Best Sex Writing 2009
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Foreword
Introduction
One Rape, Please (to Go)
Searching for Normal: Do Dating Websites for People with STIs Liberate or Quarantine?
Father Knows Best
An Open Letter to the Bush Administration
The Pleasure of Unpleasure
What’s “Normal” Sex?
Unleash the Beast
Is Cybersex Cheating?
Sex Offenders!!
War Games: No WMDs but Military Police Find “Dangerous” Dildos in Iraq
In Defense of Casual Sex
Soulgasm
Sexual Problems: A Common Side Effect of Combat-Related PTSD
Penises I Have Known
Sex Is the Most Stressful Thing in the Universe
Silver-Balling
Sex Dolls for the Twenty-First Century
Dear John
Oldest Profession 2.0: A New Generation of Local “Providers” and “Hobbyists” ...
How “Swingers” Might Save Hollywood from a Federal Pornography Statute
Why Bathroom Sex Is Hot
Kids and Comstockery, Back (and Forward) in the Day
The Immaculate Orgasm: Who Needs Genitals?
About the Authors
About the Editor
Copyright Page
Foreword
Brian Alexander
“Sex writing” is a loaded term. Any term with “sex” as one of its parts is loaded, I suppose, but “sex writing” has a certain cachet among writers and publishers, and it’s not a good one. While “sex” may sell, sex writing has the reputation of being not only lowbrow, but lousy.
The term evokes images of cliché-ridden scenes, all sweat and moaning and inane talk. Ironic prizes are given for that sort of thing. Even great writers stumble over intercourse, oral sex, kink. How many naughty words are too many? Which euphemisms work and which ones sound uncomfortably junior high? How much detail is just too much? The possible double entendres alone are enough to frustrate basic composition. In the paragraph that follows this one, I wanted to use the phrase—grappling with sex—then thought better of it because I pictured something altogether too Greco-Roman.
In these pages you are not only going to find a variety of answers to these style questions, but, more importantly, a variety of answers to the larger question of how Americans are adapting (the grappling was going to go here) to new opportunities for sexual exploration.You may sharply disagree with the views of some writers, agree with others, and utter more than one “Eww!” as you read, but you if you pay attention, you will find a remarkable portrait of the great Technicolor rainbow mash-up of American sex.
We live in a country in which, contrary to our reputation, there are almost no rules adults are expected to obey when it comes to sex (though there are many rules some people wish we would all obey). How are we making sense of the new online sex world? Is such a thing even possible? Sex dolls? (I mean, really, sex dolls?) What’s going on at the intersection of feminism and sexuality? Some sort of redefinition, sure, but “One Rape, Please (to Go)” by Tracie Egan? Daphne Merkin, in “Penises I Have Known,” braves peer pressure to fess up that she likes men, or at least one part of them, and isn’t it about time a woman said so?
Of course every revolution leaves some people behind, and trying to keep up with that group of people I call “sexual hipsters” can be a little unnerving. In his hilarious “Sex Is the Most Stressful Thing in the Universe,” Dan Vebber says what many men wish we could say even if we haven’t had his astounding bad luck. And, as the writer of a sex column for MSNBC.com and author of a book about American sex, I have personally experienced the dread of being caught out as hopelessly clueless that Stacey D’Erasmo encounters in “Silver-Balling.”
How do we regulate this explosion of sex? Should we try? Who gets to do what to whom and how? Sex crime is a real problem, of course, but how do we handle sex offenders? Kelly Davis raises provocative questions that run counter to the conventional wisdom. Should a soldier be able to have a dildo in a combat zone? Is prostitution really a victimless crime? America’s incessant push-pull over sex often takes place in courtrooms and police dockets and here you’ll find some interesting examinations of the weird legal quilt we have woven.
