Women. Pussy-smelling women whose scent screams at you what will never cross their lips. That’s how he knew who I was.
Where was it? When? Soaking up all the attention as though the party were being thrown for him. He was a guest like everyone else.
– I know what you’d like…
– I beg your pardon?
*
– I told you.
He scooped out my cream. Painted his lips with it.
– Kiss me.
– This doesn’t mean you know me.
– I know you well enough. You’ll be back for more.
There should have been guilt somewhere but there wasn’t.
– If Nick was any good, you wouldn’t be here, so don’t worry about it.
– Who told you that I’m worrying?
– You do this all the time, then, do you?
Watching my family life from a distance. It seemed so normal. So good. So empty. Maybe one day the children will hate me. They look happy for now.
Do you love me, he wanted to know.
– Do I need to?
– A little bit, at least.
– Do you love me?
– Enough to eat you out and finger you the right way until you spritz. I thought it would hit the ceiling. How would I explain that to my wife? Next time we do that, can I film you? Place a camera between your tits and film your spritz and me sticking my face in and gulping down the lot.
Folding the laundry. Nick will be home soon. I will get the peck on the cheek.
He is a good man, I say.
– Well he’s not good enough.
What can I say?
I don’t like the look of Tatar’s dick. What he does with it is heavenly. Slapping my face with it till it’s as stiff as a rolling pin and down my throat till I threw up on him once so he punched me. It was a reflex, he said.
– Sorry.
To prove it, he scraped some of the sick of the sheets and ate it.
– Now kiss me.
Nick is worried that I’m no longer happy. He says he feels there’s something wrong. Talk to me, Carmina. All I see is a good man who hasn’t a clue. Maybe I should put him out of his misery.
I think we should stop, I say.
– No.
– Tatar, let’s be reasonable.
– We haven’t even started!
– Look, I’m not coming today.
– Then I’ll turn up at your place.
– Don’t you dare!
– Nick’s my friend. I knew him before I met you. What’s to stop me coming by for a chat with my mate?
– I’m warning you!
– When can you get here?
– It’s our wedding anniversary, for God’s sake!
– When can you get here?
I said I’d send him a message. A harmless one.
*
This short episode picks up the protagonists of my trilogy, Verses Nature: The Memoirs Of A Lonely Hotwife:
‘Literary, astute and gifted (…) shocking, erotic, disturbing and impossible to put down (…) runs right up to the boundaries of the usually acceptable, and then rides right over them.’ (Simone Leigh, best-selling author)
Not erotica in the conventional sense, but rather erotic literary feminist fiction. Yes, fiction can be erotic and literary. Yes, fiction can be erotic and feminist.
€0.99c. That’s a joke, really. This preferential price is to break down your reservations, not only because if you are who I think you are, then you’ll love this challenging read, but primarily because I’m ready and waiting for the discussion I know we’ll have about what erotica is and can do.
Don’t wear the labels other seek to pin on you. Even as you take their words/structures, make them your own.
Erotic Diva Blakely Bennett had me on her site in the autumn:
What genre is your book? Do you write in other genres as well?
My books have been classified as women’s fiction, post-colonial fiction, British fiction. Adult fiction. Verses Nature won’t be easy to classify. I don’t mind as long as it ends up in the top ten (lol). Verses Nature has, as an overall theme, and in common with all of my fiction, the notion of self-interrogation and growth. It’s about carving out space for personal development. This can’t be done without also coming to terms with one’s sexuality – I know, I’ve tried! Sexuality, thus, plays a significant role in all my fiction. Doesn’t mean I write what generally goes as erotica, though. I don’t. I once tried to get a man to understand what I meant by the term intellectual erotica. When he still couldn’t get it, and I was at the end of my tether, I barked ‘high-brow rumpy-dumpy!’ He got it.
One of the main characters in Verses Nature is an old man called Tatar. Outspoken, verging on the vulgar. He’ll say:
Men shouldn’t assist at childbirth if you ask me. She’ll be screaming, farting, crapping, saying vile things to and about you and you, idiot, are sposed to just stand there saying Yes darling as you squeeze her hand or mop her friggin brow? Then there’s the pushing and gushing and out it plops as from a sewer. Puts a man off for life. You’ll never really want to be in there again, But we’re not allowed to say that about wifey, are we?
He’s full of tips: You should get Him not to wash for a while so he stinks of man, then you give him a royal blow job, he’ll spray like a whale, I swear.
Miss Virginia Mendes stumbles from the bourgeois bliss of her brittle marriage into the world of virtual romance, convinced that He must be out there, somewhere. Finding instead…
14.01.— Discovery 13:39:28+0100(CET)
I am a woman of my word.
