Praise for Sex and Death in the American Novel:
Sex & Death is erotic literature that's as much about the thrill of reading and writing as the titillation of sex. In Sarah Martinez, we finally have a female author who's man enough to explore the expansive dimensions of women's fantasies and who gives us a strong, outspoken heroine who has no truck with submission. She dares to blow the top off of the conventional black and white box of boy/girl, liberating us with sexy, sensual, intelligent confetti.
—Jennifer D. Munro, Author of The Erotica Writer's Husband
“Hear ye, women! Read this gem of a novel!” Sex and Death in the American Novel, about a writer coming to terms with her genre, her gender, and her gender roles, is “cutting edge.” Don't expect sweet, for sweet it ain't. Expect a riveting, moving, sexy ride—one you'll grow from, one you'll remember. You're going to love this story.
—Susan Wingate, Award-winning, Amazon Bestselling author of Drowning and the Bobby's Diner Series
In a world full of hungry writers, Vivianna is the hungriest and she's hungry for everything—Love, sex, friendship, lust, obsession, writing. She lives what she writes and she lives it hard.
Welcome to Sex and Death in the American Novel—cool, direct, sure. Sarah Martinez hits her stride here as she gives you scene after scene in an erotic bazaar that swamps your senses—sweat, perfume, the scent of sex, the odor of books, the aroma of ink. No fear in this novel—gay, straight, curious—an entire generation sweeps across the stage experimenting with life. Take what you can get, get what you can take—this is a fast moving novel loaded with a frighteningly gorgeous and sometimes bastardly cast of characters. Buy it. Read it. Wish you were in it.
—Jack Remick is the author of several novels and short story collections including Blood and Terminal Weird
Copyright 2012 Sarah Martinez
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.
Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]
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Edited by Katie Flanagan
Designed by Loretta Matson
Cover image ©2012 Jeff Thrower, used under license from Shutterstock.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
ISBN 978-1-935961-65-9
For further information regarding permissions,
please contact [email protected].
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012915094
For David
and
For Vivi
Our great novelists, though experts on indignity and assault, on loneliness and terror, tend to avoid treating the passionate encounter of a man and a woman, which we expect at the center of a novel.
—Leslie A. Fiedler, Love and Death in the American Novel
Contents
PART I.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART II.
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART III.
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgments
PART I.
The performance can be a shambling and ingratiating one as much as a cocksure and intimidating one, but performance it is: a pity for these anonymous devoted readers who press affectionately toward a blind man are his lovers, who have accepted into themselves his most intimate and earnest thrusts.
—John Updike, On Meeting Writers
Chapter 1
We all know the first line is the most important: it sets the tone, tells you what this story will be about. Call me Vivianna. Would Melville approve? How about copying straight from Heller: It was love at first sight. We all remember Lolita; how would Nabokov do it?
What if I just come out and say it. This book is the answer to the notion that women ought to fear asking for what they want the most. Whether it's time alone to write, demanding for and getting respect, or a patient hand under which to soften up and eventually get off. You know what's even worse: we know we won't get it anyway. Fuck virtue. This document serves as my rejection of the notion that I am doomed—by virtue of my gender—to a life of boredom, inanity, and servitude.
An old man in Arizona has over seventy wives. If a woman ever said that one man wasn't enough for her, you know what they would say about her? I could spend at least ten minutes on the list. Making up lists is a great writing exercise by the way. I learned that from my father. He won a Pulitzer Prize in 1989 for his novel Taking Ivy Down. Dear old Dad.
Let's start with two men—just for argument's sake. What would that look like? Feel like? Smell like? Taste like?
Two men…two sets of lips, two pairs of eyes moving over my face, my breasts, my hips, resting further down. Two sets of hands, warm and strong, only me, naked and trembling with anticipation between them. Two rustling, soft heads of hair; two minds, two hearts…spirits, two of everything. The energy between them flows through me. Associations come freely when I am in this state; rain, dark swirling skies, and rich red blood flowing from both their hammered faces, they fought…for me. Now we are all together, and they've forgiven each other, their bruised lips crush against mine, against my face, against every part of me until finally they come together. As I tip my head back, taking in the scents of their bodies, metallic and musky, sweaty and raw, they reach for each other. The one who lost the battle—the blonde with red rimmed blue eyes—faces me, his arms around mine, his hands reaching further to the one behind me who, underneath the scents of exertion, smells like leather and tangy soap. Their faces come together over my shoulder, first testing, pulling back, then together again. They kiss, more roughly than they would kiss me, with hands moving up to run through each other's hair, pulling on it, and both pairs of hands move over my arms and shoulders. Sounds of stubble across skin, scraping, hands over tingling flesh, mine, a wince, low voices, soft wispy sounds echo in the silence of this old warehouse…no wait, make that a boxing ring, we're on the dirty white mat in the center of the ring.
