This wounded my self-esteem and almost cost my job; working to create a fine home and enjoy the creature comfort can be empty without physical fun outside of my thrice-weekly spin class.
In the pursuit of a nicer lifestyle, single women do it rough. I was one of the women who forgot play; I worked so hard, afforded many other small luxuries and didn’t stop to think that I could afford to pay for sex. It’s not done or it’s not discussed among women.
My line of work contains pressure and clients with more money than sense. There is the ex male model with more money than sense. He thinks that I should pay to speak to him. I manage his investment portfolio, an impressive collection of shares bequeathed by a New York matron. There are the modelizers. I still don’t get that word. It’s not a word. I have another word for them: new-age satyr. They chase the gazelle-like nymphs, only because other women – like me – wouldn’t tolerate their boyish tantrums.
I had no reason to think about male prostitutes. Even when Wall Street shook, I still had a well paying job. I had rainy day savings and I had a pair of devoted parents who’d support me in any emergency. When the stocks began to plunge, I became anxious and began relieving my anxiety on Fifth. In one week, I visited Saks four times. Everything I purchased brought minor satisfaction; I didn’t have time to socialize or date to parade my Babouska purse and matching heels. To be horribly blunt; I could alphabetize my wardrobe by prestige designer, but couldn’t attract a man or a fleshy penis. Men earning less couldn’t cope. Men earning more sought women who wouldn’t ask questions, who were younger, perkier and several IQ points short of common sense.
Many of my wealthy clients are women. In fact, many married socialites secretly invest money; if they don’t like the Bvlgari collier their husbands give them to soften guilt, they sell and invest the proceeds. It’s their rainy day money. Helen*, one of my more down to earth clients, didn’t mind being married to a wealthy man. She turned a blind eye to many things but developed an enviable pragmatism. Helen prefers face-to-face advice. This is done in advance. I take a day out of my personal leave and meet her at a discreet restaurant of her choice, away from the money end of town in the hope that she’ll mix in; blending in when you’re prêt-à-porter meets haute couture is hard.
The word sex fell into my plate at a trattoria.
“You’re not getting any cock,” Helen said, playing with her tortellini.
Stunned, I was uncertain if my professional status prevented me discussing my drab personal life.
I resorted to the pathetic staple, “I don’t have time.”
Helen chuckled. Her casual chuckle rose like a menacing tidal wave.
“You can buy three boys with your Nancy Gonzalez purse.”

“For an hour?”

She pushed her plate aside with two manicured fingers, “I pay for the discretion. It’s fun and every one I choose can be a Vogue poster boy.”

I couldn’t kid myself; most women in similar marriages had alternative arrangements. Helen, like me, most likely amassed a collection of sex toys and toys work just fine but the fun offered by another naked body is more intimate.

Helen took her organizer out and fished out a card. She slid it across the table. “Service with a smile.”
Speechless, I picked up the card, turned it over and read “By Appointment” followed by a cell phone number.
“Is that it? No name?”
She shook her head, “Word of mouth only.”
“Not one nickname?”
“He’ll introduce himself when he meets you.”
I shook my head in an effort to minimize my surprise.
The card remained in my planner for two weeks. No, it didn’t fall out by chance. A half bottle of Jack Daniels egged me on after five horrible dates that asked far too many questions to seem interested. I didn’t believe it one bit. After creating an online dating profile, I still clicked to check out better options; I wanted quality sex, not a quick fumbling fuck.
It was time to call the professional.
One of the common indicators of loneliness is having a nice home and no one to share it with; my working hours prevented me having a mammalian pet. I settled for one pretty Siamese fighting fish that lived.
When I called the mysterious professional to arrange an appointment, an older woman answered the phone in a professional manner, as though she worked for an attorney. She did mention By Appointment, and I continued yapping. She politely interrupted and directed me to a web address after getting my credit card details, explaining the processes to access the questionnaire. Questionnaire? Did I call the correct number? As the web page confirmed, not only did I dial the correct number, I stumbled onto a detailed virtual sexual interview. She reminded me to answer as honestly as I could.
Helen didn’t mention this part of the deal.
The questions began in a straightforward manner, not unlike a magazine quiz. When I pressed ‘Next’ I arrived at the sex/fantasy section. I responded to questions about my sexual experience to date, the activities I am accustomed to and what I am willing to try or what boundaries I was willing to explore. Boundaries? The quest to find a sexual playmate was difficult enough; boundaries were bonuses.
In the fantasy portion, I was asked about the type of partner I preferred. It began with appearance, continued on to sexual expertise – I ticked ‘virtuoso’ – and went further, describing personality types. The final page requested a few fantasies I had. When was the last time I had a fantasy? At night, I’d fall asleep watching Leno. When the first stage of indigestion began on the market, fantasy wasn’t a priority. I’d think about sex in its primal form: fucking.
When I discussed my ideal fuck, my fingers trembled. The rough and smooth, I knew I had to be playing a game with myself. Without proofreading my fantasy, I hit enter. After I received confirmation, the page dissolved. Like it hadn’t existed. I didn’t have the energy to consider the technical why-how.

The indecision over what to wear was nothing compared to the arrival.
The doorman called, I accepted my visit and waited. When my paid visitor arrived, I still had trouble integrating his occupation. There were no telltale signs that women like me paid him by the hour. He too received a shock; he usually serviced women much older than me.
He reminded me of my Tuscany fling. This reminder also reminded me of my last vacation; money may sweeten deals, open doors and give access to the finest things – I’ve always had a weakness for shoes. Money doesn’t eliminate stress.
After introducing himself (we didn’t have the cash up front issue as I paid with my charge card before his arrival), I realized that I had on a pair of ordinary pants and a blouse, both of which were more appropriate for a day at work. This minor detail didn’t register or he overlooked it. Perhaps he felt sorry for me – an overworked and underfucked professional. Getting to the hairy details, things he did to justify payment included:

• Undressing me with confidence and the air of a grand seducer. There are many books published offering men advice on talking the talk but it can be frightfully disappointing to get to the intimate part of the relationship to find that they can’t hold out.

• An impeccable command of the English – and at my previous request – and French language; he didn’t spit out the usual assortment that I could watch on an adult DVD.

• His knowledge of female surface anatomy made the remainder possible – he could find my G-Spot blindfolded

Although I didn’t ask him about his sexual history or a nice round number of women he’d serviced, his touch – everything from the pressure to technique – explained it all. From my head to my midriff (breasts included), from the junction of my inner thigh to the backs of my knees, he knew how to give and where to give it. And he provided is own condoms. Not that I am frugal with condoms, but it made it all the more smoother for me not to worry myself over all the details. Position wise, his patience outweighed every man I’ve dated in the recent past. The intercourse segment of the session was not unlike a mini Kama Sutra session; it is his job to keep himself supple and as much as it pains me to mention it, many men I’ve known, know or have dated overlooked their health and fitness as a fundamental part of their sexual output.

I make it seem easy, but I certainly paid for the session. Dental dams and cunnilingus may not be exciting for the receiver but he made up for it with his manual stimulation. The foreplay exceeded an hour and I needed it to reach a high state of arousal so I could freely enjoy the penetration. In selecting a professional for a single session, I wasn’t required to be on any good behavior bond. He didn’t blanch at me talking dirtier than a crack whore. I didn’t worry about him not calling me for the next step in the relationship after talking like an insatiable nympho. To women like my client Helen, outlaying a few thousand dollars for a mind altering fuck is as necessary as a monthly day spa.

Would I do it again?

I’ve done it again. I book him on a monthly basis and I am not certain if this will change. High quality can be highly addictive. Cultivating expensive taste can be dangerous.

While it may irk many to think that I invested more in a day of sex, I’d like to point out that many males in my profession don’t blink about outlaying a week’s salary on procuring a sex professional.

© 2009 Justine Keeler

Justine Keeler* works as a financial adviser. On a good day, she can be found at the Carnegie deli testing her cholesterol tolerance.

The Rhode Island writer’s bigotry was driven by two factors: One, he was a staunch anglophile whose racial bias was socially accepted during the time as well as having been victim to poverty due, in part, to his inability to locate ample employment while living in New York with Greene. The latter reinforced the former as Lovecraft cited the influx of immigrants as the reason for his inability to find work. Thus, his prejudice was a consequence of economic sublimation as opposed to the more common motive involving racial factors. Interestingly, in lieu of his reputation, his 1929 tale, “The Dunwich Horror,” not only sympathizes with African Americans, but it does so using the religious archetype of the Jewish Christ figure. By the close of the text, the New England racist makes literary martyrs of the minority race.

“The Dunwich Horror” revolves around twins, Wilbur and his unnamed brother. After an intense period of study of nigromancy under the tutelage of his grandfather, “Old” Whateley, Wilbur perishes in the pursuit of forbidden knowledgethe fabled Necronomicon. Afterward, his brother, who has remained hidden from the native populace since birth, emerges before retreating into a steep dale called Cold Spring Glen. The librarian of a nearby university library, Henry Armitage, sets out to destroy the sole Whateley heir once he discovers through his own studies (as well as the Wilbur’s diary) what Wilbur’s brother is: a gargantuan, invisible monster. He, along with two other academes, awaits for the beast to mount Sentinel Hill before proceeding to kill him.

The twins’ mother, Lavinia Whateley, is “a somewhat deformed, unattractive albino woman.” Given the prevalence of albinism in the race, Lovecraft implies that the Whateleys are of African American descent as they are also individually citied as being “crinkly-haired” while Wilbur is described as having “thick lips.” The family members are frequently referred to as “black” which, though it could argued that this is made in reference to their moral standing, the context in which it appears unequivocally denotes the family’s ethnicity.Wilbur is repeatedly called a “black brat” by the people of Dunwich. The term’s semantic duality does not go ignored by its author for, indeed, the people of Dunwich and the surrounding towns eradicate the Whateley Twins believing them to be evil. However, as suggested through their pejorative use of the word when speaking of the family, the unspoken impetus for their murderous drive is a consensual ethnic bias. Also, given that attention is solely brought to the Whateleys’ ethnicity, when the people of Dunwich band together behind Armitage and his colleagues, they are brandishing “muskets” and “pitchforks” and, as such, can be said to form a makeshift posse. In essence, what ensues is nothing short of a racial lynching.

