OK, peeps, this is personal, but it's also been bugging me, and what is posting for if not to blurt things out?
One of the biggest topics that book publishers are looking for in feminist literature is eroticia.In my opinion, soemtimes the most erotic writting is the kind that leaves some bits out, like to your amagination, or that talk about how erotic the everyday things are that people can relate to. Like I wrote this short story that was supposed to be erotic, (because that was the "theme" that week) and they said that it was "funny but R-rated", and I think they meant that well, but I was kinda embarresed about that, and so I never showed it to anyone, and I posted it on my "other" blog. But I've been thinking about that, and I disagree with their comments. The difference between porn and erotica is that the second one has some kind of literary or artistic merit to it, and isn't SOLELY reliant on it explicity to be interesting. because of that, it can be even more sexy than explicit stuff.
Well, today, in a cafeene-endused buzz, I am posting it here. Just as a "stick it to em" to all of the publishers who only take books with the phrase 'throbbing love stick" in them.
The Darkroom, or “Why I think Photoshop takes away from the artistic process”
I was freshman in high school, 14, and so nieave, it's amazing I could dress myself.
Dave had the physiche of a slim jim, and these kind, brown eyes, and I had fallen in love with as soon as I was old enough to. It had taken him a bit longer to reciprocate, as he entered puberty, at, like 20. OK, a bit of an exaggeration, but you get my point.
And what temptation! To be in a small, dark, heated room, at 14, with a boy you loved.
All the adults in the building congratulated me for my artistic process. "What passion you put toward your art!" my latin teacher had beamed, as I apologized for being late because I had been in the darkroom.
It wasn't that we were "makin' out", an activity I discussed throughly with Calderwood. She smoked, and my mom hated her, so we were best friends.
Dave and I WERE actually developing photos, but there was that tension. That confused, urgent tension of a young kid wanting to do stuff that she doesn't even know about yet. With the heat in the room, it's suprizing our photos weren't over-exposed.
So we were standing there, giggling, insulting each-other, flirting, and carrying on like the mature young adults we were, and, lo and behold, I slipped on some developer that had been spilled, and "oops" slid into Dave like a car wreck.
At first I flinched, because I didn't even know he was there, it being dark. But my arms softened, and they were around his body. I could feel the skin under his t-shirt, and it felt warm and muscular, at last to a girl who had, up to that day, held only babies, relatives, and pets.
I crushed up my hand into a loose fist, feeling the knit fabric bunch against his back. And I remembered he smelled good, like guy's deodorant. But what surprised me the most was this incredible warmth that radiated from his skin. I wondered what we looked like, standing there. I guessed that we looked like two people in a soap opera, holding each-other.
He slid his hand to my cheek, and I felt this incredibly powerful heat, which surprised me, because people in soap operas never got hot and sweaty. They just kind'a grabbed eachother, and the music played, and then they were shooting at their spouses, giving birth to bastard children, or slapping each other. I can honestly say that even though we were just standing there in the dark, holding each-other, his shaking, bony hand on my cheek, it was one of the most erotic moments of my life.
I held him as if I would fall down otherwise, which was partly the case, due to my lightheadedness, my hand sliding to the back of his shoulders. I was so dizzy and excited, it felt unreal, as if I was watching myself.
I realized that I felt the side of his hand on my leg, but then I realized that both of his hands were on my back. Oh! I taught with surprise, that's NOT his hand! it's his...Um YOU-KNOW! Liz would have instructed me at this point to call it his "thing", so she knew to what part of his anatomy I was referring. But I couldn't bring myself to be so brash, even when speaking to myself.
And it must be...you know, like,,um hard...like in that talk the PE teacher gave us. That must mean...I was suddenly so turned on, I could barely speak, even though I was speaking only to myself…That he's...like...turned on too, that this is a shared event, not just something that I am experiencing, but something that I am sharing with another person who feels the same way.
I decided to kiss him.
I ran through all of the movie kisses I had seen. I wanted to do this right. Like I did it all the time. I remembered this one movie, where teenagers bumped noses, and that was kinda awkward, so I guess I should bend my neck over. I leaned my head to one side, as if I was listening really hard, and I leaned forward, urgently. Then I stopped, because I was nervious. My lips, which were shaking at this point, landed on his cheek, but he moved his face around, so his lips were against mine.