Rachel Kramer Bussel, the primary editor most responsible for this collection, has done a bang-up job (see what I mean?) of selecting representative examples of America’s changing sex life.Think of it as an album of snapshots from which you can get a good idea of your neighbor’s summer vacation, without having to sit for all those hours in a hot car driving past the Bob’s Big Boys and the sketchy fireworks stands before you get to the good parts.
Introduction: Sex Is Everywhere
Sex is everywhere—in our bedrooms, classrooms, courtrooms, and offices, as well as on our TV and movie screens, streets, and newspapers. This was a big year for sex, from prostitution (Eliot Spitzer, Ashley Dupré, Deborah Jeane Palfrey) to teen pregnancy (Jamie Lynn Spears, Bristol Palin) and beyond.
You don’t have to look far to find sex, but you do have to get a bit bolder when looking for writing and thinking about sex that doesn’t play to the lowest common denominator. The essays and articles here explore the big, bad (and good) world of sex in many forms, from online personals sites (for those with STIs) to impassioned arguments for casual sex (and bathroom sex—sometimes one and the same, sometimes not), as well as affairs, purity balls, penises, cybersex, and more.
As I said earlier, sex is everywhere—including on the battlefields of Iraq.We may think of sex and war as mutually exclusive terrains, but as Don Vaughan’s story about sexual dysfunction and combat-related PTSD and Tom Johansmeyer’s “War Games,”—which looks at one contractor’s and two female soldiers’ penalization for possessing porn and dildos, respectively—make clear, the two are intricately linked. In fact, there’s no area of our lives where sex doesn’t play a role, even (or perhaps, especially) religion. In “Soulgasm,” an excerpt from Dagmar Herzog’s excellent book Sex in Crisis: The New Sexual Revolution and the Future of American Politics, she looks at what Christian sex educators are saying about sex (from oral to anal to vibrators), and their advice may very well surprise you.
Our current mores and rules about sex didn’t spring up out of nowhere, as Debbie Nathan shows in her exploration of early twentieth-century vice czar Anthony Comstock.
The personal stories here are ones I think may best illuminate how complex, individualistic, confusing, and profound sex can be. In “One Rape, Please (to Go),” Tracie Egan boldly starts out, “I blame my recurring rape fantasy on the fact that I’m a feminist.” If that’s not enough to keep you reading, I’ll give you a clue as to what happens next: she hires a man to pretend to rape her, but what she gets in return is not quite what she bargained for. Similarly, in Dan Vebber’s “Sex Is the Most Stressful Thing in the Universe,” the goal of finally having sex becomes exalted to the point of mania, with a little help from his overly neurotic girlfriend.
I’d like to give special thanks to Miriam Axel-Lute and the Sex Positive Journalism Awards (aka the Sexies). This project was launched in order “to recognize the times when journalists stick to the standards of their craft in the face of such challenges and produce good, informative journalism that spreads accurate sexual information, stays fair in covering highly charged topics, and celebrates healthy sexuality as a positive force in people’s lives.” “War Games” by Tom Johansmeyer, was one of their runners-up for Sex-Themed Publications, and all of their winners are worth reading (see sexies.org).
There were many extraordinary pieces I was not able to include in this book. Please visit
bestsexwriting2009.wordpress.com for links to some of these pieces and to read more about the latest in sex.
With Best Sex Writing 2008, many people said they’d expected something far juicer from the racy cover. If you’re looking for the latest jerk-off material, please check Cleis Press’s website (www.cleispress.com) for their many fine erotica offerings; this is not one of those books, though some of these stories may titillate you or spark your erotic imagination. I always recall that the brain is the biggest sex organ. Learning about sex can inspire us to be better, more knowledgeable, and more empathetic lovers, family members, and citizens.