When you send me one of your delicious lines, your sensual reveries, they touch something deep in the centre of me behind my navel. The heat spreads slowly. I think of sunrise. Of a sleepy beast, stirring. At the same time, my nipples, my clitoris, light up like a match. I burn, four hearts pulsating at different rhythms, at different points in my body: my nipples, my heart, my belly, my sex.
My heart is the fastest, fanned by my short, choppy breath. My nipples: throb sonorously, slowly, more than sexual, suffusing me with a gratification I recall from breastfeeding. A rhythmic, timeless tug. My sex tingles, beats like the excited heart of a child about to do something daring. I can’t wait. Desire lubricates me. I want to touch. To savour my own ripeness but I abstain. Pressing myself, hard, against the chair, I imagine it is your hand, your knee, your nose. I lift my skirt, open my legs, which part, making the sound of a kiss… In my mind, I knit your hair with my fingers as you drink me, as you bury into me with the different parts of your body as I squeeze my buttocks together, my rotating hips in barely perceptible movements.
My orgasm starts with my breasts. With a quick series of contractions, pushing down my body, like swallowing; the sensation ejaculating through me in little waterfalls. That my breasts may come alive like this is a revelation. They are not my favourite part of me. I learn, now, to acknowledge them; to take pleasure in the pleasure they give.
Sometimes my orgasm ends here, in my breasts, burnt out before descending further. On other occasions, it continues its galloping downwards so that when I erupt, I feel like a fruit that has been squashed in the palm of your hand, juice spitting everywhere. And then there are those times I feel as if the floor beneath me has suddenly disappeared; I fly, pulverised into millions of particles. Hours it will take, before I may bring them all back together again; before I may ‘collect’ myself.
My most familiar sexual part of me, my least understood. Strange, that, in the absence of touch, energy and fantasy suffice to make me come alive. Woken up from a long winter sleep — and I’m starving! When my sex comes alive, shows her head, the tantalising warmth she releases spills down my legs. It becomes impossible for me to sit still. The slightest movement magnifies my excitement. I feel how the folds of my flesh fill with liquid desire. I know that if I put my hands there, tease back the lips, my fingers may drown, may slide around on quivering pink flesh. They may dive and probe the ridges of my inner walls. Resurface, stroke the inside of my thighs and be drawn by the obsidian throb of my clitoris. If you touch her, breeze across her, surreptitiously, she will flick a shudder through me like a whip. Do not touch her for too long. Tease her and keep her waiting. Therein lies the secret. What we both prefer is a slow, merciless rise to ecstasy. So when you excite me with your words and my desire is stirred, I do not force her; I let her dance, for I know that patience is all I need to discover the secrets of joy…
Do not misunderstand me. I can be more than satisfied without reaching a climax. An orgasm is not the hallmark of a successful sexual experience. Not for me, at least. Misrecognition of this has caused much unhappiness. When forced to an orgasm, I feel more frustrated than before. Duty, so-called, having been done, I have nonetheless been left behind. I am not a sex beast. I do not need multiple orgasms or to copulate interminably. I do need a good fuck… and I know that you know what I am talking about…
A multiple orgasm is, then, not necessarily one vaginal orgasm after another, but also, and more essentially, the (sometimes simultaneous) eruption of my key zones, of which there remains one to discover, as you know…
In trust, Gini
* *
PS 1.
noluckwiththefu@…: So is it fact or fiction?
GinImE@...: Semi-fiction.
noluckwiththefu@…: Meaning?
* *
PS 2.
noluckwiththefu@…: You get women’s hopes up with all that. You make them dissatisfied with their men. My man’s a good lover but I never had any of those other orgasms you’re talking about. You just made that bit up and that’s mean.
flow.tite.ange@…: Who said she made it up? I’ve had abdominal orgasms. I swear!
(Disbelieving snorts from the others)
kissmy@…: So who’s been giving you those inter-galactic orgasms, hey? Your husband?
(Laughter)
* *
PS 3.
sucette.du67@…: I think it was wrong to let her tell her husband. But I like the poetry.
GinImE@...: I’m listening…
sucette.du67@…: He doesn’t need to know all the details. You’re just putting yourself in an unnecessary dilemma. I know I wouldn’t want to know all the details about my man. He comes home with a smile on his face, that’s what counts.
kissmy@….: Even if some other pussy’s putting it there?
(sucette.du67@… sucks her teeth.)
babygirl@…: Shy is right. You’re passing the parcel, if you ask me.