It was like eating 100 pounds of chocolate all at once.
Every kiss I've had since has been perhaps less awkward, or even more loving, but not more exciting.
I'm not sure where my hands and arms went after that, although we were both standing, and I'm sure that I wouldn't have had the guts to actually remove clothing, or to have touched anything but his chest, but he suddenly threw his head back, and leaned into me, gasping the stale air of the darkroom the dark room as if it was his first (or last) breath, and moaned like he had just crawled form a grave.
Suddenly, he stood back.
I was horrified! Had I hurt him? Did I do it wrong? Was my body different from other girl's bodies? He was probably horrified at my brashness. I should have been more coy, maybe? In the complete darkness I saw nothing, and all I heard was heavy breathing, and from it's direction, he was turned away from me.
"I'm so sorry! I'll leave! Did it hurt?" I asked in one breath.
He spoke back in the darkness, out of breath. "No, I'm I'm, like OK, ummmmm. OK."
"Should I turn on the light? Do you want some water?" I asked, concerned.
"NO! Don't turn on the light!" he pleaded anxiously."
I asked softly. "Are you hurt?", which is so like me, assuming that I've hurt a person.
"No." he answered, softly. "It was nice, and a guy,,you know...my body...and the place..."he seemed flustered, and so was I.
"I promise I won't do that again."
"No, no!” He answered suddenly. I liked it, that's why I'm like this...ummm...I just need a moment to myself. You go to gym, and I'll catch up...in a bit."
I was happy. He had liked it.
"And..ummm.I like your body and stuff..it feels warm and nice and curvy and I like that." This complement, although awkward, was probably the most flattering I had ever gotten. I smiled in the darkness. My body was curvy.
Suddenly, I realized what had happened.
"Oh! OH! Did you.....just....?"
"yea, UM, I think so...", he said in a little voice, a confession.
"Thank you!" I answered, smiling, and blushing wildly.
And then I ran to PE to tell Liz every last thing that had happened.
And some that hadn't.
One of the biggest topics that book publishers are looking for in feminist literature is eroticia.In my opinion, soemtimes the most erotic writting is the kind that leaves some bits out, like to your amagination, or that talk about how erotic the everyday things are that people can relate to. Like I wrote this short story that was supposed to be erotic, (because that was the "theme" that week) and they said that it was "funny but R-rated", and I think they meant that well, but I was kinda embarresed about that, and so I never showed it to anyone, and I posted it on my "other" blog. But I've been thinking about that, and I disagree with their comments. The difference between porn and erotica is that the second one has some kind of literary or artistic merit to it, and isn't SOLELY reliant on it explicity to be interesting. because of that, it can be even more sexy than explicit stuff.
Well, today, in a cafeene-endused buzz, I am posting it here. Just as a "stick it to em" to all of the publishers who only take books with the phrase 'throbbing love stick" in them.
The Darkroom, or “Why I think Photoshop takes away from the artistic process”
I was freshman in high school, 14, and so nieave, it's amazing I could dress myself.
Dave had the physiche of a slim jim, and these kind, brown eyes, and I had fallen in love with as soon as I was old enough to. It had taken him a bit longer to reciprocate, as he entered puberty, at, like 20. OK, a bit of an exaggeration, but you get my point.
And what temptation! To be in a small, dark, heated room, at 14, with a boy you loved.
All the adults in the building congratulated me for my artistic process. "What passion you put toward your art!" my latin teacher had beamed, as I apologized for being late because I had been in the darkroom.
It wasn't that we were "makin' out", an activity I discussed throughly with Calderwood. She smoked, and my mom hated her, so we were best friends.
Dave and I WERE actually developing photos, but there was that tension. That confused, urgent tension of a young kid wanting to do stuff that she doesn't even know about yet. With the heat in the room, it's suprizing our photos weren't over-exposed.
So we were standing there, giggling, insulting each-other, flirting, and carrying on like the mature young adults we were, and, lo and behold, I slipped on some developer that had been spilled, and "oops" slid into Dave like a car wreck.
