Best womens erotica, p.1
Best Women's Erotica, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
INTERROGATION
THE FIRST ENCOUNTER
THE FIRST ORGASM
THE SECOND ORGASM
THE THIRD ORGASM
THE GIFTS
THE TRIPS
WIVES
THE END
SERVICE ENTRANCE
LITA
THE INSTIGATOR
THE ALBUM
CYCLES
SOMETHING FOR THE PAIN
EGGS Mc MENOPAUSE
SANTA’S LITTLE HELPER
JACK’S PRIDE
KALI
MY KIND OF WOMAN
SÉVERINE
ARROGANCE
BETWEEN THE TOES
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
CAL’S PARTY
RATATOUILLE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
INTRODUCTION: THE SEX IS NOT THE STORY
RECENTLY I VISITED SOME OLD FRIENDS OF high school vintage and showed them one of my anthologies of women’s erotica. The two men in the group began reading sections aloud to one another, tittering and remarking, “This is just like what we used to read in the navy.”
Of course I felt crushed, but later on I consoled myself with reality: They had no concept of what’s been going on in the world of sex writing for the past decade, and by plucking out “the juicy bits” they failed to notice that the relatively new field of women’s erotica does indeed differ from what they “read in the navy.” Mind you, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the jackoff material they read in the navy; it’s just that the field of sex writing has evolved significantly over the past decade, and as we enter the new millennium, there’s one thing we can say for sure about the state of the art: The sex is not the story.
By today’s standards, a good erotic story is not merely a description of sexual activity. It isn’t a predictable recitation of boy-meets-girl (or girl-meets-girl or boy-meets-boy) and they did it. No “wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” For me, and for most women writing sexually explicit fiction today—many of whom write “serious” literature as welt—the standard is pretty much the same as for any other fiction: plot, character, command of literary craft. The added element is that, while the sex is not the story, it most certainly is a central part of any writing that claims to call itself erotica—and for an erotic story to qualify as such, the sex has to be fairly explicit. These are the criteria I’ve been using for over a decade in writing and editing sexual fiction.
The more difficult question in terms of this collection is, what makes an erotic story qualify as “best”? Again, an engaging plot, believable characters, command of the language, sexual heat—but, for that extra oomph, a great or “best” story should have something to say about sex, some revelation, enlightenment, or twist that provokes the reader’s mind as well as his or her genitals.
With this in mind, I set out to find the best women’s erotica written during the past year, in anthologies, on the Internet, and in first-time submissions. To say that I was not disappointed would be an understatement: I am elated by this collection. Each story is a little jewel, a commentary on sex at the beginning of the new millennium, as well as a good hot read.
Like much of erotica, a fair number of these stories are humorous or ironic; the subject just naturally lends itself to humor. In that category, we’ve got Santa Claus/fat fetishism (“Santa’s Little Helper”), gender-bending (“The Album”), incest fantasies (“Strange Bedfellows”), vegetable sex (“Ratatouille”), menopause (“Eggs McMenopause”), rowdy genderfuck in a dyke bar (“My Kind of Woman”), and the surest escape from the tortures of dentistry that I’ve ever known (“Something for the Pain”). These stories convey a depth of meaning beyond simply provoking giggles. The writers laugh at the human condition while inviting readers to see themselves as part of the joke. (Caveat lector: While most people probably don’t read erotica in public places, if you should dare to read “Ratatouille” or “Eggs McMenopause” on the subway, you’re bound to attract not just prurient interest, but also stares when you double over laughing and snorting with glee.)
While I love to laugh as much as anyone else, I confess that stories dealing with the darker side of sex are my most guilty pleasure. A few years ago I noted that, for all the female-generated sex writing, women were still avoiding complex issues and feelings that arise during sex, and I urged them to go deeper—which is why I’m so pleased by what emerged for this collection. It has been surprising, and deeply gratifying, that so many of these stories deal with the darker side of sexuality.
It’s no coincidence that Best Women’s Erotica 2000 leads off with “Interrogation,” a tragicomic satire of the investigation into Bill Clinton’s affair with Monica Lewinsky. From the female point of view, we see that the investigation wasn’t only about the president of the United States, but about women’s still-subservient position in the sexual landscape of this country and how it generated yet more sexual paranoia among the Monicas of the world.
Continuing with dark themes, “Lita” probes the sex/death connection; “Cal’s Party” injects revenge into an orgiastic revel; and “Jack’s Pride” explores the tricky territory of sex with a returning war hero.
While there’s a fair amount of what’s called “S/M” in this collection, none of it gets played out in stereotypical dungeon scenes with elaborate equipment—that sort of story is becoming far too predictable and tedious. Instead, the psychological power dynamics underlying S/M are woven into many of these stories. “Service Entrance,” for instance, may shock some feminist sensibilities, especially when women find themselves confusingly aroused by its sexual dynamics.