The Whateley Twins are born on February 2, 1913, to a woman who has “no known husband.” Lovecraft notes that this takes place during Candlemas, which the rural townsfolk of Dunwich, Massachusetts continue to observe. In the eyes of the superstitious populace, like Jesus Christ, the brothers are viewed as (albeit malignant) demigods, as witnessed in an unnamed character’s proclamation, “Not but what I think it’s the Lord’s jedgment fer our iniquities, that no mortal kin ever set aside.” Additionally, the monster’s dying utterance of “Eh-y-ya-ya-yahaah¾e’yayayaaaa . . . ngh’aaaaa . . . ngh’aaa . . . h’ yuh . . . h’yuh . . . HELP! HELP! . . . ff-, ff-, ff-, FATHER! FATHER! YOG-SOTHOTH!” (Yog-Sothoth being the title of the paterfamilias in absentia) astride a figurative Golgotha¾Sentinel Hill¾echoes Christ’s death-cry, “Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?” or “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

The reservation that Lovecraft’s religious parable is defied by its encompassing two sons of supernatural origin eschews the fact that the brothers play the role of the hero monomyth, thus symbolizing and representing a singular literary figure. The Whateley Brothers’ combined chronology parallels that of the Twin Cycle: miraculous conception (both), the acquisition of great wisdom (Wilbur), withdraw and preparation (both, though largely Wilbur), a great quest (Wilbur), tragic death (Wilbur and, to a lesser degree, his brother), descent into the underworld (Wilbur’s brother into Cold Spring Glen), resurrection (Wilbur-cum-his brother, who is reborn when the monster emerges from the confines of the Freudian womb of a farmhouse), and ascension (Wilbur’s brother up Sentinel Hill). Such an interpretation is further reinforced in Lovecraft’s opening quotation from Charles Lamb’s 1821 Witches and Other Night-Fears, which emphasizes the importance of archetypes in literature, “They [Greek myths] are transcripts, types, the archetypes are in us, and eternal.”

This is not the first occasion in which Lovecraft uses the iconic figure of Christ symbolically. In his novella, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward (composed in 1927 but posthumously published in 1941), the titular character resurrects his great-great-great grandfather, Joseph Curwen (note the initials, “J.C.”), on Good Friday, who later dies a year to the day. Yet, whereas the reader commiserates with the Whateleys and their subsequent persecution (the only time in which irrefutable, Whateley-led human death occurs is when a person comes between Wilbur’s brother and his bovine meal¾even though Yog-Sothoth’s decedents require a vampiric blood meal for a duration of three months after their premier, their victims are left both mortal as well as alive), Lovecraft makes Curwen an unequivocal antagonist.

H.P. Lovecraft’s plea for the historic plight of African Americans not only counters his established reputation as a racist in that he makes literal martyrs of the “black” Whateley Twins, but his utilization of the Christ figure becomes befuddling thrice over in that, being racially prejudiced, he was a noted antiquarian who expressed a fondness for Roman people and history (“Lavinia” is Latin for “From Rome”), as well as an outspoken, unapologetic atheist. Thus, “The Dunwich Horror” doesn’t refute its author’s established racism so much as it dilutes his proscribed title.

© Michael Gurnow

Michael Gurnow has been published domestically as well as abroad, in translation, and anthologized.  His work may be found in such publications as Word Riot, Dissident Voice, Plain Brown Wrapper, Herbivore, The Modern Word, American Atheist, The Horror Review, among others.

Sources:
Joshi, S.T.  H.P. Lovecraft:  A Life.   West Warwick:  Necronomicon P, 1996.  366-71.
Of socio-historic interest, Lovecraft’s fictional depiction of a character of African American descent being (literally) invisible premiered 23 years before Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.

Despite the fact, through textual cross-referencing of other Lovecraft fiction, their deification is unmerited in that the Whateleys are revealed to be of extraterrestrial descent.
Mark 15:34.
Burleson, Donald.  H.P. Lovecraft:  A Critical Study.  Westport:  Greenwood P, 1983.  146-8.
Joshi.  78-9.

Whatever kind of perfection may be the object of a quest, it will always end up being flawed by the very nature of things and ideas, but it will also be pointing towards new levels of perfection and towards new quests. And that is what keeps us moving and evolving, for it is the quest itself that’s the important activity, not the elusive conclusion. It is on the quest that we develop and grow, find ourselves and fulfill ourselves, and become better human beings as we progress along our path.

One of the main quests for perfection has been the human admiration and ambition for the perfect body and its inherent beauty and sexuality that has become such a predominant preoccupation in our society. We are flooded with innumerable diets, health products, beauty aids, exercise regimens, books, magazines, movies, and TV shows together with so-called role models who look like no ordinary person can ever look. We are obsessed with physical beauty and attributes to the exclusion, in many cases, of mental and intellectual pursuits, even though we can never hope to achieve the high ideals presented to us by the media day in and day out.

Yet we are not the first ones to be preoccupied with the human body. An artist living in a cave some 25,000 years ago fashioned a stone statuette of a women affectionately known as the Venus of Willendorf, named after the village in Austria where she was unearthed. Numerous other artists in other caves fashioned similar figures during the same time period, but the Venus of Willendorf is the best known and most famous of those Stone Age statuettes.

The Venus is a small figurine, standing only 4½ inches tall. Yet she is an ample woman with large breasts, large hips, and a large, exaggerated vulva – all indicators of overt fertility. She epitomizes the search for perfection and beauty in the human form on which the artist was already embarked way back then in our distant past. All her characteristics indicate that she is what her creator envisioned to be the ideal and perfect woman of his time. He obviously admired her unique features and immortalized them in stone as part of his own quest. But she is a statuette, not a real woman.

The first civilization to become fixated with the quest for perfection and ideal beauty in the human form were the ancient Greeks. Their society was characterized by a preoccupation with perfection in many areas, including philosophy, politics, science, and the arts. One of their main focal points was the human body, male as well as female. Their sculptures in particular bear witness to the widespread interest in and obsession with the human form, the women usually dressed, the men usually nude.

Women were depicted as goddesses with slender though well-proportioned bodies and exceedingly beautiful appearances. Men were sculpted as athletes in various disciplines with muscular, well-proportioned bodies and exceedingly handsome appearances. Athletics generally played an important part in Greek society, hence the Olympic Games. Athletic fields for the men and public baths for both sexes allowed everyone, particularly the upper classes, to aspire to the idealized sculptures, facilities much like the present-day gyms, health clubs, and beauty salons. The levels of perfection the Greeks viewed as their ideals were already very high and hence unattainable, despite their facilities and their devotion to self-improvement.

The gymnasium itself originated in Greece where it was an open field surrounded by a colonnade and was used for the training of athletes as well as for socializing and intellectual pursuits. The root of the word is the Greek gymnos which means naked. The noun gymnasion literally means “place to do exercise” because the athletes always trained, and competed, in the nude. The Greeks weren’t particularly devoted to large breasts or large penises, and nudity wasn’t a big thing in their society.

During the Renaissance of the 14th – 17th centuries, the idealized woman changed from the Greek form to a much more opulent appearance, reminiscent in some ways of the Venus of Willendorf. Paintings of nudes feature large breasts, wide hips, heavy bottoms, and considerable padding and rolls of fat over the entire bodies. The lily-skinned and chunky upper class women of many of the paintings were viewed as symbols of status and prosperity and, no doubt, as fertility symbols as well. The men, on the other hand, were generally slim and handsome, and usually fully clothed. It was certainly an easier time for women to live up to the ideals of society.

It is this time period that led to the coinage of the word Rubenesque, after the Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens who is best known for his paintings of full-figured women. The word has now been largely replaced by the phrase “Big Beautiful Woman”, commonly abbreviated BBW and coined by Carol Shaw in 1979 when she launched her BBW Magazine, a fashion and lifestyle magazine for plus-size women.

During the 18th and 19th centuries, women as well as some men were want to squeeze themselves into tightly tied corsets to achieve the so-called hourglass shape. The ideal form was once again slender though with accentuated breasts and bottoms, requiring considerable work and persistence on the part of the women (and men) who aspired to the ideals of perfection of their time.

During the Roaring Twenties, fashionable young women (called flappers) became veritable stick figures with hardly any breasts or hips at all. Their style made them look young and boyish with short hair, flattened breasts and straight waists. Perhaps it was during this time that people, especially women, started dieting to maintain their youthful and boyish looks.

By now, our society has become obsessed with dieting and other health fads to somehow live up to the ideal of being lean and tan and flawlessly beautiful. Of course nobody is ever perfect, although large segments of the population think they can be if they only try hard enough, spend enough money, concentrate all their efforts on their bodies, deny themselves everything else. Millions of dollars go into remaking bodies, fashioning them after some elusive, lofty ideal that can never be achieved, reshaping, reformulating, redesigning everything that constitutes a normal human being.

The contemporary ingredients of perfection in women include large breasts because they are a basic fertility sign; high eyebrows, full lips, large eyes, and high cheekbones because they indicate sociability; youthfulness because it’s more attractive to be young than old; and an hourglass figure with a 27 inch waist and 38 inch hips because those are childbearing hips. In men, it’s round, powerful butts because of the thrusting power, small waists, big chests, and broad shoulders.

None of this can, of course, even be approximated without expensive diets, beauty products and treatments, extensive exercise, and frequent visits to gyms, salons, and plastic surgeons. And yet, even with all that, with all the effort and all the money spent on trying to be perfect and beautiful and desirable and enviable, nobody ever really gets to where they would like to be. Not even the role models themselves are perfect because, like everyone else, they are human and they have flaws. Photographers can air brush the images of their models to give the impression of perfect bodies and perfect beauty, but that’s not reality, and it never will be.

Society has to come to the realization that, sex appeal and the joy and attractiveness of beauty notwithstanding, imperfection is the human destiny. Anyone can try to get beyond the flaws and strive for the elusive concept of perfection, but there will always be other flaws, little ones mostly, big ones sometimes, and they won’t all go away, no matter what. Imperfect people are capable of attracting mates, know how to be loved and cherished, will be able to find happiness with someone else.

Perhaps it’s time that society realizes that fact more clearly and more convincingly and looks at the quest for perfection for what it is: a quest, a journey towards selfhood, an adventure in self-discovery and self-knowledge. That is, after all, the purpose of any quest, not the getting there, especially when it comes to such vague concepts as perfect beauty, ideal bodies, and sexuality.

Essentially, everybody has sex appeal simply because of the way we are built, and once we acknowledge that, we are already one important step closer to real fulfillment and true happiness. Beauty, as the old adage has it, is only skin deep anyhow, no matter how hard we would like to believe that it’s more than that.