I hope this book will open your mind and make you think about your own sexuality, as well as your neighbors’, politicians’, and best friends’. It’s given me plenty of food for thought, and I’m grateful that sex continues to challenge us to think, explore, and appreciate its many nuances.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
One Rape, Please (to Go)
Tracie Egan
I blame my recurring rape fantasy on the fact that I’m a feminist. I’ve never made any bones about getting boned in exactly the fashion that I want. But as a girl, my equipment can be trickier to manage, therefore I need to be a boss in the bedroom to ensure I get worked the right way. It gets really tiresome always being the one in charge, and don’t shrinks say that people usually fantasize about the opposite of their reality? I guess that’s why I find myself wishing that my typically sugary-sweet sexual encounters were sometimes peppered with assault. I decided that the best way to forfeit that control—while still holding on to a modicum of it for safekeeping—would be to hire someone for the job. Not to put too fine a point on it, I wanted a male whore to rape me.
My first thoughts were of New York artist Brock Enright, who founded Video Games Adventure Services in 2002. It’s a company that provides a rather violent “designer kidnapping” for a price that actually rapes a wallet more than it does the customer, but I’d heard tell that some escort services provide similarly realistic rape and abduction scenarios for a fraction of the cost. I didn’t want mine to be crazy violent, with, like, punching and stuff. (I wouldn’t mind some fingerprint bruises on my wrists, but my face needs to stay pretty so I can keep getting sex for free on other occasions.) I also didn’t want any duct tape involved, and I didn’t want to be gagged (unless, you know, it’s with a cock).
And so began my quest to hire a rapist. I started by reviewing hustlers’ profiles through escort websites, but I was totally turned off. Even when they said they only serviced women, they all looked like total homos. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against gay dudes. I just don’t want to get raped by one. I knew they wouldn’t be “up” for the job, har har har. I actually had a lot more luck in the “erotic services” section of Craigslist. I didn’t have to go through a middleman, and all the dudes I corresponded with were more than happy to send me cock shots, free of charge.
The pictures were really important to me. One of my main concerns about hiring a hooker was that he might be ugly. I’m not one of those girls that needs an emotional connection to fuck a guy. Shit, I don’t even need to know his last name. But he needs to be attractive. Swagger and wit can only get one so far. I’m into faces. And I wasn’t sure I could get into it if he had an ugly one. I decided he would need to wear a ski mask, because then I wouldn’t know if he was ugly, and because it would also be extra scary and thrilling and hot. Of the dudes on my short list, only one of them had a ski mask. But he also mentioned in the same sentence that he had a gun we could use, and thus ended his brief tenure on my short list.
I ended up making a date with a twenty-one-year-old guy (let’s call him Dick) who said that he exclusively services women. I liked him because in the picture he sent to my phone, he wasn’t ugly. He looked half-Guido, half-frat-boy, and that seemed like a pretty rape-y combo. He assured me he could handle the rape fantasy, as role-playing was his specialty. Dick said he would perform the whole fantasy, with no time limit, for three hundred dollars.
Even though he wasn’t heinous looking, I still wanted him to wear a ski mask. Because of my preconceived notions about hookers regarding their reliability and character in general, I decided that I’d take the reins on procuring the mask. I made the trek to a large sporting-goods store only to find out that ski masks weren’t in season. Oh, well. As I left the store, sans ski mask, I was gripped with just how real this was. I was going to be face-to-face with my rapist in a few short hours. I called Dick up and told him that there was a change of plans. Instead of accosting me outside of my apartment building, we decided that the best way to go would be date rape.We agreed to meet at a bar in my neighborhood and get a few drinks first.
I went to the drugstore and picked up some condoms and some Tucks. I was so nervous that I was like borderline diarrhea. I knew he was just some whore, but I still didn’t want to have a dirty butt in front of him. I also stopped at the liquor store, bought two bottles of wine, and began drinking as soon as I got home, to help me relax.
About an hour before our date, I got a text from Dick: “Yo, I don’t want to charge for this.”
I texted back, “If it’s all the same, I’d rather just keep the arrangement as we have it.” He responded with, “Are you a cop?”