GinImE@...: Go on…
noluckwiththefu@…: Well, you’re absolving yourself by telling your husband, but then you get him to bear the burden. It’s a bit chicken, don’t you think?
kissmy@….: Hell! Men’ve been having their cake and eating it too all along but listen sisters, this millennium’s for the ladies! My life has improved threefold ever since I woke up to this fact, ever since I stopped listening to all those nonsense songs about letting him be king, about just how perfect I would be if only he loved me right. I’m loving myself right — got rid of the complacent swine I had educated him to be ‘oh, don’t do that, honey, I’ll do it for you’. Sign of my love? Sign of my stupidity more like. Of my mis-education. I can have my cake and eat it too, n you know what, you guys are yummy. Yum yum, more of that please, but on my own terms from now on and you all better wrap up well cos the wind is changing.
babygirl@…: C’mon, stop dragging this down…
sucette.du67@…: No, let her have her say. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Why do we belittle ourselves and play coy when a guy says we’re pretty? We behave as though we’re hearing it for the first time, like we don’t deserve the compliment or something, instead of saying, Thank you, I know, which we do. Cos we are. They strut into the room without a shadow of a doubt so why shouldn’t we? Get over him, Gini. You’ve got eyes in the front of your head for a reason. Move on. (Talking more to herself now) you know when you just know it’s over, but all that time it takes you to say it; all that dead time in between knowing and doing? God, I’ve got so many dead years on my account. All gone to waste through cowardice and false loyalty… (wakes up) move on!
‘Of all the books I’ve read, this has divided me against myself more than any other.’
‘Don’t know what tablets you’re taking, but do, please, keep taking them. They seem to be working wonders. If you can get them on the NHS, please let me know.’
‘This is an abridgment of a novel which pushes the boundaries of women’s literary fiction to its limits – a D.H. Lawrence type moment (…) I can’t say enough good things about this novel. This is a haunting work which will stay in my head for a long time.’
between the virtual and the real, between knowledge and doubt. Between the meaning, and consequences, of the ‘I’…
‘This is quite simply one of the most extraordinary and brilliant books I have ever read. Dark, disturbing, and forensically brilliant at dissecting twenty-first century sexuality. It has everything Anais Nin and Brett Easton Ellis have, wrapped up in the same incredible package.’ (Amazon)
‘Of all the books I’ve read, this has divided me against myself more than any other.’
‘This goes beyond erotica, beyond the culturally censurable. It is sheer beauty as was Henry Miller at his most liberated.’ (Authonomy)
‘I jumped at the chance to read more by this obviously talented and original authoress. I was not disappointed – ‘blown away’ would be a more appropriate description. This is an abridgment of a novel which pushes the boundaries of women’s literary fiction to its limits – a D.H. Lawrence type moment (…) I can’t say enough good things about this novel. This is a haunting work which will stay in my head for a long time.’
‘This is such a surprise! Wonderful writing, scintillating ideas and rich use of language and character. This is something I would happily read and buy copies for all my friends (maybe not my Mum, though).’
‘I don’t know what tablets you’re taking, but do, please, keep taking them. They seem to be working wonders. If you can get them on the NHS, please let me know.’ (Brian L.)
UK’s leading magazine Female First finds out more.
MUT@TUS. available at bookstores including: Waterstones
Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
on the side deck and the threshold, the white keys
and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I wanted to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean
And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death,
say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.
(Clear Night, by Charles Wright)
First discovered this poem on Amy Jo Sprague’s blog. The second stanza ‘throes’ me. Re-re-re-read. Like the title, the light/dark tango of it which I grew to love in the paintings of Magritte. Second stanza: re-read.
Full moon recently. Pulls in more ways than one:
TRAMP
I want to feel your nose in my lips
your nails in my flesh
your teeth on my hips
your breath in my face
your tongue –
wherever it fits…
I want to feel your dick in my ass
you come in my throat
you spit on my skin
your balls beat me raw…
your hand pin me down
and Master me
Freak? Me?
I want to hear you moan
groan
whimper
I want to see pain on your face
delight
abandon
release…
Rough me
ride me to a froth
burn me
whip me with your Man till
I spit blood
And I?
Will bathe you with the purity
of my softest womanhood
till I
oil you
rim
purring with gratitude…
But first, you polish me
if you want to see my genie
If you want to see me shine.