©  2008 Peter Baltensperger

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published most recently in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales and My Wife and Her Lovers, and is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions.

He makes his home in London, Canada with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.

Ancient thinkers believed that the key to the mysteries of the universe was to be found in the mysteries of sexual union, in the intimate fusion of the fiery, active, generative energies of the male principle embodied in the lingam with the gentle, passive, receptive qualities of the female principle typified by the yoni. Within this framework, the yoni epitomizes the cosmic receptacle as well as the ultimate source, sacrosanct entrance as well as primordial cave, universal vessel as well as genesis. It is the most sacred place, the most sacred space. It is the inexhaustible fountain of life itself.

Finely sculpted like an exquisite flower opening its luxurious petals in a tender gesture of accessibility and receptivity, the yoni is infinite beauty gleaming in radiant splendor and enchanting magnificence. It is the focus of adoration in the sensuous worship of the purely feminine, in itself and for its own intriguingly symbolic features as much as for its creative energies, for its delicate configurations and inexhaustible complexities as much as for its primordial essence as the supreme mainspring of life. It is that which is to be venerated as an integral and paramount aspect of our sexuality.

Yonic veneration is as old as humanity itself, its archetypal symbolism as deeply imbedded in the human subconscious as any of the primeval expressions of our sexuality. Early societies recognized long ago and deeply appreciated the importance of reverent admiration for the primary components of procreative involvement underlying the very survival, the very mainstay of the evolving cultures. They built shrines and temples dedicated to the adoration of the reproductive aspects of the human totality, decorated them with elaborate and detailed representations, and paid homage to the symbolic depictions with special festivals and commemorations. They held sacred that which makes us fully human, makes us the only truly sensuous beings consciously aware of their sexuality, held sacred the relevance of deeply erotic passion and the primeval need for sexual adulation.

Temples in Celebes were once replete with female figures characterized by exaggerated breasts and pudenda, which served as objects of veneration over centuries of historic development. In Eastern religions, particularly in Indian spirituality and in the esoteric Tantrism of the Far East, the veneration of the yoni retained its primal importance throughout history and still today constitutes an integral aspect of worship. Western cultures, on the other hand, experienced increasing trends towards Puritanism, especially in matters concerning sexuality.

In ancient Greek society, groups of early Puritans campaigned vigorously against the widely popular nudity or semi-nudity of women in the streets and, in particular, the public display of any kind of sexual attributes. By the time of the conversion of Constantine the Great to Christianity in the 4th century CE, all phallic temples in his vast empire were systematically destroyed and all forms of Pagan worship banned to put a definitive end to what were considered highly unacceptable practices in a progressive and christianized civilization.

Yet in continental Europe, yonic veneration survived well into the Middle Ages despite the rapid expansion of Christian principles across the continent. Witness, for instance, the famous Sheila-na-gigs of Ireland and other European countries. These overtly sensuous female figures with their legs spread wide and pointing to or contemplating not their navels but their clearly exposed and carefully delineated yoni formed an integral aspect of medieval church architecture. Inserted into the keystones of the arches over church doors throughout the country and across the continent, they retained immense popularity for many centuries.

In France as well as in other countries, sex cakes baked in the shape of the yoni were sold in Catholic churches as objects of fertility well into the Middle Ages as well. In addition, many of the churches were still then decorated with phallic representations hanging from the walls and being suspended from the ceilings. Outside in the churchyards, wax phalli and phallic cakes were sold together with the yonic baked goods for the same reason of promoting fruitfulness and rich harvests in the community. Meanwhile, young women rubbed themselves publicly against standing stones and statues of saints to ensure personal fertility for themselves in their own sacred ritual.

The Reformation with its much stricter Puritanism and significantly narrower approach to religious propriety finally succeeded in subduing and ultimately eradicating the ancient yonic and phallic practices during the latter parts of the 16th and the early decades of the 17th century. Ever since then, Western civilization has suffered from a stunted approach towards anything sensual and sexual to the point of complete and thorough suppression of sexuality in any way, shape, or form. By the time of the Victorians, even the mention of the primary sexual organs, let alone any kind of representation or display thereof, had become the greatest and most strictly observed – and enforced – taboo of European as well as, by then, North American etiquette and social acceptability.

Very little has changed since then. During the Victorian age, only prostitutes, harlots, and some of the male members of the lowest classes were still more or less freely expressing their sexuality in various antisocial ways, and they were effectively ostracized from the proper and duly repressed society. In our own age, articulations and demonstrations of sexuality have been labeled anything from smut to pornography and have been similarly relegated to the fringes of what is commonly considered proper society, regardless of their intent. Sexual manifestations, representations, and verbalizations in practically any form to this day constitute the essence of the greatest of all social taboos, no matter how artistic, how tastefully erotic, or even how spiritual in nature and significance they may be.

It has only been over the past few years that some women as well as organizations have been reclaiming a growing pride in their sexuality and their sexual attributes. The yoni as an integral aspect of female sexuality is gradually becoming a focal point of literary as well as artistic representations and interpretations again, reclaiming its rightful place in the universal scheme of things. Increasing numbers of books and articles are being composed and web pages created for the specific purpose of purifying and clarifying our society’s attitudes and conceptions of the yoni, elevating it once again to its status of sacred symbol of the cosmos.

After all, the yoni itself hasn’t changed in any way over the course of our long evolution and historical development. Only the social and religious attitudes have undergone such drastic changes so as to transform something as sacrosanct as the yoni, the great source of all life, into an object of shame and derision commonly and routinely referred to with some of the basest and most offensive words in our vocabulary. The ancient Romans are at least partly to blame for this: their word for the yoni, the Latin pudenda, has its root in the verb pudere, meaning “to be ashamed”, and literally translates into “a place of shame” or “that of which one ought to be ashamed”. Western civilization has successfully managed to propagate the ancient Roman attitude over centuries of sexual repression right into the supposedly enlightened and progressive present without ever questioning or even considering the background or the underlying reasoning of its puritan value systems.

Yet the yoni is still the same sacred place, the same temple of worship it has always been, despite the negative attitudes our society has so carefully and thoroughly proliferated over time. Any visual or tactile encounter should therefore be regarded as a spiritual experience capable of enriching and expanding the soul of the beholder as well as the soul of the holder. The yoni has never ceased to be an object of great beauty, a significant source of creative energy and inspiration worthy of admiration and symbolic veneration. It deserves to be approached and treated with the utmost of care and deep reverence for its existence and for everything it represents. As the symbol of cosmic mysteries, it not only merits but demands great tenderness and genuine love for the intense pleasure and satisfaction it has to offer as its ultimate reward. It also merits spiritual awe in the face of the charged sensuousness, the universal energies with which it has been endowed and for which it was created in its original and primordial form.

© 2008 Peter Baltensperger

Image: Yoniversum

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published most recently in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales and My Wife and Her Lovers, and is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions.

He makes his home in London, Canada with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.

Oh, boy. You’ve heard something like this before, right? Someone of the male persuasion (a friend, maybe even yourself?) talking about how he had some girl crawling up the walls from super human hump action. Yeah, right. I’m a hot-blooded man, too. And I know that during most rump sessions we men tend to have two-minute alarm clocks.

Now, before the PC police come after me, I understand some men have genuine physical problems. “Misfires,” if you will, a real need for the blue pill. I’m not talking about them, though. I’m referring to the Super Freaks, always bragging about lasting longer than back-to-back showings of the movie Titanic. Got the “sword” skills of a Samurai.

And speaking of “sword,” I’d bet these fools have a nickname for their buddy down south, right? Probably something like “Herminator” or “Big Willie.” Sounds about right? I got one, too…but I’ll, uh, keep it to myself.

Despite Big Willie’s talent, though, you sing a different tune once you sample the goodies. Why? Because that private sector between a woman’s thighs is mmm-mmm good. Delicioso. Literally turns a man’s brain to mush. What’s that saying? You spend nine months trying to get out of it, but the rest of your life trying to get back in? So true.

Meanwhile, we men know three things: Lock, load, fire! All in about the time it takes a microwave to heat popcorn. And you know I speak the truth. Hell, the two-minute alarm clock probably sounded off on you last night, huh? C’mon, don’t lie. I know the scenario by heart through sorry experience. It goes something like this:

You’re in front of her, inches from the pearly gates that lead to paradise. She lies spread-eagle. That’s unrestricted access to do whatever you want. She pushes the remote control away to focus on you, but the TV stays on. Don’t matter. Can’t hear it anyway because TV light glows off your lady’s naked skin, clouding your senses. Your gaze seizes on the 38-24-36 cocoa/caramel/butterscotch/vanilla–whichever applies–flavored figure lying on her back. She adjusts her head against the pillow, swipes hair away from her dark eyes. So damn sexy, her feline grace. Nothing compares to a beautiful woman’s birthday suit. Like chicken soup for the “pole.”

Buttermilk smooth legs are bent up, wide open at the ready, field goal style. And you’re in the red zone. Time to give your girl a piece of the rock.

Time: zero seconds.

And so you slither inside…slow…digging into your personal crawl space. Her sweet lips kiss, suck, then swallow Big Willie, deep-throat style. Half-way in, you gasp. She gasps. Or curses. Don’t matter. You drop your eye lids, allow your mind to plug into the Matrix-like sensation of your woman’s channel. Her back arches until her spine loops, legs become wings, two become one, until…

Uh-oh. It’s a different ball game now. Of course, if you claim to be a Daddy Whip King it won’t take Herculean strength to keep from popping the cork off your “bottle” within two minutes. But nine times out of ten, you’ll deflate faster than a tire with a 10-inch puncture. And you’re on the clock.

The dance begins. In the driver’s seat, you ride first gear. I think you know what I’m talking about. Slow, deep dips and circles inside your lady’s ocean. That’s right. Why rush? She rocks with you, same rhythm, same speed.

Time: Forty seconds.

With each stroke, you witness her steady transformation from civilized to barbaric. Manicured nails jab your lower back. Her erratic moans mix with curse words. Such a nice tune. Your favorite song.

Your lady’s vocal chords become a siren, howling like a fire truck speeding toward a 2 am fire. Dribble smacks your forehead. Deeper. Deeper! And that’s what you do…then…

Thump! What was that? Oh, nothing big. Just you knocking the remote control onto the hardwood floor. Takes more than a broken remote to cease-fire, though. Nothing can disturb this groove.

Instead, you open your eyes; a sly grin creeps across your cheeks. Parting her mouth, your lady swipes her tongue along a pair of lips riper than strawberries.