Oh, God, I thought. I called Dick up and explained to him that I didn’t want to get raped for free, because I felt that the exchange of money was the only way I’d be able to maintain the small amount of power I needed to feel comfortable. Besides, at this point, a large part of the allure of this whole thing was that I was actually going to fuck a hooker. Giving me a freebie would’ve robbed me of that opportunity. I set him straight and an hour later, I got a text letting me know he was at the bar. It said: “I’m here babe.”
As I walked up the street toward the bar, I could see him having a smoke outside. He was cute enough, but skinnier than his picture, and he looked younger than twenty-one. I’m twenty-eight. Christ, I thought, who’s raping who here?
We hugged briefly, then went inside and began pounding vodka sodas to cut the tension. I was pleasantly surprised that Dick immediately took control. He decided that our safeword would be “surprise,” and he told me that he was just going to keep coming on as strong as possible, until he heard me say the word. We played a few rounds of Erotic Photo Hunt on the bar’s Mega-touch. I was taking the game sort of seriously, but he wasn’t really paying attention to it. He kept pushing his face into my neck, and saying stupid yet appropriate things, like, “Oh, you’re such a dirty girl,” and, “Yeah, I like when you touched her titty,” referring to the naked girl in the game. He put on the full-court press, groping my boobs and reaching his hand down between my legs, beneath my minidress.
By this point, I was sufficiently drunk and getting turned on by his dirtbag display. My tights were soaking wet (which he, of course, pointed out). I began to think I wasn’t really cut out to play the victim, because I was fighting my inner slut, which ached to push my crotch toward his hand, instead of pulling away like my fantasy required. I knew it was time to get the show on the road, before I ended up ruining the whole thing by dragging him into the bar bathroom to fuck him in one of the stalls.
We got back to my building and climbed the four floors to my apartment, with him trailing behind, goosing me the whole way. As soon as we got inside, he started in with a DFK (that’s hooker for “deep French kiss”) on my couch.
“Let’s go to your room,” he breathed in my ear. I was about to be like, “Fuck, yeah,” but then I remembered why we were here, so instead I said, “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Yeah, come on,” he insisted, as he got up from the couch and pulled me toward my bedroom.
We sat on the bed and he started kissing me again. He pushed me down and I tried to politely nudge him away and sit back up, but he wouldn’t let me. Whoa, I thought, this is really happening! Holy fucking shit! He grabbed my wrists and held them down with one hand as he started frantically undoing his pants with the
other. I tried to wriggle free, but I was pinned.
“Don’t act like you don’t fucking want it, you little bitch,” he sneered.
That’s actually when I began really fighting him, because I wanted to be sure that he put a condom on before anything else happened. The last thing I need in my life is a trick baby. Or HPV. I reached toward my nightstand and grabbed the strip of condoms I’d carefully laid out earlier in the evening.
He lifted my dress up over my head, so I couldn’t see what he was doing, and we began a tug of war with my tights, with me trying to keep them on, and him trying to rip them off. The struggle went on for maybe ninety seconds before my tights gave way. He jammed it in.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, and he came. Literally, two fucking seconds, and it was over. Hmm, I thought, I wonder if this is what it’s like with real rape. It makes sense. Rapists are probably not too worried about premature ejaculation. It behooves them to get it over with fast.
Dick immediately began apologizing, saying,“It’s just that you’re so sexy. Give me a minute. I’ll get hard again. Let me just collect myself.” But I drowned out the sound of his voice with the sound of my vibrator.There was no fucking way I wasn’t coming after all of that. He tried to make amends by putting his fingers in me, but I swatted his hand away, saying only, “Surprise.”
Within a few minutes I came twice, then tossed the vibe on the floor. Dick just stared at me the whole time. Again, he tried touching my pussy, now tender from having been properly massaged. “Surprise!” I hissed it this time, before shooting up off my bed and stumbling into my living room.
I poured myself a glass of wine, plopped down on my couch, grabbed the remote, and scanned the TV. Dick emerged from my room, wearing only his boxers. He sat down next to me and rubbed my thigh. “I want to make you come again,” he whispered in my ear. I laughed in his face.