The one behind me—the winner—leans forward, grazing the skin behind my ear with his teeth, the sticky wet skin of his torso connecting all the way along my back. He pushes me down, working himself deeper in me, opening me wide. His hands wrap around both sides of my hips. He groans and the sound sends a thrill though me. The one in front works his way in from below. I am sandwiched between the two of them, and take the loser's face in my hands, stroking the area near his swollen eye, running the tip of my nose over his lips, his cheek; I gently kiss his forehead, pulling back and tasting coppery blood.
My mother's words intruded. “Vivianna, are you paying attention?”
“No, I'm writing,” I said. “We are on our way to a Writers’ Conference aren't we?”
“No need to—” she began.
“Still writing smut, Slug?” m
y brother Tristan said. He wore a blue bandana over long brown hair and white thermal underwear, about the only thing I'd seen him wear for as long as I could remember.
“I swear you do this just to rankle me,” my mother said, taking a long drag on a skinny brown cigarette and flicking the ash out the cracked window.
“Dad's dead, Slug, you can stop trying to piss him off,” Tristan said with affection and humor in his voice. Technically he was my half-brother, but you would never know it by the way my mother fawned over him.
“The reason I am working day and night on this thing, even in the car, when I'd really rather be tearing up great works of literature with the two of you, wouldn't happen to be because I have a book due in six months.” I closed my notebook with a sigh, my mother's copy of The Book of Daniel beneath it.
“Why do you still call her Slug, Tristan? Don't tell me you two are still referencing that awful Ayn Rand book.”
“He is,” I said, holding his gaze. “And also reminding me how I used to fall apart when he tortured me with defenseless creatures in the garden.”
Tristan waved his hands in the air and said in a high-pitched voice, “No Tistan, not the snail with no shell!”
“Are you done?” I said, turning to face him. “Has it occurred to you that I like writing this? I get paid, better than you ever will.” I held my finger toward his face; he swatted it away and stuck his middle finger in the air. “And it's the best way to tune out this depressingly boring discussion the two of you have been having since we left Spokane.”
“How long are you going to nurse this hostility?” my mother asked.
I faced her and raised my eyebrows. “You mean toward Dad or toward this lame-assed academic mindset? You guys could suck the life out of any book with the way you talk. If it is on the bestseller list that must mean it was written by a hack, for idiots who have no understanding of what real literature is.” I gave my brother a stern look. “You used to love all books. Fun books, dirty books, history books. Since that MFA all you care about are these big clunky ones with like fifty pages worth of description before anything even happens.”
He ran his open hand over his face and rolled his eyes. “Philistine.”
My mother chuckled and stuck her tongue out the side of her cheek.
I continued. “Now it's all text, and context, and parallels and theories, and criticism. Please, give me something with which to blow my head off.”
Normally I wouldn't have gotten myself stuck in a car with two academics intent on boring the shit out of me, but I wanted to see my brother meet his most recent literary hero and pull out of his latest slump. It was surreal the way my brother's attention lately was focused entirely on this dork Jasper Caldwell, who as far as I could tell was nothing more than a glorified misanthrope. Part of his “process” was to keep himself sealed off from the rest of the world, wearing earplugs while he worked a minimum of eight hours a day. Was this guy the reason Tristan had turned into such a monk? Or was it the other way around? Maybe that was why Tristan liked this guy, because he modeled the way my brother lived, increasingly cloistered and more miserable every time I saw him. He hardly left his room. It wasn't that long ago that he was never home; he was either playing music, running the streets, or chasing girls.
My mother took another drag on the cigarette. “Your father loved you, Vivianna,” she said to move things back to her favorite topic. “He left you the cabin, and Oliver.”
Oliver was the Olivetti typewriter on which my father (as far as the public was concerned) composed Ivy. Several people and institutions had offered to purchase it from my mother. I called it Oliver as a child and it stuck. That damn typewriter had its own personality in our family discussions. If it went anywhere it would be to the bottom of the lake. She still worshipped my father despite his philandering, despite never once apologizing for it, despite the divorce. Despite not calling for her before he died. I know for certain he wouldn't have been the big deal he was if he didn't have her to type up his manuscripts for him, leaving him free to think up, improve, and nurse his great ideas. Her hard work gave him more time to read, to imagine. To sneak around. She helped him much more than he ever acknowledged.
“I know that. I do.” I placed my hand on her arm to lend sincerity to my words. “You can still love a person and know they are flawed. Dad was an asshole.” I turned back to my brother again. “Tristan, you know I am right.”