Man…that blissful look she has–a glow. That’s all you, man. Natural beauty manipulated by “penile” power, twisting her face like rubber. Damn, got her looking like plastic surgery gone wrong. But slow down. Pay attention to those tiny tingles in your gut. “I can hold it,” you say in your head. Yeah, right. 2nd gear.

No, no. 4th gear.

Time: One minute.

Bedsprings squeak. The headboard beats the wall. With her legs wrapped around you, her ankles handcuff just above your butt bone. Oh, boy–she got you on lockdown, now. Under her vice-grips, Big Willie nearly drowns in her parted seas.

Time: One minute, fourteen seconds.

She slaps her hands against your butt. No longer a lady, your woman becomes “animal” now. Forget the Barry Manilow soft stuff–it’s time to get Billy Idol on that ass until her whole body rebel yells. Or so you think.

Time: One minute, thirty seconds.

5th gear.

She latches onto the back of your head, stabs her tongue in your mouth. Your faces become a smeared glob of saliva and sweat, but between deep moans, muffled curse words and tongue-fu, your woman cries your name and screams, “give it to me!” And you oblige. Actually, you try.

As your woman gnaws a path toward spasmodic oblivion, tingles within your scrotum have become a beehive, mushrooming into an explosion bound to exorcise your stamina.

“Oh, damn,” you whisper. “Not now!”

Oblivious to your turmoil, your lady yells, “yes! Yes!” Her legs have clamped tighter; you’re a nut, she’s a nutcracker. The siren cries drown the voices in your head, begging you to hold strong. You put up a good fight… somewhat. Easing Big Willie back to stifle eruption, you then attempt mind-over-matter tricks:

Mr. Van Johnson, your fourth-grade teacher, digging up his nose. Nasty. Then the nursery rhymes begin, like the little old lady that lived in a shoe. Humpty-dumpty sitting on the wall. Little Miss Muffet sitting on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Dumb strategy, I know. You learned these diversion tactics from your sexpert buddies. Doesn’t work, though. You’re too busy grunting like a pig with grass stuck in its throat.

Then the “lid” pops open. Uh-oh.

With a deep, hard thrust, little soldiers bumrush toward freedom. One squirt…then two. A cuss word later, you gasp, skin stretches around your neck and then…

Splash. Friction has milked the cow.

Houston, we have a problem.

Now if married, your mini warriors scatter like roaches with the lights turned on. If playing the field, I hope they slam headfirst into a rubber hat.

So now what? All stop. As you pancake your girl, heaving in loads of air while smothering her, a five-second pause sets in. Then your woman says three words no man wants to hear: “No. You. Didn’t!”

Yes, I did, you say in your head.

What happened? Twenty-four seconds into last gear and your gasket sprung a huge leak.

I know what happened: Did you really want to evacuate the premises? Especially while riding a euphoric rush?

I didn’t think so.

And your time? One minute, fifty-four seconds. Beat your record from the night before. But don’t feel so bad. You can get around this! Did you know 88% of men have run the same two-minute sprint at least once? You’re in good company. Happens to the best of ‘em. At this point, however, I suggest you blow Big Willie back up or go “tongue-surfing.” Don’t leave your woman hanging like that! Keep her fire burning until she reaches the apex like you did so damn fast. You definitely don’t want to say something silly like, “damn, baby, that was good,” then roll over into unconsciousness wearing a goofy grin.

If you do, a swift kick to the butt will catapult you off the bed face-first onto the floor–right next to that broken remote control.

Then you, Mr. Super Freak, will suffer long and hard–emphasis on “hard”–because your woman will boycott the booty for at least a month. You two-minute tease you.

So you know what to do: If you can’t super-size Big Willie fast enough, ya gotta go downtown.

Dig in, man! Hope you’re hungry!

© 2005 James W Lewis

James W. Lewis is a novelist, freelance writer and fitness trainer living in Southern California. His publication credits include Zane’s erotic anthology Caramel Flava, Chicken Soup for the Mothers and Sons Soul, Journey into my Brother’s Soul, and Truth Be Told: Tales of Life, Love and Drama. He’s also been published in several magazines, such as VIP New York and Comedy Corner. You can find other writings at www.jameswlewis.com and www.myspace.com/jameswlewis.

James can be contacted via email, at biglew@jameswlewis.com

My name is on the petition to the government, as one more person who understands what this ban symbolizes. I live in the North West of England in Greater Manchester. I am a bisexual woman aged 25, who is engaged to, and lives with, a female partner. I work in the media and so, for personal protection, I will use my pseudonym of fck.

Bisexuality and the BDSM Community

As a bisexual woman, I have the capacity to love and sexually be with a person of either sex. Due to misconception, bisexuality is sometimes referred to as promiscuity, polygamy, ‘living the swinging lifestyle’ and/or being ‘confused’.# Furthermore, the erroneous idea that bisexuals carry STDs simply supports fear of a widespread sexual orientation. Some believe that people who express their sexuality as Bi are in fact following a trend, publicized by celebrities and media idols. It took me many years to come to terms with my desire and my need to romantically, sexually and emotionally connect to someone of the same sex.

The use of the words ‘normal’ or ‘abnormal’, when talking about a sexual practice, is based on the ethical and moral standards that religious beliefs, law or other human codes place upon sexuality in all its many forms. The term ‘violent pornography’ instills panic about the categorization of still images and motion productions of a kind that the majority of western society enjoys. Yet the mainstream of the sexual freedom revolution has created and encouraged an information web that can both liberate and suppress the infinite possibilities and questions created by individuals.

For my part, the internet freed me from the guilt and shame I carried in regards to my sexual needs. It helped me to realize my desires through insight into the sexual practices of a community that declared ‘safe, sane and consensual’ as an ideal and principle – the BDSM community. The images I looked at educated me in the anodyne practice of BDSM, and made clear the levels of physical well-being and emotional security required to engage in the lifestyle. These images, and the webpages that hosted them, provided instruction and support, and revealed a community of genuine people, many of whom have become my close friends.

I have learnt ethics from people in this lifestyle; people who some see as deviant, perverse abusers who should be stricken from society. These principles challenge the stereotype of those engaged in the BDSM lifestyle, and the majority of society could learn from them.

• Fidelity: this is loyalty at its finest, always faithful. Fidelity applies not just to the loyalty of an individual to their partner, but also to their entire household, and to their extended family/friends in the community.

• Integrity: this embraces both consistency and truthfulness. Mean what you say, say what you mean, or say nothing at all. Walk the walk, don’t just talk the talk. Never be deceitful.

• Honour: this is a personal code often associated with warrior traditions. One’s honour is an extension of one’s self and represents what is highest and best in the person. Your honour is affected by your adherence to all of the other values within the lifestyle you follow.

• Courtesy and Hospitality: these are core values shared by many cultures. They dictate how we treat guests, how we are to interact with others etc. Note that the imperative to be courteous applies equally to primary relationships and all others.

• Dedication: this relates to the duty to improve oneself at all times, regardless of status within the community’s continuum. One consciously practises the skills, techniques, values and philosophies of the particular lifestyle one adheres to. This embraces the dedication of an individual in making his/her relationship the best it can possibly be, and dedicating him/herself to another completely, with honest trust and communication.

• Proficiency: it is imperative that a person develops their skills to a level of competent proficiency, and constantly works to improve those skills. Many lifestyles have a formal series of steps one goes through before one earns a specific competency and reputation for emotional safety and physical protection.

• Appreciation: we learn to appreciate that each person’s gifts, talents, roles and practices are important. Each interaction shows consideration for personal boundaries and acknowledges every unique request.

‘Violent Pornography’ in Film

I dislike the term ‘violent pornography’, because it suggests sadistic, abusive and brutal imagery that is exploitative and obscene in content. It ignores the fact that stills from a film can be easily misconstrued. Consequently, interpretation of an innocent representation could leave an individual guilty of possession. The government proposal states that “people who come into contact with pornography material by accident” will not be affected. However, it also states that “viewing images”, i.e. “downloading the information on to the computer” will render a user liable, if that information is deemed to be violent pornography.
So the main issue here is clarity as to who the proposed law is aimed at, and who it is protecting? An argument for this law is that young children who have access to the internet can come across inappropriate images, but personally I think this simply highlights parents’ obligation to provide supervision. I agree that adult material with sexually explicit content should never be viewed by people under the age of 18, but innocent minds are not the only ones being controlled here.
One claim goes: “These forms of violent and abusive pornography go far beyond what we allow to be shown in films or even sold in licensed sex shops in the UK, so they should not be available online either.” I disagree with this statement, as there have been many general release adult films produced for public viewing, including Wolf Creek, Hostel, James Bond: Casino Royale, Devil’s Rejects etc, that contain violent, abusive content of an artificial nature. Certainly these motion pictures are not designed for pornographic purposes; however, they do show extreme bloodshed and torture, with brutality and bondage of some kind. So the question remains, if a single frame was downloaded onto a computer from any of these mainstream films, and incorrectly labeled, would a person go through investigation, media attention, family shame and horrific invasion of privacy due to the misinterpretation of potential ‘violent pornographic material’?
Furthermore, the government makes statements such as: “We do feel it necessary to provide some form of protection for the public. There is a responsibility to ‘reduce demand’ for this kind of material, both to protect those who were abused in its making and the public.” – this suggest that we the public need saving from ourselves. Adults are being treated as naïve idiots who need to be told what to look at and what to think. George Orwell’s 1984 comes to mind as a probable future for us.

Additionally, the terms ‘sexual violence’ and ‘extreme perversion’ are used regularly to justify the creation of the law, but I question this terminology. A dramatization or fantasy mock-up could be created with actors depicting a scene of rape, but the actors involved are playing a part and completely in control of the situation. If an image is captured from this sequence and then shown on the internet, we have another situation where misunderstanding could lead to investigation and prosecution. The problem when using the term ‘sexual violence’ in reference to a clip or image seen on the internet is that an investigation would have to prove that the people shown in the material were non-consenting.

Extreme Ritual in Other Cultures

According to Law Society/BMA documentation: “An individual is presumed to be competent or to have mental capacity to enter into a particular transaction, until the contrary is proved” (1995). Therefore, with regard to ‘sexual violence’, a person must be proven not to be of sound mind in order for consent to be considered invalid. Equally, the phrases ‘extreme perversion’ and ‘brutal, abusive and violent’ are all relative. Take for example the customs and rituals of other cultures, which include ceremonial acts of religion. For instance -

• One Thai ritual involves people striking their backs with blades , knives and swords, walking on hot coals , scrubbing their lips and tongues with blades till bloody and even climbing ladders made of sharp blades for good fortune in the year ahead.

