shifted restlessly in my narrow berth.  His kiss, his kiss with tongue and teeth in it and a rasp of beard had hinted to me, though with the same exquisite tact as this nightdress he'd given me, of the wedding night..."

In Tess Danesi's the Purple Balloon, Kate is about to be dominated by Mistress Madeline, the woman who knows her secret desires:

"Her deep auburn hair was held in place with two red bead-tipped sticks and swept into an elegant chignon that showed off her long, slender neck.  Her face was creamy-smooth and flawless; it made me want to glide my palm over her cheek just to have the sensation of stroking warm velvet.  She allowed me only a moment to take her in and acknowledge that her outfit--slim skirt, white and blue striped button-down shirt, and high-heeled pumps--was almost exactly what I'd envisioned in my fantasy..."

In Sarah Waters' Tipping the Velvet, Nance falls for a Victorian music hall actress called Kitty while she's performing her act:

"She looked, I suppose, like a very pretty boy, for her face was a perfect oval, and her eyes were large and dark at the lashes, and her lips were rosy and full.  Her figure, too, was boy-like and slender -- yet rounded, vaguely but unmistakably, at the bosom, the stomach, and the hips, in a way no real boy's ever was; and her shoes, I noticed after a moment, had two-inch heels to them.  But she strode like a boy, and stood like one, with her feet far apart and her hands thrust carelessly into her trouser pockets, and her head at an arrogant angle, at the very front of the stage; and when she sang, her voice was a boy's voice -- sweet and terribly true..."

There.  Edited by me in my zebra-print bathrobe and fluffy bootie slippers.  Hot as heck.

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Double the Erotica Fun

I just found out that Best Women's Erotica has been reviewed at Examiner.com, and what stellar things are said about both the 2011 collection and Best of Best Women's Erotica 2, both edited by Violet Blue.  Here's how the BWE section of Tinamarie Bernard's review opens...

Best Women’s Erotica 2011 is equally unapologetic for it’s explicit tales of lust and fantasy.

‘I, Anita,’ by Lana Fox describes the poignant longing –  of a burlesque dancer and her short-lived affair with a Baron – that feels emotionally current though set in yonder years. Rachel Kramer Bussel’s story, ‘Espionage’ is a modern day expansion on the theme of yearning for something more physical and permanent with a part-time lover. And ‘Fresh Canvas,’ by Donna George Storey is a sexploitation on the other side of divorce when healing takes the form of greed meets smutty slut. 

I know I'm biased, but it's a damn hot book!
--
Thanks to Violet Blue at the fabulous Tiny Nibbles for the link.

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The Hot Topic, vol. 3 - Sex on the Subway: A User's Guide

My third Hot Topic column is up at the Nervous Breakdown.  Well, what do you do when you're alone on the subway, hm?


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Me, in Bed with Susie

Well, on Friday I was interviewed by Susie Bright and what a pleasure it was.  For a longtime fan of In Bed with Susie Bright, it was an exciting twenty minutes in which I rattled on about tiny vibrators, the joys of solo sex, and how America changed me.  Susie is a wonderful interviewer who put me utterly at ease, plus she gave this blog a lovely accolade, calling it addictive!

Addictive, moi?  Susie, you're the mutt's nuts!

This interview happened the day after a man on the subway sat opposite me and ranted about his groin.  No, seriously, he was saying in a very loud manner: "What do I have?  Think I have nothing?  I have this!  That's right, this is mine."

I got up and moved down the other end of the carriage, but this didn't stop him railing at the next poor soul.  And you know what?  He was right.  One thing he owns is his groin.  But what a desperately tragic way to announce it.

On the phone with Susie, I announced my groin too.  Yup.  I own it.  And I'm all about the love.

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Sex, Smut & Dog Biscuits

On the counter of a Boston coffee shop, a jar of bone-shaped dog snacks reads BUCK-A-BONE.  Is it just my smutty mind, or does that sound a little cheap? ;)








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Lana on Leather

Pic by Gary Tsai

Tonight, my dear friend Gary took shedloads of photos of me using all that fancy equipment only real photographers know how to handle.  He was also kind enough to tell me when my skirt had ridden up, plus he taught me how to eat sushi without embarrassing myself.

I'm camera-shy, but here's a taster.  The chair is Gary's.  The legs are mine.

A Few Sexy Words

Carol Ann Duffy

Hi folks.  Just a quick post tonight.  Thought I'd share some erotic works I recently researched for for a project, because I love them so much...

"The bed we loved in was a spinning world / of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftop, seas / where he would dive for pearls..."  from the poem Anne Hathaway by Carol Ann Duffy in The World's Wife.

"She raises her hand to her neck, touches her collarbone, and adjusts the thin necklace that traces a line around her throat, almost in slow motion, while he watches."  from The Mirror in the German Hotel by Erin Cressida Wilson of The Erotica Project.

"When I was first experimenting with sadomasochism, I got together with a really hot woman.  We were negotiating about what we were going to do, what would and wouldn't be ok, and she said she wasn't sure she wanted to have sex.  Now we'd been explicitly planning all kinds of fun and games -- spanking, bondage, obedience -- which I strongly identified as sexual activity.  In her mind, though, "sex" meant direct genital contact, and she didn't necessarily want to do that with me.  Playing with her turned out to be a tremendously erotic experience, arousing and stimulating and almost unbearably satisfying.  But we spent the whole night without even touching each other's genitals.  And the fact that our definitions were so different made me wonder:  Was it sex??"  From Are We Having Sex Now or What? by Greta Christina

Oh, the power of words.

***

I should add in a note about Anais Nin's Fire, which I am hungrily rereading because, for the mostpart, I'm having such a hellish week.  Nin always gets me through -- not her erotica, but her diaries which are at turns erotic, wild and deep.  I recommend her absolutely.


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Saved by Sex: A Metaphor

"Peace Guard" by Shepard Fairey

I wrote in Boston Public Library this morning, before heading off at one to eat lunch in Borders with a nice cup of the earl.  I took a table at the edge where the coffee shop's floor tiles turn into bookstore carpet -- a metre beyond where the carpet starts, the bookshelves begin.

The guy sitting on the table in front of mine, clocked me as soon as I sat down.  I could feel him staring, so I got out my book and started to read.  He then rose, lifted up his entire table, walked over to the bookshelves, and plonked it down so it was pressed against them.  Once he'd done the same with his chair, he performed a few arm stretches as if he was in the gym, sat down and began to rant at me.

I say rant.  It was more like "verbally assault":  Do you think I belong in a psychiatric ward?  What a bitch you are, what a bitch.  You hear me bitch?  You hear me?  On and on.

I put in my earbuds, carried on reading and eating my sandwich.  It took a few moments for me to realise  I was reading erotica and listening to Susie Bright, all at the same time.  I had literally blocked the crazed guy by plunging myself into the world of sex.

The guy eventually gave up on me and stormed off, and I got to thinking about the metaphor in all of this:  The world of sex can be such a safe and nurturing place.  It helps us look after ourselves.

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