Are women’s psyches becoming “evil”? Are women probing deeper inside themselves? Or simply being more honest in their writing? Or, could this just be a reflection of my own editorial bias? Whatever the answer, I’ve been waiting a long time for women to shed light on the more forbidden corners of our sexuality.
Finally, a few stories in this collection defy categorization into “humor” or “darkness.” “Kali” is a Classic Young Dyke Tale; “The Instigator” is a strange twist on a heterosexual relationship; “Arrogance” is the best piece of solo sex I’ve yet to come across; “Séverine” provides a mesmerizing glimpse into group “marriage”; “Cycles” flawlessly combines humor with grief; and only a woman could have written “Between the Toes,” a foot-fetish story that also touches on our time-honored lust for shoes.
Best Women’s Erotica represents the debut of a new series. We’ll be publishing a collection of the best again next year, and we hope for many years thereafter. If this isn’t motivation for women to explore the further reaches of sexuality in their fiction, then I don’t know what is.
Marcy Sheiner
Emeryville, California
January 2000
INTERROGATION
Susan St. Aubin
IN MY DREAM I’M SITTING AT A TABLE WEARING red socks while my lawyer, a kind man with a soft voice and a plump face whose name is Mr. Marrs, stands in front of me in his navy blue suit and red paisley tie, asking the questions.
“That’s Marrs with two r’s,” he tells me. “I’m not a star,” he adds with a chuckle, “but I’ll fight for you if you answer my questions honestly.”
I feel lucky that he’s my lawyer because of his kindness, his obvious desire to put me at ease with his little jokes. We’re in a small, white-walled room that Mr. Marrs calls the Interview Room, but I have no idea why I’m being questioned or what I might have done. What view does Mr. Marrs have of my situation? Through the room’s only window I see snow drifting from a dark sky.
Mr. Marrs has a nice smile, which dimples his plump cheeks and unmasks the straightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. “This is just a practice session,” he explains. “Think of it as a game, like playing catch.”
Although it’s cold beyond the window where the snow swirls, it’s warm in the room because of the bright overhead light that beams down on me like a halo and because of Mr. Marrs’s thousand-watt smile, which makes me want to melt in a puddle at his feet, to answer any question he can think of, to tell him what he wants to hear.
“Remember,” he says, “this interrogation is off the record. It isn’t even a deposition. You’re not under oath at the moment, so nothing can be used against you. Shall we begin?”
No one has ever said “shall” to me, and the polite formality of the word almost makes me weep.
He throws the first ball. “Why are you wearing those socks?” he asks, and I tell him that although I really don’t know, I could probably come up with a story.
“Probably?” Two dimples appear at the pointed ends of his smile.
He waits while I smile back at him, though we both know my facial dimples aren’t nearly as lovely as his. I think it’s the dimples on my ass he’s after, and on my thighs, which I tighten. The window has disappeared, making the room seem much smaller.
“Have you ever known a Monica?” he asks.
“I’ve known several,” I tell him. “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”
His tongue flicks between his lips for a second, but he says nothing.
“I don’t think I’ve known a Monica in the sense you mean,” I say with what I hope is a saucy smile.
I can see that I’ve offended him. As he steps back, his smile droops and his dimples disappear. “What sense would that be?” he asks.
I look at the floor under the table, at the redness of my socks against the dark blue tile. The room seems to grow colder, as if the light has been turned off, though it still burns above us. For the first time I notice I have nothing else on except those socks, which I pull up as far as I can, thinking they might cover me if only they would stretch far enough.
“I didn’t mean...” I start, and then I think, Why should I feel guilty? What have I done? Instead, I toss the question back to him.
“Have you ever known a Monica?”
He ignores this, countering instead with another: “And the man who knew her, the—” he consults some notes “—the president, wasn’t he? Did you know him, too? Or someone like him?”
I have known presidents of corporations, principals of several schools. “Yes, I have worked for powerful men,” I tell him, and he smiles again: the smile that warms the room, the smile that tells me he knows when I’m holding back and approves when I give him the story he wants.
“Tell me what you know, ” he says, his face suddenly close to mine.
“OK.” I take a deep breath.
He sits down in the empty chair that has appeared on the other side of the table and leans forward, while I decide what to tell him. He moves closer, putting one warm, soft hand on my knee, which he strokes so deftly I moan before I can stop myself. His hand slides up my inner thigh and then withdraws abruptly.
“When are you going to tell me?” he begs, his smile a tease that doesn’t quite match the tense blue of his eyes.
“Do you want the truth, or do you want my story?” I ask.
“You aren’t under oath,” he answers. “Remember what I told you in the beginning. This is just a preliminary quest.” Has he interrupted himself, or does he want a search rather than an answer? His hand slides around to the back of my thigh. I lift my leg to make it easier for him, and begin:
THE FIRST ENCOUNTER
You could say my moniker is Monica.