• The Native American Sun Dance features a dancer being pierced in the chest or back, attached to a sacred tree and then pulling until the piercing rips free.

• In the Hindu Kavadi, people wear cages of spears and hooks or even pull religious effigies by hooks in their skin.

Just because it is something we don’t understand, we do not have the right to brand a particular ritual, body modification or brutal-looking image as ‘extreme perversion’. Some people believe that the act of sadomasochism is more an expression of a person’s spiritual ritual, or even a form of guided meditation that provides emotional release from inner pain; others use it as an inner journey, or an endorphin rush much the same as an athlete feels after exertion from exercise. In rape fantasies, the focus is on the feeling of having no control, and the direct difference between fantasy and reality is that ‘nobody wants to be raped, and you cannot rape the willing’. The ethos of BDSM practice is freedom from inhibitions through escapism, appreciation of trust and respect for another person, but instead of embracing those qualities, the government deems such practices ‘extreme perversion’.

The Fallacy of Government Claims

The declaration that by “reducing demand” and “cut[ting] violent porn from our society” they will somehow stop further crimes is a foolish one, as there will always be crimes, no matter what laws are passed. Statements such as “these images are extremely offensive to the vast majority” and “have no place in our society” give the impression of an ‘us’ and ‘them’ mentality that dumps people who view certain pictures into the same category as child abusers and other sex criminals. Those found to be guilty of possession of material deemed ‘violent pornography’ will be treated as sex criminals, and sent to prison for a number of years.

The demand for such images will not be reduced by a law; instead it will go underground, as has happened with child abuse rings. Rape happens regardless of laws; people commit actual assault and abusive sexual acts in spite of the reduction of demand for images found on the internet. Murder will always occur, regardless of any modification in a law – it is the criminal judgement and sentence system that needs changing to mete out harsher punishment to real criminals.

People who engage in alternative sexual habits are often in adult, loving, private relationships with other emotionally stable, competent, intelligent individuals. They make informed decisions in a secure environment, negotiating an encounter or the recreation of a fantasy safely, with or without intense sensory stimulation. If this law is passed these people could be condemned and sentenced, including the possibility of having their names added to the sex offenders register, all for possessing material that might conform to the government’s hazy definition of ‘violent pornography’.

What Actually Happens in ‘Violent Pornography’?

Phrases such as “extreme perversion”, “violent pornography” and “those abused in the making” give an imprecise description of the majority of the images and films under discussion. In most of the available material, the environment is highly controlled and regulated, deliberately set up as an artificial recreation. In general, the models and participants are extensively interviewed and every aspect of the intended recreation is explained in detail, so that each participant is well-informed. There are always many people on the location, carefully studying the participants’ mental state and psychological balance before, during and after the whole experience. These interviews are filmed and the models are given all the information about what is to happen and what to expect from the experience in writing. They are given a safe signal which they can use if needed, and they are watched in case they need assistance. The people creating the experience are knowledgeable in muscular, skeletal and neurological function, and there are medically proficient members of the crew, keeping watch on the event. There are also photographers and film crew taking the stills or film. This makes most of the material extremely safe, sane and consensual, with the participants protected, and in a secure, controlled environment. Therefore, the accusations that the material available is “violent”, “extreme perversion” and “abusive” towards those involved are in fact incorrect and inflammatory.

The comparison of domestic abuse, child abuse, rape, torture, self-harm and sexual abuse with images that depict BDSM (aka ‘violent pornography’) shows a lack of understanding of BDSM practice. There is no consideration for or appreciation of the differences: instead, the images and films spoken of in the proposal are seen to be the same as exploitation and corruption, involving non-consensual aggression. In reality, the difference here is that people who commit acts such as domestic abuse, grievous bodily harm and sexual abuse violent others’ consent, are morally corrupt and need serious help. They are psychopathic, with no conscience and no social remorse. Graham Coutts, the murderer of Jane Longhurst, who had material deemed to be ‘violent porn’ on his computer, is an example of a person who is mentally unwell, with no empathy and no sense of wrong. Jane did not consent to what happened to her, but despite the laws in place at the time, a crime was still committed.

People with sure moral and ethical minds know what is right and wrong, regardless of what laws are in place; they don’t need a law to tell them that to act out an image or a scene from a film on a non-consenting human being is strongly ill-advised, and entirely illegitimate. These people can make their own minds up and judge decently, justly and with conviction. The defence of ‘corruption’ from viewing an image is weak and inadequate. Others can see the same image over and over and not make the same choice. 60 years of research shows no conclusive evidence that these ‘violent images’ case violent acts.

The Myth of ‘Protecting’ Women

One of the arguments in favour of this law is that women need protecting from men who commit crimes against them. This attitude is dated and incorrect, being based on the assumption that women are weak, abused people. Every gender is at risk from being harmed emotionally, physically and mentally, but this proposed law will not protect them – only information and guidance will. The government’s assumption that only heterosexual couples are involved in intense sensory stimulation shows their lack of understanding of the diverse range of people included in this lifestyle – from heterosexual to homosexual, pansexual, transsexual and everything in between, including poly relationships. My personal relationship within this lifestyle is with a female partner, where we participate in privates experiences that could be seen as ‘violent; and ‘abusive’, if perhaps a single image of our interaction was recorded. From an outside viewpoint, even some sex scenes could be misconstrued as ‘violent’ if a single frame was taken. This simply proves that images are not always what they seem, and there is much scope for errors in judgement. My partner and I could be targeted and dragged through media attention and slander if an image was released and misapprehended, possibly affecting our future work and bringing down family disgrace. The law needs clearer definitions of who they are protecting, including ways of finding evidence.

Information available on the Internet, including images, gives us guidance on how to correctly and safely take part in private emotional and physical connections through the powerful evocation of the senses. People who wish to participate in a fantasy recreation of intense sensory stimulation should have access to information on relevant safety issues. Fantasy can be a way of working out past issues in a secure environment, perhaps by borrowing images from films, books or art, and in the correct circumstances it can be a healthy expression of sexuality. People involved in these practices learn together and discuss and debate the safety issues of participating in such an experience, and also recognize a safe signal which can be used to convey to a partner that something is wrong. Adults do not need protection, the need knowledge and access to information so they can make their own decisions and decide on their own courses of action. Typically it is the submissive who controls and limits BDSM interaction to ‘This far and no further’, not the dominant – which completely contradicts the psychology of abuse. Within any arbitrarily selected group of people you will find someone who was abused but survived; however, that should not imply that if you take a cross-section of the population, those members of society who are involved in BDSM are always abuse victims.

The Future

With all the new media attention on consent and the misinterpretation of sexual experience as rape, I suspect the next step will be ‘consent forms’ – having to sign a document as proof of agreement to participate in sexual relations of any kind. Or perhaps our society will become a judgemental law system that does not allow for diversity in sexuality and sexual experience. A possible direction for the future may be protectionism, interventionism or regulation by a “Nanny State” or a “Totalitarian” society which enforces excessive protection, perceiving adults as corruptible, naïve and unable to make any decision.
With Section 28, “books, plays, leaflets, films or any other material showing gay relationships as normal” were banned. This was overturned after much campaigning, but showed that even in our time prejudice and judgement are still strong. Going back 20 years, S/M was still an underground thing, mysterious and dark; today, however, simple sex shops such as the mainstream Ann Summers sell toys for S/M and bondage. The programme “Sexcetera” shows every aspect of an S/M lifestyle, from bondage to fetish. So it is strange how S/M is simultaneously viewed as ‘not part of normal society’ – pathological, harmful, evil and insane – even though it is readily available and accessible to all. Sexual behaviour rarely fits neatly into a box imposed by society or religion, and behaviours such as adultery, sexual abuse and serial monogamy are more common than most societies are willing to acknowledge. I believe that this particular law is our society’s way of getting rid of perceived ‘undesirable’ forms of sexual expression by creating a law that targets and highlights practices ‘with no place in this country’. What the law forgets is that sexual liberation is growing, and people who search for a break from the mundane responsibilities of life are escaping to the erotic depths of their minds.
Conclusion – Some Suggestions for Improving the Bill
In my opinion, a shake-up of the justice system is urgently needed to correctly sentence criminals who act out sexual/mental/physical abuse, murder, child abuse etc to longer jail times and harsher punishments. This should replace the harsh sentencing of people who commit minor offences such as not paying a council tax bill or speeding. If the ‘violent pornography’ law must go through, then there should be clear definition of who the law is trying to get rid of, and who it is trying to protect. There should be changes such as the removal of the proposal to place names on the sex offenders register, as I feel that the images referred to are by no means the same or related to child abuse or sexual abuse. There should be explanation of how those enforcing this law will find the criminals and identify non-consensual acts of abuse. If consent is the issue, perhaps legal documents are needed for all participants to sign for protection in case of investigation. These suggestions could help defend those who could be targeted if the laws proposal goes through.

References:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4195332.stm

http://www.btinternet.com/~parrothouse/Thailand.htm

http://wiki.bmezine.com/index.php/Suspension

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychopathy

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/611704.stm

http://www.youareunique.co.uk/BDSMstudyP.htm

http://www.pinknews.co.uk/news/articles/2005-2439.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nanny_state

http://journals.aol.co.uk/enflamed11968/SorryThisIsntACornyLovePoem/entries/2006/02/03/part-2/923 http://www.pleasureactivism.org/sex_pos_fem.html

http://www.channel4.com/health/microsites/0-9/4health/sex/sar_rules.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sexual_freedom

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Totalitarian

© 2007 FCK

Image: © 2008 Lucrezia Magazine. Image is an article graphic and not a depiction of the author.

Article first published on Backlash

- Backlash was created in 2005 by the Libertarian Alliance, the Spanner Trust, the Sexual Freedom Coalition, Feminists against Censorship, Ofwatch and Unfettered to collate evidence for an informed debate on censorship and to fight plans to criminalise ownership of material the Home Office finds abhorrent.

I was read bible stories and Uncle Arthur’s Bedtime Stories but they never really read the bible to me or preached at me. It was a very open household. I was not taught that sex was a dirty sin. I was taught that it was something beautiful and special to be shared with the right person. My world was all about strong, independent women and this shaped my outlook on life including my faith and my sexuality.

