Table of Contents
Title Page
Foreword
Introduction
SWEET THING
TAG!
VOODOO AND TATTOOS
BRIGHT ANGEL
PUBLIC PET
HOMECOMING QUEEN
SWEET DESIRES
FRENCH HANDWRITING
ROSEMARY AND EUCALYPTUS
RUPTURE
FRUIT OF ANOTHER
ON FIRE
ONE SOLID YELLOW ASTER
A TASTE OF SIN
BINGO, BABY
KIKI
LAST TEN BUCKS
THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN
HEAVENLY BODIES
Aries
Taurus
Gemini
Cancer
Leo
Virgo
Libra
Scorpio
Sagittarius
Capricorn
Aquarius
Pisces
SUBTEXTS
1
2
3
4
SWEET HUNGER
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITORS
Copyright Page
FOREWORD
Editing a series like Best Lesbian Erotica allows me to read lots and lots of queer women’s erotica; all that reading gives me a context for writing about the bigger picture: the state of lesbian sex and literature, erotic representation, and queer culture. It’s an opportunity to reflect on where we’ve been, where we are, and where we’re going.
In the many years I have edited this series, I have extolled the political significance of writing and publishing queer erotica. Sex is a healthy, positive, fundamental part of who we are; it is vitally important for us to talk about it, to create space for it in our communities, and especially to write about it. Through the written word, we document our sexual desires and experiences and we represent the broad range of our sexualities. When we tell our erotic truths, we complicate simplistic stereotypes and contradict our enemies’ rhetoric; we also reflect, validate, and inspire our readers.
This year, I received a very interesting letter along with a submission:
In the introduction to Best Lesbian Erotica 2002, Amber Hollibaugh wrote, “For those of us that came out with no sense of the existence of others like ourselves, other women who also desired another woman’s touch and smell, who also wanted to be under or over or between another woman’s legs…this book matters. And if you have ever wanted this touch, alone and in fear, you know the importance of this collection of stories.” I was once one of those women. That book helped show me that I was not alone. It encouraged me to explore my hidden lust and gave me the courage to come out as a lesbian to my family, to my friends, to my ex-husband, to my children, and to my community.
In [this submission], you won’t find the bells-and-whistles sexual edginess that often characterizes erotica. There are no nipple clamps, strap-ons, anal beads, BDSM, or flesh-tearing blood red fingernails; not even a single scene of back alley ass fucking. Not that the above isn’t erotic. We all know it is, which is why we read the book. But there is a raw honesty that underscores this piece that would have been lost had I added toys, tricks, and shocking interludes—the honesty and intense pleasure of tasting another woman for the first time.
If, by sharing this story, I can empower just one woman in the manner Ms. Hollibaugh and your authors empowered me—one other woman who might be languishing in a loveless marriage or otherwise het world, afraid and alone—if I can help her summon the courage to find another woman, to dare to love another woman, fuck another woman, or (sigh) finally taste another woman, then I can say that I have truly paid it forward.
When I came to the part about “the bells-and-whistles sexual edginess that often characterizes erotica,” I have to say, I was offended: some of my favorite erotic stories involve back alley ass fucking! An adult performer recently said to me that porn is supposed to be taboo, it should shock and titillate us and take us places we’ve never been before. I agree that porn (and in this I include erotic writing) is often about the edge. The edge is what turns on a lot of people. I appreciate rich details, unexpected plots, quirky characters, and offbeat scenarios; they can all be important elements to a good story. But I don’t like bells and whistles just for the sake of bells and whistles; they should have meaning and purpose in the story. I reread that section of the letter, and the second time, I had a different thought. Full of frills or stripped down, kinky or not, good erotic stories have something similar at their core: pleasure.
The moving letter illustrates the ways in which erotic writing can impact real people’s lives. The letter stayed with me long after I’d read hundreds of other cover letters and submissions. When I reread it, I realized that while I had often tackled the political aspect of erotic writing, I had neglected its equally important companion—the personal. This deeply personal letter reminded me how deeply personal an erotic story can be on many levels. For a writer, the process of exposing one’s private desires and fantasies can be daunting, liberating, or both. As a reader, you may react to a piece on a visceral level, sometimes unexpectedly; you might be shocked, moved, turned on, or turned off. No matter how real or made up the players or circumstances, an erotic story may spark ideas, fuel your own fantasies. It may even push you (gently or not) to come to terms with who you are and what you want.
As it turns out, the letter writer’s piece made it into Best Lesbian Erotica 2007. Not because of her stellar cover letter writing skills, but because of her story. I haven’t told you which story is hers deliberately; it’s up to you now to read the book and figure it out. In many ways, there is a piece of her letter in all these stories, and a piece of her spirit in all of us.
Tristan Taormino
New York City
August 2006
INTRODUCTION: LUST, CONQUER, SEE
I’m eating gourmet jelly beans as I write this. I can’t help it; so much of this year’s crop of erotic stories features sweetness or fruit in some form or other, literal or metaphorical. And just about all of them make me want to lick my sticky fingers.
