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Friday, March 11, 2011
My previous boyfriend liked my secrets; I mean, he really liked secrets. He would trot out his favorites for me to dressage in the dark like so many ebony horses. “Tell me about the time you went to see that Dom in Princeton who looked like your uncle,” he would say, and I would. I took a train, I’d say. I was wearing that Carrie Bradshaw dress that shows my bra and my cleavage, and I felt exposed. I’d say, he met me at the station; we went to some banal mall restaurant; he drank Chardonnay; I ate gazpacho; we were nervous. He took me back to his scrupulously clean house and led me to the spare bedroom, where he had an array of black-leather-and-steel toys all laid out like a toy soldiers readying to storm Normandy.
“Then what?” my previous boyfriend would say, as if he hadn’t heard the secret, which he had.
The Dom prodded, poked, stuck, spanked and me, I would say, for hours. After he was finished, before I showered, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and I was covered in muck and red stripes, as if I’d crawled belly-down through nettles. My boyfriend would back me up to tell him that once-secret, now-story again, and again, this dark horse turning the grist for his erotic mill.
We all of us carry secrets with us, and these are, almost all of them, erotically charged. They, like the girl who was born to please, can’t help it. Perhaps that’s why so many erotic memoirs have the word “secret” in the title, and often redundantly as in “The Secret Diary,” as if we’ve any desire to read any other kind. Secrets, like lingerie, demand revelation. A secret that doesn’t make you want to tell it isn’t worth a fuck.
It’s this play between conceal and reveal that rests at the bottom of every burlesque dance. Dita Von Teese oozing across a stage in Christian Laboutins, dripping with Swarovski crystals, and slowly peeling a layer to drop it with nonchalant disdain. Sally Rand twirling and whirling her giant fans and her is-she-or-isn’t she nakedness. Julie Atlas Muz all grimace and insouciance grabbing her pubic hair to make her labia lip-sync “Breakin’ the Law.” The performer, the music, the persona, the pasties: they are all to some degree interchangeable. What is unique is that delicate dance between the conceal and the reveal. What will she show us, how, and when? Those are the questions that drive the burly-q dance, and often our erotic lives.
Burlesque dancers only do on stage and literally what we mortals do every day and metaphorically. Our bodies all carry secrets. Piercings, tattoos, scars, the fragile thrill of lingerie, the tender purple of last night’s restraints, the not-unpleasurable rash of too hard fucking, the tell-tale beat-beat-beating of a clit left too long untouched, the evanescent turgidity of a needy cock: we walk our pinstriped lives like we don’t own these secrets, but we do. We carry them like aces close to our chests, and we throw them gloriously on the table when it’s time to pony up. Our secrets are often our full house, but then someone else could be holding a royal flush. It’s all a matter of what information should—and shouldn’t—go public.
Our genitals, after all, are also called our privates. They are not our publics, unless in some kind of transgressive
act we choose to make them so. One of my great erotic secrets, the kind of image that animates the blue screen of my mind when I masturbate, is exactly that: my privates become public. I’m bound and hooded, blindered and hushed, and a steady stream of humans perpetrate unspeakable acts to my exposed genitals until the imagined and the real conflate, collapse and I come, shuddering.
I’m very bad at keeping my own secrets, one of the aspects about me that makes me a very good sex writer and a very bad girlfriend. I can keep anyone else’s secret still as the grave, but my own have a will to be bared. I’m built to spill. Which is fine if I’m confessing my love of imaginary bukkake and the other dirty treacly bits that get me going in the still of my lonesome bed, but far less good if I’m narrating the swan diving delectation of my body and that of another. That Dom in New Jersey would, for example, probably not be too happy about our secret becoming my story. Nor, for that matter, might my ex-boyfriend, but at least he knowingly got involved with a writer.
Secrets are by definition monogamous things: you don’t share the secret. A secret told is a person betrayed, which may be the other main reason why holding a secret feels so much like fucking. Telling another a secret is an intimate, trusting and ultimately imperiled act. It’s handing another a tender slice of power. It makes you vulnerable. It bonds you to that other in ways that make the two of you glow subtly incandescent in the crowd. Nothing hurts as much as having a lover tell your secret to some stranger; it’s a double betrayal and it flays the figurative flesh.
Which is all to explain why so many of our secrets are erotic. As children we toddle up to parents’ bedroom doors only to find it shut blank as an unwritten note, and that is the first inkling we have that people have secrets. We grow older and the playground secret is the marker of inclusion or exclusion. We grow up and the secrets we have are our private joys or our private shames—or some combination thereof. The most powerful secrets sit in that friction spot between joy and shame; those secrets are like a clit nestled between the rubbing lips of labia.
What kind of secrets do have?
What is erotica and where can you submit a erotic story or poem
The purpose of erotica is to turn the reader on; to get the reader hot and bothered; to make the reader hard and wet. If the writer is doing it right, he or she is going to be just as affected by the writing. If you are not squirming in your seat as you write, it will not work with the reader. To do this, you have to be honest with yourself.
The biggest enemy of the beginning erotica writer is the writer's own internal censor. People will tell you why you should not write erotica. They will tell you that it is dirty. Nice people do not write this stuff. Your mother will see it. Your children will see it. The neighbors will see it. People will know that you do these perverted things.
First of all, sex is not dirty. Most people like sex. There would not be six billion people on this earth if they did not. Anyone who does not like sex is either doing it terribly wrong or may need professional help.
Nice people do write erotica. Ordinary people write erotica. People from differnet backgrounds and age groups from all over the world write eotica.
If you don't want your mother or children or friends to see it, don't show it to them and use a pen name.
As for people knowing that you do the things in your stories, consider that crime scene wrtiers, sci fi writers and any others don't do the things they wirte about. . Most erotica concerns sex fantasies from the back of people's imaginations. Just because you write about it doesn't meant that you do it. Besides, sex story sites have many many visitors , if your neighbors are reading it, they must like it too.
What is the difference between porn and erotica? Erotica tends to be of the written word, while porn tends to be more about actual visulizations.
The bottom line is, If the words turn you on, it is erotica. If the visual stimulation turns you on then it is porn. If it does nothing at all, it is garbage.
Do you write erotica? Erotictymes is taking story submissions. All you have to do is copy and paste the story into the body of the email along with your writers name and send it to email@example.com We will email you back and let you know that the story is on the site. It just that easy. We do check your story for spelling and grammer, but we do not alter the text in any other way.
Erotictymes does not accept any stories about sex with the dog or sex with familty members, or stories that involve minors. We do have values and we do up hold them....Anything else pretty much goes. So go ahead and send us your story. We are also trying to get some interest in sexy poems. If you have one to share we would be happy to recieve it!