As I grew older and had more contact with the outside world and more understanding of the world and people around me I realized not everyone had the same views of God. I also realized most people who were religious, who considered themselves to be Christians, were nothing like my mother and grandmother who were so kind and loving towards everyone.

Male Christians in particular seemed to have many issues with women, believing they were inferior and supposed to be subservient to men. I did not want to take any part in the male confines of Christianity. I did not feel that I should be subservient to men or that my sexual needs or desires should be considered dirty, immoral or bad. Why did men have all the power? Why were men allowed to sleep around (sow their wild oats) and have many sexual “conquests” that labeled them a stud or something similar, while a sexually aggressive female was a slut, whore or much worse? The inequalities shocked and upset me.

In some stricter forms of Christianity men are supposed to be morally clean and also remain a virgin until marriage along with their female counterparts, but there still seems to be a double standard. The men do not seem to be forced to uphold that morality and they are not punished like a woman is. A woman is not worth marrying if she isn’t a virgin and she can become a social outcast. I guess part of it is because you can’t really tell if a man has lost his virginity or not while a woman can be examined to determine whether or not her hymen has been broken. Even if a man could be examined they would probably never be put through such a humiliating process while many women are still put through this exam today if their virginity is questioned (not just by strict Christian sects but by other religions too).

It is said that knowledge is power and also the number one enemy of religion. I started reading the bible and really studying the Christian religion. I didn’t like what I found. In the bible women are portrayed as dirty and unclean. If they spoke up or stood against men they were whores or witches and should be put to death (thou shall not suffer a witch to live). Many women in the bible are evil, conniving, or just weak. They are supposed to serve God and men because men were created in God’s image. Christianity also seemed to portray sex as the most disgusting and hideous thing that should only be done to procreate and that no pleasure should be taken from sexual union (then why did God make it feel so good?)

I couldn’t see myself worshiping a God or following a religion that said I was not equal to men, that I was not just as important as a man. My sexuality and my sense of self as a female have ultimately influenced my views about religion and the choices I have made concerning my faith and religious preferences. I knew there had to be a more female friendly faith out there somewhere.

I started studying other religions, hoping to find something better, something more. There had to be a religion that did not censor sex or female sexuality. I found that in many ancient religions sex was celebrated, and ecstasy was a religious experience. Just take a look at Tantric texts and the Kama Sutra. Even Pagan religions celebrated sexual union through extensive fertility rites and rituals. Yet Christianity censored sex right from the beginning. Jesus was born to the “virgin” Mary, taking all the naturalness of sex right out of the religion.

I see Christianity as a religion formed by men who hated and feared the power of women. These men were coming out of Pagan times where the Goddess was worshipped. Women had the power. They wanted to squash that power and take over. Throughout history the Greeks, Romans, Egyptians, Indians almost everywhere right down to more modern Native American cultures Goddesses have been worshipped either alone or alongside their male counterparts. Some cultures had a whole pantheon of Gods and Goddesses to worship. It seems to me ancient cultures were a little more correct in their belief systems. They understood balance. Like the yin and yang, there is both male and female in everything. Yet Christianity only focuses on the male: God the father, Jesus the son, the trinity of the father, son and the Holy Spirit (also male). The only Christian faith that pays any attention to the female is Catholicism, they worship and pray to Mary along with God and Jesus.

Christianity has taken away female power and sexuality and turned women into subservient wives and mothers or into unclean, dark things to be feared and kept out of the light. By turning sex into something sleazy and disgusting that should only be done by married couples (man and woman only) under the cover of darkness and only when trying to procreate, Christianity has destroyed the naturalness of sex and the power of women.

Women are sexual creatures with desires, needs and great capacity for pleasure. Women are nature, women are sex, and women wield power over men with their sexuality. Women have what men crave. The men who created Christianity knew this and feared it. They wanted to control women, command them instead of being in their control.

Today many women fear their own desires and needs, feeling dirty and unclean, feeling like a whore if they are sexually open. Some men want women to have sex with them but only to please and serve them, they don’t seem to want women to actually enjoy sex and really want it on their own terms. Men still crave and need that control. As I grew up I came across many men who could not stand a strong independent female like myself. They preached God to me and tried to make me a slave to them, either through verbal or physical abuse or both. I’ve been called a slut, a whore and every name in the book. Men tried to destroy who I was, tried to beat the Goddess out of me. I heard all kinds of excuses too, sometimes they used God. Man was created first and woman was created to serve him (which by the way, science proves otherwise. Every life starts as female inside the mother’s womb and then may or may not develop into a male, so really it is Adam out of Eve not Eve out of Adam).

In my quest to get away from the torturous confines of Christianity and the evil men do in God’s name I found Wicca and other Goddess based religions. Throughout the past thirty years or so there has been a resurgence of the old earth based and Goddess based religions. The tides are turning and women are realizing there is more than what the bible has to offer. Women are reclaiming their sexual identity, power and freedom without fear. Women are embracing their sexuality and not being afraid of their own desires. Many are doing this by becoming in touch with the Goddess; the ultimate feminine, and the female energy that resides in all of women and that is in nature and mother earth.

Wicca is centralized around nature and around the Goddess. It is the fertile Goddess who gives birth and nurtures everything around us. In Wicca women are not viewed as dirty, evil or unclean. Women are celebrated, every aspect. The trinity of maiden, mother and crone shows all the changes women may go through throughout life whether physically, emotionally or symbolically and all are celebrated. Sex is celebrated. Sex is natural and wonderful, not dirty or sleazy.

Wicca lets women reconnect to the power of the Goddess and reclaim their own power, including their sexual power. Men are not left out in Wicca. There is a balance of male and female energy and Wicca teaches that. No one has the upper hand and no one is subservient to someone else. It is the way it should be. I found a religion that is true to what I believed deep in my heart from the beginning. It made sense to me. I have reclaimed my feminine power and celebrated my sexuality without fear. My sexuality does not have to be hidden or confined behind religious doctrine and locked doors. I can be open and free about who I am and what I am. I am a woman and proud to be one. I have connected with the Goddess and found the Goddess in myself.

© 2008 Roxanne Rhoads

Roxanne Rhoads is a freelance writer, erotica author, poet, and editor She writes everything from articles to web content. She is interested in all things sexual so her writing focuses mainly on topics involving sex including; erotic fiction and poetry, how to articles, product reviews, female sexuality, and female sexual rights. A sexual connoisseur and creature of the night, She is an outwardly quiet person who best expresses herself with the written word. If she wants you to know or believe something about her it will appear in her writing. A lady must always have secrets and she guards hers closely. A voyeur at heart she lurks in the shadows learning the secrets of others while she remains a mystery.

Roxanne’s writing has appeared in Playgirl Magazine, on Tit-elation.com, JustusRoux.com, Oysters and Chocolate (Online) and The Erotic Woman (Online). You can learn more about her at Roxanne’s Realm, My Space and her group for erotica readers and writers, Erotica Lovers.

So said the 18th century German philosopher Immanuel Kant, in his Kritik der praktischen Vernunft (Critique of Practical Reasoning, 1788)*. As a philosopher, Kant was interested in the logical underpinnings of morality. Any undergraduate philosophy major could tell you that Kant’s philosophy was not of the Hedonistic school. Nor was Kant a stripper or a porn star.

If you are an undergraduate philosophy major, struggling to pay your way through college, then you may well consider getting a part-time job as a stripper or porn star. If you do, and you are a woman, consider using the stage name Immanuela Kunt. Think of Kunt in the Inga Muscio sense*.

But this is not the challenge.

Rather, the challenge is to stimulate desire and provoke the sensual pleasures of the feelings in your lover with a specially prepared meal. This meal is inspired by a game played by philosophy majors and non-Philosophy majors alike in the dining halls of undergraduate schools across the nation.

If your lover is aroused by women, then you will prepare a meal of foods that evoke the shapes and textures of the vulva and vagina. If your lover is aroused by men, then you will prepare a phallic meal. If your lover is bisexual, then the choice is yours, depending on which feelings and desires you would like to provoke.

Creativity is key. Perhaps the first food that springs to mind when considering the vaginal meal is raw oysters, with their slippery texture and bivalve shape somewhat suggestive of a woman’s parted legs. Oysters alone cannot be the whole meal, though. There must be a variety of foods, all of which suggest female genitals in some way. The leaves of a red cabbage, skillfully arranged on a plate Judy Chicago-style, bring to mind a vulva. Foods with a hole, such as doughnuts and certain breakfast cereals, resemble a vaginal opening, and so much more so if they are pink.

Barbara Walker’s The Women’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets is a treasure trove of inspiration when it comes to foods associated with the female anatomy. Some of its suggestions: eggs, the red fruits (especially apples and pomegranates) traditionally associated with the uterus and/or menstrual blood, and cherries. You may also serve fava beans. Fava is Italian slang for a woman’s genitals, according to the Encyclopedia.

Likewise, it is not enough to simply serve hot dogs or other sausages for the phallic meal. Consider carrots, bananas, cucumbers, zucchinis, and bread sticks. Be creative and diverse. Include not just penis-shaped foods, but also foods whose shape and texture suggest the scrotum and testes, such as figs and prunes. Don’t forget that milk and creamy white foods (ranch dressing, for example, or tapioca pudding) suggest semen. For dessert, consider Twinkies, for their phallic shape and cream filling.

Serve this specially prepared meal to your lover, and watch for the reaction. Pleasure? And if so, is it pleasure of the mind, or of the senses?

* Translated by Raymond Blakney, and quoted in Blakney’s An Immanuel Kant Reader
** Inga Muscio, Cunt: A Declaration of Independence, 1998

© 2008 Erin O’Riordan

Erin O’Riordan’s fiction, essays and articles have appeared in webzines such as Clean Sheets, The Erotic Woman and Oysters & Chocolate. Recently, her work has been accepted by Playgirl (June 2008 issue) and the anthologies Love Bites (Torquere Press) and The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions (Carroll & Graf). Visit her online at aeess.com

The first time I got pregnant, I was eighteen; it was the summer before my sophomore year of college. I was seeing this guy with whom I’d convinced myself I was completely in love. For one reason or another, before hooking up with him, I had gone off my birth control pills. We had a lot of sex, I was firmly in denial and I got pregnant.

My older friend Nancy, who had the red/gold/red hair of a Hemingway heroine, took me to my first abortion. I don’t remember much of the procedure itself other than the fact that it hurt a lot, and I could see the suction pulling at my stomach from the inside. I remember the morning sickness before; I remember my breasts getting bigger and my father asking if I was wearing falsies. I remember, too, that after Nancy gave me a glass of orange juice served in a wine goblet.