“Mom, do we have to do this every time we get together?” he said.
I wouldn't let her answer. “Here's what I know: he loved me until I turned thirteen and started to bleed. After that he quit taking me seriously. I didn't get to go hunting. I didn't get to spend time with him in his office anymore discussing important manly shit. Forgive me for not wanting to remember him as a saint. I am the only member of this family that has any concept of what the truth looks like. I came on this trip to get my dear brother out of his room, and watch him meet Jasper Caldwell. That's it.”
Tristan's heavy hand rested on my shoulder for a second, I glanced back at him. That familiar look passed between us; he'd only heard me rail about this a million times. He was there when my father sent me away saying, “Vivianna, be a good girl and let me have some time alone with your brother.”
A good girl, I was twenty-six when he died. Tristan sat next to me in a hard hospital chair, an understanding look on his face, but I knew then he was still grateful our father chose him, as he always did. Tristan wouldn't have given up the opportunity to be with him in his last moments, neither would I if things had been reversed. I guess I am lucky that his new wife even called to tell me the end was near. The trophy, as I called her. She proved she wasn't all bad.
“Why did you come along if you were going to be in such a surly mood?” my mother asked.
Tristan made a clucking sound from the back seat. When I turned he let out a long breath before turning toward the window. He put one thick forefinger to the condensation on the window and drew a smiley face.
“Mom, is it absolutely necessary that I participate in the plot to destroy all pleasure reading?” I said.
She lifted her finger and opened her mouth, but I interrupted her.
“And I would be fine if you would stop trying to get me to talk about Dad. Okay?”
“Alright,” she said, taking a breath and letting it out with a grand raise and lowering of her thin shoulders. She turned on the radio and when Stravinsky's festive notes poured through the car speakers I opened my notebook again.
At dinner Saturday night we sat and hashed out the events of the day, the classes, the personalities, the scenery. Tristan spent most of the dinner reading or looking toward the table by the podium where Jasper—looking much less lively than his jacket photo—sat with several other people.
The dining hall had high, vaulted ceilings with uncut logs shooting out at angles above our heads. Giant picture windows afforded the view of the sun setting behind the snowy blue mountains to accompany our dining. All the tables were clothed in white and the candleholders were decorated with pinecones. Tristan worked one around in his free hand while holding a book open with his thumb and pinkie. His hair sat at the nape of his neck, tied in a loose bun, the way his mother, Dad's first wife, had worn hers in old photos. Tristan didn't do it as neatly; there were pieces of hair sticking out at odd angles. He wore jeans, his thick work boots and a crisp white shirt, red tie and black jacket.
After the pretty waiter with the long braided hair took my plate, I sipped my watery coffee and turned to my brother.
I reached out and pulled the book—Jasper's first, a book called Filial—away from him.
He sat back and let out a breath with his hands up. “Fine.”
“Talk to me,” I said putting my hand out. “I haven't seen you since Christmas.”
“Sorry, I just wanted to finish this before I meet Jasper. I thought maybe I could talk to him about it.”
“Likely he'll be very busy, dear,” my mother said.
“I can be quick.” He ran his hand over the tablecloth. “These conferences are such a joke. You know, I've been listening to people talk.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Half the people here don't even write every day. That lady in the buffet line yesterday, she thinks she's going to be on Ellen with this sappy memoir about watching her mother die of cancer. Like no one else has ever done that.”
“Try to relax,” my mother said.
Tristan scrunched up his nose and cocked his head, then let out an irritated sound.
My mother eyed the empty podium and looked at her watch. She pursed her glossy cream-colored lips, clasped her hands in front of her and stared at them, waiting for his attitude to blow over. Tristan made another face, but kept silent. I could see by the way he held his mouth he could have said something, but was no doubt trying to make an effort. All weekend his anger came from nowhere, and each time he was apologetic. My mother looked like she was getting used to it.
“Which one is he?” I asked to change the subject.
Tristan pointed toward the group of people at the table. “I told you, Jasper's over there, the one between the slick-looking guy in the dark suit and that other dude that looks like he escaped from the seventies.”
“That's Robert Conner,” my mother said. “He runs the conference. He was an acquaintance of your father's.”
“Wasn't everyone?” Tristan said.
“That pale, bored-looking Jasper looks like just the right guy to write Forests,” I said.
Tristan turned to me. “So you did read it!”
“Um, yeah. I just posted a review on my blog in fact. I definitely recommend the book if someone needs a sleep aid.”
“What? That book was brilliant…his use of color, imagery, word repetition. It was all so well thought out. I could read it again…I will read it again and I'm sure I'll find even more to love about it.” Tristan stared.
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