Does that sound trivial? Shouldn’t I begin by making the case for lesbian erotica as a politically and aesthetically serious form, of crucial importance to our beleaguered communities? Nah, I believe I’ll skip all that. Things have changed so much, after all, since the first time I picked up a collection of dirty stories, when I was a nervous dyke fresh out of convent school back in the nervous ’80s. Today, who bothers agonizing over the distinction between porn and erotica, or the patriarchal overtones of voyeurism, sadism, uniforms or rape fantasies? What strikes me about the stories in this anthology is a certain confidence they all have in common; an unapologetic, unself-conscious focus on what feels good.
I’ve never been able to resist Pic ’n’ Mix, as we call it back in Ireland; in North America, it seems to be called bulk candy, which has a far less playful ring to it. It’s the sense of choice I’ve always loved, the impression of having control over such a greedy instinct: five, no, say six wine gums, a single chocolate-covered espresso bean, three caramels, a whole fistful of sour lemons—the infinitely customizable pig-out experience.
It’s that same feeling of options that delights me in lesbian sex writing today. There is no compulsory script. A lemon jelly bean, a lime, or a lemon-lime? The choice is yours, and don’t let anyone fob you off with something less than what you’re craving.
Of course every generation has its fashions, in writing about sex as in everything else. I notice that most women in this collection wear black (especially black silk shirts over black pants), and I find it interesting that the strap-on continues
to reign supreme. But you may notice that not every butch in these stories wears one, and if somebody’s wearing one it’s not even always the butch. “She is such a girl in every way,” says the bewildered narrator of Radclyffe’s “Bingo, Baby,” “and I wouldn’t have believed how hot she’d look with all that girl power dancing inches from my face.” In fact, though female masculinity remains a very hot topic in today’s sex writing, different elements turn up in different stories, in unpredictable combinations: butch identity, clothes, the top role; cocks imagined, rubber, and silicone, softees and hard ones. The package has been unpacked (as it were!). In Joy Parks’ refreshingly original “Sweet Thing‚” the confident femme discovers something about the handsome baker she’s just seduced on the breadboard beside the oven: despite having serviced most of the married women in town over the years, can it possibly be that “Petey the butch goddess is a virgin?” And unlike the straight do-me queens Petey is used to, this girl knows how to melt that stone.
“Your sense of your own power was what made me wet,” writes the submissive narrator in Amy Babcock’s “Last Ten Bucks.” In a telling detail, the butch top bends her over a table she (the top) fixed herself: “It is an old wooden table—strong, stable, and firm—like you. You have been working on its repair for some time; skillfully crafting and successfully manipulating it to become what you want it to be—your very own.” In the space between those two sentences, there is a moment of erotic blurring as the table flips from representing its owner to standing for the women she dominates.
A story like Sacchi Green’s “Bright Angel” can be read as a smart commentary on the long literary tradition of wishywashy nature writing about lesbian sex: all petals opening and fronds of seaweed. Green’s butch protagonist rewrites all that on a Grand Canyon scale: “ ‘I suppose you think the water always flows gently, smoothly, taking forever to wear away resistance… But sometimes storms batter at the rocks, and spring floods from mountain snowmelt surge through the ravines.’ I was really getting into it now. ‘The water pounds, thrashes, filled with sharp silt and uprooted trees.’ I raised my hand suddenly to the nape of her neck, still holding her hair roughly back. The scent of her juices on my fingers roused my own. With my fingernails, short but strong, I scraped a line down the valley of her spine…”
By its nature, erotica will always be somewhat conventional: we like surprises, yes, but we like compulsive repetition too. (Admit it, don’t you often rely on a trusty old scenario to push you over the edge?) So most of the stories gathered here combine a quirky setup with a predictable conclusion of blissful orgasms for both parties. But there are some interesting exceptions. In the highly original “Sweet Desires‚” for instance, Tara Alton’s character winds up having weird, uncomfortable, migraine-inducing nookie in her car with a really irritating coworker.
Since taboo is sexy, before I began selecting these stories I was expecting them to ring all the changes on the forbidden. What surprised me is how few of them are about situations in which a social law is being breached: no molestation of the underaged and only one official adultery, in Annette Beaumont’s “Fruit of Another.” Even when sex happens between client and employee, as in Kyle Walker’s “Rosemary and Eucalyptus,” the massage therapist is quite free to rip up the check and walk away. Consent is the rule.
Then it occurred to me that these writers are more interested in mental blocks than legal ones. It is at the private level, in the emotional intricacies of a scene of infatuation, compulsion or voyeurism that these characters knock down barriers. The protagonist in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “On Fire” makes herself learn fire-eating for a burlesque performance to fulfill the whim of the woman she wants. The nervous heroine in “Public Pet” by Cynthia Rayne has never yet been taken out in public on a leash.