I remember she drove me to and from the appointment in her Fiat Spider, and she held my hand as the “Health Advocate” announced what the doctor was doing to my insides. That’s what I remember of my first abortion. (I myself would be the Nancy to two other friends, holding their hands, massaging their bellies, giving them orange juice after their abortions.)

What I remember of my second was the getting pregnant part. On break from college, I got fucked by a friend under another friend’s parents’ dining room table.
I could get pregnant, I told him.
“Let’s make a baby,” he said, and we did, or we might have, if I hadn’t made the choice to get the abortion. I don’t remember the abortion itself, though I do remember asking him for his half of the money.

The next one I didn’t abort. The next time I got pregnant by someone, somewhere, it was ectopic—the egg hadn’t descended all the way down my fallopian tube and the pregnancy took root in the tube itself. The pregnancy grew, unbeknownst to me, and ruptured my fallopian tube while I was having sex with my younger boyfriend. He drove me the short distance to the hospital, and in that time I’d already started going into shock.

By the time the doctor whirled in the emergency room blurting out, “I hope you know that you’re taking me away from my best friend who’s having her first baby,” I already had Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots are Made for Walking” playing in infinite loop in my head. I was already growing cold.

By the time I was being wheeled into surgery, I heard everyone speaking in Southern accents. I had bled two pints of blood internally when I ruptured my tube. I spent New Year’s in the hospital, an IV in my arm, and a cancer patient dying slowly as a hothouse rose in the bed next to me.

Pregnancy number four ended in abortion number three. Pregnant by my boyfriend, I was living in Boston. I took myself to and from the clinic by myself. Pregnancy number five was by him too—this time in Vermont, though in misremembering I might have switched the order. In any case, he went with me, white-faced and dry-lipped to one and left me to fend for myself for the other.

The next one I was here in New York. I got pregnant by this Brit named Rex. He was angry that I’d gotten pregnant—though he hadn’t pressed condoms when we had fucked despite much he had pressed the fucking—because he was saving money to go biking extensively in South America. I took myself to that abortion too. I remember that the morning sickness preceding it was particularly evil, and that this abortion was the first one in which I was unconscious. I remember I cried when I woke from the anesthesia, a quirk I have. Anesthesia causes me to sob uncontrollably.

Abortions six and seven came from pregnancies with a man named Cliff, the heretofore love of my life, and they were the only ones that I really imagined perhaps keeping, if we had been more solid together, if his parents had accepted me, if he hadn’t been twenty and I thirty, if things had been different, if I had been someone else, not me.

The first one he went with me, and afterwards, I fell asleep on his couch, my head on his thigh. He didn’t move for two hours, though his leg went all pins and needles under me. He loved me, you see. The second one I went by myself. I did so because I thought it traumatic for him and I wanted to save him from it, and I suppose save myself too. He never forgave me. That last one was almost fifteen years ago. To my knowledge, I have not been pregnant since, though I fear it regularly, even when I haven’t had sex.

I had, in all those years, been on and off the pill. I had had a diaphragm, and I had had a cervical cap. I had had sponges and films and condoms. I had had big wide pantheons of birth control and sometimes I’d used it, and other times I didn’t. I was exceptionally fecund. I don’t blame my fecundity for my embarrassing track record of terminated pregnancies. I don’t blame any one thing, really, for it was a clusterfuck of issues that made it possible for an intelligent and forthright girl-woman such as myself to make this same mistake again and again and again and so forth to eight.

I knew full well how to prevent pregnancy. In fact, I’d known since I was about four, when my mother told me in excruciating detail first how babies were made and then how babies are not made. Even being a baby myself, I could see what her subtext was: she was saying – in effect – had I had this, this pill, you would not be here.

My abortions were in part my attempt to rectify my mother’s mistake. I was trying — and failing, failing miserably — to take control for my mother’s poor decision-making process that had left her alone at nineteen, a single mother. In part, my abortions were my attempt to compete with my mother. If she defined early adult life by her sexuality, then I would do so too, and with a vengeance. I out-fucked my mom. I did it in her face, a whirlwind fuckforce of blonde retribution.

But in part, my abortions were a by-product of my constant and desperate attempt to be close to someone, somewhere, somehow, regardless how flawed and regardless how wrong. Sex was the closest I got to love for a very, very long time in my life, and ok, cue the Oxygen for Women soundtrack; sure, it was because I didn’t love myself.

I know a lot about not loving my self. In fact, I know with agonizing precision how much a person cannot love me. I have spent so many long bleak atomic wintry years of my life not loving myself that there is little a person can say to me that is outdone by what I have said to myself. And clearly, my will to terminate and terminate again and terminate once more was as much a by-product of my self-loathing as anything else.

This story of endings is a story of endings. It is a story of ending these pregnancies, obviously, but it is also a story that closes a chapter on the will to self-destruction that tick-tick-ticked in my basement for most of my life. I don’t have many lingering apparitions about my abortions—the occasional I-forgot-my-baby-on-a-bus dream is pretty much it. I don’t feel badly that I had them. I don’t feel badly that I didn’t do the altruistic thing and give some couple a white baby. I don’t feel badly that at forty-five I might very well have spent my reproductive years not reproducing.

I do feel badly that I couldn’t see the naked and pulsating truth of the pain I was causing myself—and others—earlier. I do feel badly that I didn’t find the help I needed to start healing earlier. I do feel badly that it seemed that I didn’t have a choice—not that I didn’t have a choice about having the abortion, but that I didn’t have a choice not to put myself through this repetitive rodent wheel of pain again and again and again to eight.

Today, I find, I am fortunate. Today, I find, I do have a choice. And my choice is this: to live and to tell and to tell the tale of me. It’s not always an easy thing to do, but in doing so, I give myself the precious gift of life, my life, as I understand it.

Almost two years ago, when I first told this story on my blog, I was terrified, and after I had summoned the nerve and hit the “publish” button, I walked around in a wondrous sense of relief mixed with a jangly fever of anxiety. I was fully expecting a full ration of pro-life shit, and I got some, not as much as I’d expected, but some.

What I was not expecting, and what I got in great, heaping mounds, even from people I knew, was condescension from individuals who consider themselves pro-choice. Despite searching, I can’t find any of the blogs who linked to my post, but to a one, the writers who linked to me essentially condemned me for exercising my choice to abort a few too many times. Their objection boiled down to a single sentiment and that was this: I’m pro-choice, but seven abortions are too many.

This condemning wasn’t only virtual. Shortly after writing the piece, I was at a sex-blog social gathering in New York City, where I live, and I talked about the post, how I felt about writing it, and the reaction I’d been getting from people who showed themselves to be pro-choice—but only to a point. The women I was talking to were to a one more sexually adventurous than I. Every one of them had been to sex parties. One of them made pornos. To my shock, one of them said that she agreed; in her mind, I had had too many abortions. I should have, she thought, learned my lesson.

I was taken aback. I thought that this space was a safe one. I thought that I was free to express my obvious pain over my past, my abortions, and my writing. I felt like a kitten slapped on her fresh pink nose for a solecism she did not understand. And it all lead me to wonder why it is that people who would consider themselves liberal would hasten to condemn another so readily, even when that person was in pain.

Today, almost thirteen years after my most recent abortion, I still feel pain about what I put myself through over and over again. I recognize that my abortions—and the lingering ache I feel over them—have more to do with my ancient self-loathing as anything else. I recognize too that I no longer loathe myself as I used to. I forgive myself for my loathing and the somatic susurrations of that loathing.

Seven abortions are too many, but it’s not ethics or pure empiricism that makes seven too many. It’s simply too many because the pain that caused me to do it and do it and do it again, each time to myself, and each time with no less pain, was too much pain for any human. No unmarried, unsupported, ill-educated woman in her right mind would choose to get pregnant that many times, and I was not in my right mind.

It’s a good thing that I could make one good choice in the midst of that hurt, and that one good choice was to abort. I remain grateful, profoundly and unutterably thankful, that the choice to abort was legal, readily available, and relatively affordable. For these reasons, I remain proudly, staunchly and violently pro-choice, and woefully inadequate to the task of facing my ideological opponents with any semblance of grace.

© 2008 Chelsea Summers

Finding herself uninspired to write her doctoral dissertation, Chelsea Summers began writing her award-winning blog, pretty dumb things, in March 2005. Since then, her work has appeared in magazines, anthologies and online. She has been interviewed by the legendary Susie Bright for her Audible.com show “In Bed With Susie Bright,” and her work has been featured by Playboy radio. Currently, Chelsea is writing a series of articles for Penthouse Magazine, among many other projects. Chelsea lives and writes in glamorous New York City, NY. She has gleefully abandoned the world of academia for the writing life.

“You’re lying,” I gasped. “Who ever heard of an inconclusive AIDS test?” This announcement, from my lover of six years, after a marathon bout of lovemaking, made me jump out of bed and stub my toe. I ignored the pain, struggling to speak in a normal tone to discover the facts.
“Have you got it or not?”
“The doctor gave me two tests and told me to ‘go about my business,’” explained Alex, stretching out to pull me back to bed. “I asked Dave months ago. He’s sure I’m fine. He says only gays and dope fiends get AIDS!”
“You’ve known for months and didn’t tell me,” I growled. “Anyway, Dave’s a Dentist. What makes him an expert?”

My partner, relishing the slumber his Casanova-like exertions had earned him, fell asleep. Vigorous shakes failed to wake him. I lay there in a stupor waiting for daylight. Intermittently, I dozed off and a repetitive nightmare kept shocking me awake. It always began with the voice of my Hispanic friend Carlos who died of AIDS eight years ago.

“Cowardly wretch, why didn’t you visit me in the hospital?” His accusatory voice grew louder as he jabbed me with a pointed skeletal finger. A chorus of HIV positives with running sores and rashes backed him up, reinforcing my guilt.
“I couldn’t bear it Carlos,” I moaned, “to watch your weightlifters body become emaciated, your bowels a mess.”
“Carlos who?” whispered Alex. “Have you been cheating on me?” He muttered, hoping for an encore.
“Go back to sleep,” I snapped, huddling at the furthest extremity of the bed. I lay there in shock at my lover’s cavalier attitude towards a life threatening disease that he might have transferred to me.

Next day, from home, I called the AIDS hotline myself because Alex was dawdling about taking another test. I hesitated to call my own doctor for fear the test would come back positive. What if my family and friends found out?