At first I flinched, because I didn't even know he was there, it being dark. But my arms softened, and they were around his body. I could feel the skin under his t-shirt, and it felt warm and muscular, at last to a girl who had, up to that day, held only babies, relatives, and pets.
I crushed up my hand into a loose fist, feeling the knit fabric bunch against his back. And I remembered he smelled good, like guy's deodorant. But what surprised me the most was this incredible warmth that radiated from his skin. I wondered what we looked like, standing there. I guessed that we looked like two people in a soap opera, holding each-other.
He slid his hand to my cheek, and I felt this incredibly powerful heat, which surprised me, because people in soap operas never got hot and sweaty. They just kind'a grabbed eachother, and the music played, and then they were shooting at their spouses, giving birth to bastard children, or slapping each other. I can honestly say that even though we were just standing there in the dark, holding each-other, his shaking, bony hand on my cheek, it was one of the most erotic moments of my life.
I held him as if I would fall down otherwise, which was partly the case, due to my lightheadedness, my hand sliding to the back of his shoulders. I was so dizzy and excited, it felt unreal, as if I was watching myself.
I realized that I felt the side of his hand on my leg, but then I realized that both of his hands were on my back. Oh! I taught with surprise, that's NOT his hand! it's his...Um YOU-KNOW! Liz would have instructed me at this point to call it his "thing", so she knew to what part of his anatomy I was referring. But I couldn't bring myself to be so brash, even when speaking to myself.
And it must be...you know, like,,um hard...like in that talk the PE teacher gave us. That must mean...I was suddenly so turned on, I could barely speak, even though I was speaking only to myself…That he's...like...turned on too, that this is a shared event, not just something that I am experiencing, but something that I am sharing with another person who feels the same way.
I decided to kiss him.
I ran through all of the movie kisses I had seen. I wanted to do this right. Like I did it all the time. I remembered this one movie, where teenagers bumped noses, and that was kinda awkward, so I guess I should bend my neck over. I leaned my head to one side, as if I was listening really hard, and I leaned forward, urgently. Then I stopped, because I was nervious. My lips, which were shaking at this point, landed on his cheek, but he moved his face around, so his lips were against mine.
It was like eating 100 pounds of chocolate all at once.
Every kiss I've had since has been perhaps less awkward, or even more loving, but not more exciting.
I'm not sure where my hands and arms went after that, although we were both standing, and I'm sure that I wouldn't have had the guts to actually remove clothing, or to have touched anything but his chest, but he suddenly threw his head back, and leaned into me, gasping the stale air of the darkroom the dark room as if it was his first (or last) breath, and moaned like he had just crawled form a grave.
Suddenly, he stood back.
I was horrified! Had I hurt him? Did I do it wrong? Was my body different from other girl's bodies? He was probably horrified at my brashness. I should have been more coy, maybe? In the complete darkness I saw nothing, and all I heard was heavy breathing, and from it's direction, he was turned away from me.
"I'm so sorry! I'll leave! Did it hurt?" I asked in one breath.
He spoke back in the darkness, out of breath. "No, I'm I'm, like OK, ummmmm. OK."
"Should I turn on the light? Do you want some water?" I asked, concerned.
"NO! Don't turn on the light!" he pleaded anxiously."
I asked softly. "Are you hurt?", which is so like me, assuming that I've hurt a person.
"No." he answered, softly. "It was nice, and a guy,,you know...my body...and the place..."he seemed flustered, and so was I.
"I promise I won't do that again."
"No, no!” He answered suddenly. I liked it, that's why I'm like this...ummm...I just need a moment to myself. You go to gym, and I'll catch up...in a bit."
I was happy. He had liked it.
"And..ummm.I like your body and stuff..it feels warm and nice and curvy and I like that." This complement, although awkward, was probably the most flattering I had ever gotten. I smiled in the darkness. My body was curvy.
Suddenly, I realized what had happened.
"Oh! OH! Did you.....just....?"
"yea, UM, I think so...", he said in a little voice, a confession.
"Thank you!" I answered, smiling, and blushing wildly.
And then I ran to PE to tell Liz every last thing that had happened.
And some that hadn't.
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Anchorage
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