(He doesn’t react to my pun. His hand continues its climb to the cleft of my ass, which I raise up off the chair so that his fingers can creep forward into my fur, while the light overhead seems to whirl, making me dizzy.)
I’ve had lots of jobs where Monicas are common. I was a Monica myself, and I’ve known several presidents, which is I suppose why I’m here, in this dream, with only my socks for cover.
“What did you do as a Monica?” he asks, breathing deeply. He’s on his knees now, smiling up at me, the light making halos around both our heads. I wonder if perhaps he’d like to hire me as his assistant, and decide to make the details as professional as I can. This could, after all, be a job interview. It’s hard to tell with dreams.
Monicas do whatever they’re required to do: typing, filing, answering phones, research, scheduling meetings, arranging travel, delivering papers, just managing everyone’s day. We move from office to office, job to job, title to title: At first we’re File Clerks, then Personal Assistants, Office Managers, Administrative Aides, Administrative Assistants, Administrators, but always we make the coffee. We manage.
“Tell me what you did with him, Monica,” Mr. Marrs whispers from his knees, his warm, wet breath spreading over my belly.
“Him?” I ask. “There were many hims, a range of them.”
“You know what I mean,” he answers, and he’s right, I know what to tell him.
We met in the elevator to the 22nd floor, I and the man I thought was the president of the company where I worked. This was my first job: I was the Monica who did filing and photocopying. There in that elevator with ten other people, we locked eyes while everyone else stared politely straight ahead, and from then on, we couldn’t resist each other.
Mr. Marrs’s hand is patting my damp fur now, his fingers slipping inside me.
We got off the elevator together, walking down the corridor side by side without touching or saying a word, though our minds were in touch. In front of his office he turned to smile at me before going in, his lips forming the name “Monica,” which I understood to be an invitation so I followed him in.
“Could you help me with these files?” he asked, but I didn’t see any files. I closed the door behind me. He sat down in the chair in front of his desk, the chair he kept for visitors. It was then that I noticed his pants were unzipped, his prick hanging out discreetly, not even hard, just there, flesh against the gray wool, like a hairless pet on his lap.
Mr. Marrs finds my center, the tiny nose sticking up in front of the fur, hardening and becoming more prominent, and gently circles it with his fingertips. My breathing echoes off the bare walls of the room, which seems to have become as small as a closet.
“I love your narrative,” he murmurs in my ear before lowering his mouth.
The president smiled at me, spread his legs to let his prick-pet have air to twitch and grow, sit up, left its head, nod.
THE FIRST ORGASM
As it turned out, he wasn’t the president of the company, just a junior executive, but that was always my private name for him: The President. He never bothered to learn my real name, either: I was always his Monica. I leapt onto his lap and nestled down. I never wear underpants or pantyhose, just those thigh-highs with the thick elastic on top that almost cuts off your circulation. My toes may have been numb, but my cunt and my clit were both humming as I guided his pet inside my fur, leaning my free hand on the back of the chair. He gasped as we began to move up and down together. My clit rubbed against the loose zipper of his pants, the pressure of hard metal more arousing than painful, until I began to feel a warm glow all up inside that made my toes quiver. When I felt him twitch in me, felt his flow of liquid heat, I realized too late that this really wasn’t exactly a safe thing to be doing, but then I thought, it’s all right, he’s the president (which he wasn’t), and anyway this is all a tale I’m telling in a dream. Was I wrong?
Mr. Marrs is on his knees before me, his soft full lips around my clit, tongue lapping like a little dog, and even though this is hardly professional, I’m so excited I rise off my chair, my feet in their red socks straining to keep me balanced. As my hips hit the edge of the table, Mr. Marrs grabs my thighs and forces me to sit again, holding me in place while his tongue twists and swirls, while my chair thumps as I move up and down, restrained only by his hand. Waves of a hot ocean wash over me, hot enough to steam the windows (if there were any). When I lay my head on the table, panting, Mr. Marrs pats my knee and then crawls out to sit in the other chair, licking his lips and smoothing his thin hair back with one hand while he picks up his pen with the other.
“Go on,” he urges.
THE SECOND ORGASM
The president tried to rouse me right away, shaking my shoulder while pulling my hair. “Hey,” he said, “hey, we have to be careful here; someone might come in.”
He was still hard inside me, moving slowly, a man already satisfied, poking and prodding inside me for a repeat. He heaved me onto his desk, scattering pens and papers, one of those dream transportations where you wonder, How did I get here? Fly? And with him still inside me? But there I was, flat on my back, the blotter bunched under my right shoulder, his prick edging deep inside me until, yes, I felt another response building, slowly, quietly, until it popped like a slightly flat bottle of bargain champagne. He was still at it, standing behind the desk with his pants down around his ankles while I twisted around, trying to move my shoulder off that blotter, but I only managed to get a pen or something under my spine.
“Oh man oh man,” the president whispered in my ear so loud and breathy I was afraid someone in the hall might hear him. Finally, with a loud grunt, he finished.