(from, The Red Room by Joan Barbara Simon)
Joan stays locked in when the moon’s out. Need I say why? And no, it doesn’t wear off with age. It gets worse, cos you’re still interested but who’s still interested in you? I’ve been giving my ex-wives tips on how to pull a bloke on the internet. So much for you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. If I were twenty years younger, I’d open a brothel for senior citizens of both sexes, say seventy and upwards. These mature specimens of the human animal’ve got the finish line in sight, cash in their pockets, assorted ailments to forget, if only for that moment… and ungrateful brats as offspring. Above all, thirst. It’d be a runner. Especially with the women. With my neighbour for starters. I’m not taken in by her impenetrable purple rinse, her 40den tights, the orthopedic shoes or the slight limp, she’s no nice-nelly, take my word for it; course, no one’s been near her labia minora for decades but she was a real old slag in her day. Brittle hips weren’t her problem back then, I know a few who’ll vouch for that! When she did what she termed the fandango on your ramrod guess what else she clung to, calling them her castanets? Said she had him steaming like a horse after a hard race. The way she looks at me even today. Teeth tarnished. Slack wet slit where her mouth should be. Gives me the creeps. She’d pay. Bet she would.
‘This is quite simply one of the most extraordinary and brilliant books I have ever read. Dark, disturbing, and forensically brilliant at dissecting twenty-first century sexuality. It has everything Anais Nin and Brett Easton Ellis have, wrapped up in the same incredible package.’
‘This goes beyond erotica, beyond the culturally censurable. It is sheer beauty as was Henry Miller at his most liberated.’
‘I don’t know what tablets you’re taking, but do, please, keep taking them. They seem to be working wonders. If you can get them on the NHS, please let me know.’
Hardly has he entered me but he expels an anguished cry of elation. With the single thrust of penetration, the act was over. Just as I had feared. Just as he had feared.
– Kill me!
He hides his face. Insuperable shame. Hatred.
– Please, just kill me…
I run my hand along his spine, my eyes closed. My body, likewise. My mind searching for what to say in response, and deciding upon silence, for some requests are not amenable to a positive answer.
A day later, we make love again. He is sitting on the edge of the bed as I straddle him. He lasts three or four thrusts. Wait awhile, he breathes-lessly into my face. We’ll do it a second time. He thrusts and thrusts, but there is no force behind it. Wait awhile. I need to get a little bit harder…
I don’t like the position and tell him such. Down on all fours, I spread my legs. Raise my ass…
But his soft willy won’t stay anywhere. He stuffs himself into me. Slips out. Stuffs himself in again.
Wait awhile, he breathes like a man performing hard work, his hips chiselling away at me, but I feel hollow inside.
– No!
I pull away.
I will not wait! You fix that hard-on, then, maybe, we’ll try again.
Okay, he husks, rubbing, rubbing himself.
I won’t look, but I can hear it, the slosh of his semen, dabbling with my juice.
– Just wait a little bit. Just a little bit longer…
He talks to himself, to his penis, like a coach to his team before the match. It doesn’t take long for me to detect that change in the quality of his voice. I seize the opportunity to stop his hand, gently, with my own, before, or as it seems to me, he rubs himself raw. There is no recrimination in the language of my touch. It simply lets him know that I know:
game over.
– Tell me something?
– Shoot.
– You said you always have at least two women, right?
– Correct.
– So, there must have been another woman apart from your wife before you met me, right?
He smiles
– Where is she now? What happened to her?
– I saw her yesterday, we went flying and then for a meal…
– You don’t sleep with her anymore?
– Nope.
– And you expect me to believe that?
– Yep. I’ll show you a picture of her. (He shows her a photo of her in his cell-phone) and there’s her… (a different photo) and her… and she’s nice… and I really like this one…
– How do you manage?
– What?
– To juggle so many women?
– Piece a cake.
– God, you don’t mind admitting all of this to me?
– Why should I?
– Does your wife know?
– Why should She?
I, Tatar, am faithful of the heart, if not of the body. Don’t try to change me. It is my only weakness.
– I don’t want to get involved in your private affairs, but you’ve pulled me in so I’ll speak my mind. Have you told You Know straight to the face that he’s a lousy lay? You should’ve told him from day one that he was lousy. He might have made more of an effort.
– He’s making an effort now…
– Too late. He’s lost you.
– I’m inclined to think that there’s a woman out there, somewhere, who wants exactly what He’s giving. But that woman sure as hell ain’t me.
– Then get out of it!
– You’re not just with someone for the sex!
– What else?
– Well, for the companionship, etc…
– Get yourself a dog. Companionship, fair enough, but without the sex, your relationship is dead. It’s just friendship. Sooner or later you’ll leave him. And he knows it. I made the mistake of telling my wives about my mistresses, you know, in a moment of trust, like this one now. It spoilt everything afterwards and they always threw it back in my face. Don’t ever tell You Know about me. Ever. Maybe he’s keeping a mistress, too. Or he should. That way you get to save your life together and enjoy those bits of your relationship which do you good. If he lets you know or you let him know, then the trust is out the door. You need trust if a relationship is going to work. Trust is more important than honesty.
Joan Barbara Simon Author 