Some of these stories are about sex in committed relationships, others about thrillingly unpredictable pickups (at parties, clubs, conferences), but either way, the excitement lies in achieving a contact so intimate, so naked, whether with partner or stranger, that you can really let go: angels and demons alike released into the shrieking sky.
Many of these tales are about the trembling pleasure of anticipation as much as the moment when sex actually happens; desire is as much about the past and the future as the now. The adult women in Anna Watson’s witty “Homecoming Queen” get to resolve the angst of their adolescence by playing out the cheerleader-and-tomboy-loner scenario they never dared when they were in high school.
Unlikely pairings are a great tease, like that of the drop-dead gorgeous twenty-something Hollywood actress with the aging, crop-haired butch photographer in Sacchi Green’s “Bright Angel.” These stories range widely in settings: from the Grand Canyon to a dark wood where the babes in D. Alexandria’s “Tag!” hunt each other down by—mm!—the scent of their juices. These authors reveal a fascination with the world of the richest lesbians as well as the poorest: homeless and crack-smoking in Jolie du Pré’s oddly romantic “Kiki‚” bike messengers and strippers in Zoë Alexandra’s gritty “French Handwriting,” which concludes “…and then it hit me. I wasn’t going anywhere.”
The protagonist in Lynne Jamneck’s “Voodoo and Tattoos” has both her dreams come true when she winds up in the hotel room of a corporate type and her pierced, tattooed bit of rough. In “Bingo, Baby‚” Radclyffe riffs cleverly on contemporary queer tourism when her butch character gets ordered into skirts by her femme for Drag Bingo in Provincetown.
Bathrooms come up a lot, either as places of privacy where you wash up or strap on, or as illicit places to have sex. The stories vary greatly in tone, and some of the S/M stories are the sweetest, oddly enough.
What’s missing? I was surprised by how little anal sex came up this year. Lynne Jamneck’s story is one of the only ones to feature even an uneasy moment of butch-butch desire. Bisexuality is oddly invisible, too: Suki Bishop’s “Rupture” and Jean Roberta’s “The World Turned Upside Down” are the only ones to include sex with a man (though the protagonist in “Public Pet” is ordered by her Mistress to give oral satisfaction to a strange man’s wife while he watches). And I looked in vain for a story of two convent schoolgirls behind the bike sheds stuffing each other’s every orifice with strawberries—but perhaps that’s just me? Never mind, everyone’s entitled to her own favorite flavor….
Several stories go well beyond the everyday of contemporary lesbian circles. As an aficionado of historical fiction, I was delighted by the aforementioned “The World Turned Upside Down‚” in which a Regency gentleman is appalled to realize that his rival for his promiscuous beloved’s heart is her mannish maid! Girls who still ask “What’s your sign?” will be highly amused by Andrea Miller’s set of encounters with twelve contrasting “Heavenly Bodies.”
One outstandingly atmospheric story, Skian McGuire’s “Sweet Hunger,” offers an unusual variant on the vampire: a mysterious maple syrup maker who seduces a different guest in the middle of the night every spring as a sort of erotic offering to the Goddess to bring the sap down. Our fantasies have infinite power: if the smorgasbord of stories in this collection add up to any message, that may be it.
Emma Donoghue
London, Ontario
August 2006
SWEET THING
Joy Parks
Watching Petey Ginoa knead bread dough is like watching a thing of beauty.
Watching her do it when she doesn’t know anyone is watching her is even better.
First there are her hands, which are large but not too large; peachy pink hands that get washed soft over and over again every day, strong with short square nails and slightly knobby knuckles, the kind you get when you crack them too much. And flour. I don’t think I’ve ever seen those hands when they weren’t covered in flour. Strong hands, but not rough at all. Hands that can shape delicate flutes on a tartlet crust or fix a tiny broken motor on the mixer or, I believe, unfasten a button so slow and perfect, sliding a finger down the space between breasts, sliding past a
slight mound of belly, sliding down. I take a gulp of Fair Trade fresh-ground something or other to keep me still and watch how she grabs a hunk of sunflower rye or cornbread with organic red pepper slices, or whatever delightful concoction is in her bowl today, and drops it onto the breadboard, her hands dancing it into a perfect round, her fingers disappearing inside, then out, inside again. Kneading. Needing. I watch those fingers turn and poke and stretch the dough. I feel heat welling up between my thighs, try not to squirm. I watch her with my lips parted like I’m waiting for a kiss.
And then she stops. I hold my breath. She pushes up the sleeves of the white shirt she’s wearing beneath her apron and begins to knead some more, flexing her perfectly shaped muscles, girl muscles but firm and healthy and strong looking. The kind of arms that make you wonder what it would be like to be inside the circle of her body, to feel those muscles tighten and press against you, what that would be like. That close.
It’s warm in here and the windows are sweating from the steam of the kitchen; it’s still morning cold outside. I should go. I should get up and walk out of here as best I can and get to work on time for a change; the walk would do me good right now. If I could just stand up.
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