“Bastards,” I shouted at the perpetual busy signal. My vision blurred and I imagined myself going blind from AIDS. Finally, a supervisor picked up. He refused to let me make an appointment for Alex. I found out that the testing center nearby was booked for two months; however, the one in East Harlem had an appointment immediately.

I phoned Alex and begged him to call at once. “What about you?” he hissed,” It takes two to tango.”
“Me,” I stuttered in disbelief. “Why, I avoid chemical hair dyes, canned food, fur and seldom eat meat.” I struggled to hold back the tears welling up. Was this the same man who begged for frilly articles of my lingerie to kiss before he slept, who swore I was the dream woman he’d waited for since childhood?

“Maybe we shouldn’t see each other over the holidays? Let’s wait till this thing is straightened out, OK honey? You sound really stressed out. Don’t think we’d have much quality time together right now.”
“Monster,” I croaked, slamming down the phone. I decided to take my own test, which meant running the gauntlet of East Harlem. For a Greenwich Villager, whose entire world revolved around downtown movies, theaters, bars and restaurants, East Harlem seemed as remote as the Maldives. Perhaps I should apply for a passport? The prospect of an hour subway ride, when I either took cabs, the bus or walked, made me nauseous in advance.

I envisioned myself being trapped in the crossfire between drug dealers and cops, my bullet ridden body tossed into the gutter among slimy needles. Perverts would chop my corpse into bite size pieces that dogs would chew up. Sweating, I phoned the Harlem Center.
“Pick a three digit number,” ordered a detached voice.
“666,” I blurted out, a hair trigger from raving. How appropriate, the number of the Beast!

As a bored voice on the phone grilled me about my sex life, I repressed the impulse to slam treasured pottery against the wall. How in the Hell could I remember what happened sexually eight years ago? Dredging up one night stands mercifully buried in memory made me tearful. Nor did I wish to remember the long term affairs, which also ended badly. “Accept in your mind that anything that can happen can happen to you!” This maxim of the Greek sage Pythagoras prepared me for the worst philosophically. It was the real time anxiety that I found devastating.

Could I commandeer an armored car for the trip to Harlem? I wondered. Finally, resigned, I boarded the local train. I welcomed the company of other riders, gaining comfort from their chatter and protective numbers. At each stop I silently implored the riders near me to stay on the train. Few lasted to 116th street. Those who did beat me out the door.

Apprehensive, I made my first visit to El Barrio–alive with barking dogs, bodegas and street hustlers. The residents were too busy carrying on their daily occupations to bother about me–becoming more and more crazed as I searched for the Board of Health. I blanched at the first sight this stunning example of jailhouse modern.

The dingy office reeked of disinfectant. A receptionist indicated a chair next to a dozing man, every inch of his face pockmarked. A female counselor dressed in a tailored suit ushered me into a bare walled office. Phyllis specialized in paralyzing questions: how many partners I been with since 1988? How many men since then had ejaculated in my anus, or on other parts of my body?
“Count up the men on whom you’ve performed fellatio?” requested Phyllis, idly twirling her pencil. I found myself wishing for a mezuzah, cross, worry beads or a baby’s pacifier. Why hadn’t I gone to my friendly family doctor instead of putting myself through this medieval inquisition? I felt as though I were drowning in oceans of come, about to be swept out to sea by a tidal wave of fluids surpassing the biblical flood.
“Statistically, being fiftyish and drug free, you’re not in the high risk group . . .But the test will tell won’t it?” jabbed Phyllis in a bored voice. Meanwhile, I sensed that she was on the verge of burn out. Prying into strangers’ sex lives certainly was no dream job.

I thought to myself: we’re around the same age and I fight the good fight, do killer aerobics, fast once a week and make it a fetish to never go on the street without makeup. Conversely, Phyllis is heavy with two half eaten candy bars on the side of her desk. I suspect that dates, not to mention sex, did not come her way often.
“Probably I’ll test negative,” I announce mustering a false bravado.
“You may have the HIV virus and never develop AIDS. These days even symptomatic cases are living longer. Why, I heard of one engineer, hale and hearty for ten years. Of course, he makes megabucks and can afford the best drugs on the market.”
“Ten years,” I parroted, envisioning an erased future. I pictured friends laying flowers on my corpse, which would be to meager to attract vultures. What a fool I’d been to ridicule my parents for their pleasure denying existence. Both, probably orgasmless, died in their mid-eighties. They occupied the same house not world with their daughter whose misbehavior began in the 50’s after she read an unexpurgated version of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
“Every day there are new alternatives to traditional AIDS therapies,” confided Phyllis cheerfully. “New wonder drugs are really extending lives. Be optimistic,” she volunteered. You’re next. Go ahead and take this card out front.

A stunning Latino technician, whose face had the contours of a grandee on an antique coin, fiddled with needles and vials. When he closed the screen to his cubicle around us, a desire to embrace him overcame me. Luckily, I restrained myself. He handled my arm as though it were radioactive. His hands were encased in plastic, his eyes remote. I had been transformed from a desirable woman into a statistic.

Normally, my fragile veins refuse to disgorge any blood. The technician’s magic touch made blood gush into the tube – labeled with a six digit number. Routinely this sample would be sent to a city lab to decide my fate. When the technician opened the screen, I noticed a pockmarked fellow in an identical cubicle next door raise his shirtsleeve for his own test. Would his results be confused with mine? I wondered.

Why not disappear? Flashed into my mind. The prospect of moving to Vermont with one suitcase became alluring. I would become a missing person, a random number in dusty files. The taciturn Vermonter would accept me if I took up a craft, perhaps weaving? One day curious neighbors would find my corpse seated in a meditative posture. My legacy would be piles of hand loomed articles that could be sold at church suppers.

It took two wasted, sanity-gutting weeks to get the test results. Normally, at this season, I’d be planning a vacation to a tropical island. Why bother when, if the results were positive, I’d “rest in peace” permanently? On whom would I bestow the clothes and jewelry gathered from umpteen years of ravaging the racks? Would friends recoil from my stuff the way they had from Carlos’s when his lover tried to give them away?

Hazy vision, diarrhea and constipation keep me homebound. I scour the TV and newspapers hoping for an AIDS breakthrough. Despite tons of money spent on research, a cure is still unavailable. Today the AIDS issue is not front page news anymore. The epidemic has been incorporated into the other horrors of modern life. Lurking, it infects healthy bodies unlucky enough to be its host.

Restlessness drives me from one distraction to another: B movies, deafening discos, Atlantic City, bowling, the ouija board. Nights I lie awake imagining myself cast in the lead of a holocaust operetta; the chorus is made up of my past enemies in Gestapo style outfits. They gloat, while forcing obnoxious gruel down my throat. “She has AIDS, tch ,tch, the selfish smart ass deserves it.” They chant in unison, slamming the door of my airless cell.

Finally, one week before Thanksgiving, my results are ready. I make my way back to the testing facility. While enthusiastic shoppers purchase their fattened bird, I sympathize with the innocent victim about to be sacrificed.

Jaundiced from coping with an overload of women peeing in their pants to know their results, Phyllis professionally distances herself. She chats about the weather, the upcoming mayoral election and other inconsequential items. Meanwhile, her stubby fingers extract a lab report from its folder. She brandishes in front of me while I wished for x-ray vision.
“Let’s see,” she hesitates until I nearly burst with fear.
“It’s negative. I’ll bet you’re relieved.”
“Relieved,” I repeated aloud. Phyllis used a mild word applicable to easing of a minor annoyance. Other joys I’d experienced paled in comparison. Suddenly I wanted to samba out of the office, or set off firecrackers atop the World Trade Center.
“Hold on,” cautions Phyllis, staring at me intently. The test doesn’t cover the last three months. See you in June for a retest,” she muttered, flashing her professional mourners smile.
“What about the next six months and the next,” I wondered aloud. After Alex’s bombshell, I lacked the motivation to search for a new relationship. Perhaps, I should jump on a soapbox to advocate that women adopt celibacy until an AIDS vaccine is discovered? A less radical alternative might be to heed the post porn actress Annie Sprinkle and “learn to love latex.”

© 2008 Barbara Foster

Barbara Foster is an Associate Professor and research librarian at CUNY. She is theco-author of three highly acclaimed books, including the biographies Forbidden Journey (HarperCollins) and The Secret Lives of Alexandra David-Neel (third printing Overlook, 2007). The New York Times reviewed her biography of David-Neel favorably on three occasions: the “Bear in Mind” column called it “a wonderful biography,” and “New and Noteworthy” stated: “Hers was a great human life very well written up.” The New York Review of Books rated the biography “one of the best books of all-time.”

Barbara is a world traveler in the tradition of the heroic women she writes about. She has acted as a referee for Britain’s Royal Geographical Society. Barbara has lectured on David-Neel (the French explorer of Tibet) at universities, conferences, museums, and libraries worldwide–including Harvard, Yale, Princeton and Cal Tech in the U.S., and Sidney, Buenos Aires, Prague, Mexico City, and Calgary among international venues. Recently she spoke before an unprecedented joint meeting of the Harvard-MIT Club. Barbara has written numerous articles, for print and the Net, both scholarly and popular. These pieces have appeared in Travel and Leisure, the Richmond Review(London), Drexel Online Journal, The North Dakota Quarterly, Journal of the West, Culturefront (Summer 2000), Nineteenth Century (cover story–Spring 2002), Jewish Currents (2006), California Territorial Quarterly(2007), as well as on the Internet in popular sites dealing with sexuality, such as Nerve, Clean Sheets, Diverse Publications (UK), Ruthie’s Club and Oysters & Chocolate. Barbara has also published dozens of poems in journals in every English speaking country.

Barbara is joint author of Three in Love: Menages a Trois from Ancient to Modern Times (HarperSF, 1997), which is presently an Authors Guild Selection available on iUniverse and Amazon. The subject of favorable feature stories in the Philadelphia Inquirer and NY’s Daily News. Entertainment Weekly praised Three, calling it “racy and engaging”; the Washington Post said: “the first serious study of collective intimacy”; The New Yorker called it “a people’s almanac of love triangle lore.” Recently, Barbara has been interviewed by the BBC (Channel Four), CBC, ARTE (EU TV), S. Korea’s SBS-TV, and CBS’ 20/20 for TV documentaries on Polyamory, Eve Ensler’s latest documentary on love as well as for articles in the New York Post and the Times Literary Supplement. She is at work on a sequel to Three, which will be the definitive study of the history and psychology of plural love. Barbara has completed her intimate memoir of her experiences in New York and other exotic locales.