Doing it in public...

Reading from "Another Chance."

...reading erotica that is.

This weekend I'll get a chance to read part of my just published story "To Bed" in front of a who-knows-how-big crowd at CatalystCon East. I'm also going to read an erotic poem. Someone asked me once, "how do you do it?" in reference to reading my erotic work in front of an audience. And I've thought about that a lot. [Duh, if you know me, you know I think a lot about a lot of things.]

I was one of those kids who would feel sick to my stomach if I had to get up in front of the class. Same thing in college. But when I became a mom, I suddenly found myself having to speak for my kids as well as other kids, and that was so important, that I found a way to squeeze past my fear of speaking in public. I led volunteer meetings for new & experienced breastfeeding moms for years. Spoke at conferences. But reading or performing your own work, your own words, is very different.

About twelve years ago I started going to a weekly poetry series. I was writing poetry at the time - lots of angsty stuff since I was dealing with some old issues, but not sharing it. Finally, after weeks of being asked if I wanted to read in the open mike, I got up the nerve to read a couple of poems. And I didn't go back for months it seemed like. But eventually I did go back. And eventually I got "used to" reading my work. Some of it.

Some stuff I wouldn't read. But I did share it with my writing group, and when we decided to form a performance troupe [I'd never "performed" really before], when we worked on picking which poems to do, it was my more erotic pieces that were favorites. So, I gathered up my thin threads of bravery into a ball and "went on the road" performing poetry, including some of those erotic poems. Off page, in front of people.

Reading at The Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia

Now, ten years later, reading poetry or my erotica in front of folks doesn't phase me at all. That's not me being all brave and shit, it's not that I don't get nervous. I do. But I've also read enough to know that it's important for people to hear this stuff read without shame. Thank you The Erotic Literary Salon.

Yeah. Shame. Our culture and society attaches such shame to anything to do with REAL sex, that some really weird things happen. We can have 10 story high advertisements on the sides of buildings for underwear [no sex there, just move along folks], but try to have a beautiful black and white photo of a naked couple curled up together on the cover of an erotica anthology, and that behemoth online book sales place has a conniption fit. If you look over to the right, on the sidebar (you may need to scroll), there is a picture of Susana Mayer's SenSexual: A Unique Anthology. Those are the images used on the combined Vol. 1 & 2. That's the images as they should be. These photos were done by Arnold Skolnick, who created the iconic Woodstock poster.

But then look here - at the heart that had to be added in order for this cover to be able to be listed. When the volumes are split up [to be sold separately], the one image was deemed too explicit.

What's wrong with this picture? A somewhat rhetorical question. ----->




And then the images had to be edited for inclusion in a press release [below]. ??? What is wrong with the world? Another rhetorical question.

What's this all have to do with reading erotica in public? Only this - we create our own shame. Once you've read something in public that bares some quite innermost thoughts, and THE WORLD DOES NOT END, and people actually come up to you and thank you for reading whatever it was you read,
you start learning that it's possible to make a small difference in the world.

I  have a real problem with shame. That sentence can and should be interpreted in many different ways.

When I read my story from Joan Price's Ageless Erotica on Saturday night, I will be wearing my FUCK SHAME necklace, of that you can be sure. And there will be pictures.

Say the word, rape: A Rant

Since it's beta days, I've been reading The Rumpus. And every so often, something I read there hits me where I feel it most, right in the gut.

Today, shortly after it was posted, I read Roxane Gay's piece The Careless Language of Sexual Violence (please read). She writes about her reaction to this New York Times article about the gang rape of an 11-year-old girl in Texas. Roxane takes issue (rightly) with the tone of the Times article since it seemed to be more about how the town is being torn apart by this and almost dismissive of the girl and how her life. Some 18 suspects have been arrested with possibly more to come. And as is usually (unfortunately) the case, there's been victim-blaming by some of those in the town.

After reading Roxane's post, I went to comment on it, but sat there blank, not knowing how to put into words what I was feeling, what I was thinking. By the time I was able to post a short something, eleven other folks had already posted, and as I type this there are more than 4 times as many comments. This piece hit a nerve. There are plenty of women out there who have been "sexually assaulted" in some way or another. Including myself.

When I was growing up, "rape" was something that strangers jumped out from behind bushes in the dark with guns and knives to do to girls and women who were foolish enough to be where they were alone. In high school I suffered through the "self defense" unit wondering why I thought it was stupid. The "final test" was to walk into the girl's locker room where one of the guys from the football team would be waiting to grab you and you had to use the moves we'd been shown and try to ... to what? The teacher was sitting there with her grading sheet. Somehow I instinctively knew that this wasn't how it happened in reality, hence I didn't do well on the test. Though I still carry my car keys in a way to gouge the eyes from any would-be attacker waiting in a darkened parking lot. My hyper-vigilance was not acquired in that class though.

While reading Roxane write about how often rape is a theme on television, it occurred to cynical old me that maybe they use rape because they can't use sex. She also mentioned the use of the word "rape" for "all manner of violations, great and small." The examples she used made me wonder "who would ever use them?" yet just a little bit later, someone I know used the term rape in such a manner. It was all I could do to not call him on it. Why didn't I? I'm not sure.

Like it or not, rape and sex are confused, very often, all over the world. Young girls have been raped and abused and then accused of adultery and lashed or stoned to death (when I googled "stoned to death" trying to find the incident I remembered, I got more than a million results, which in itself is sickening). And then there's that business in Georgia - oh good, no more victims! [insert sarcasm here]

And we're all too familiar with the "she was asking for it" line of reasoning. That's the case here too, this girl is said to have dressed "provocatively" and was "wearing makeup and fashions more appropriate to a woman in her 20s." As if THAT was reason for the attack, as if it's only her age that makes this not okay.

Oh yeah, I've got my hackles up. Because there's way more to this story than any of us will ever see from news stories. And this kind of story has been repeated way too many times. At least she didn't end up dead. And yeah, I'm sparing you the links. Not because I'm trying to protect anyone's sensibilities, but because I just don't want to go find them. But they're there in my mind. I remember them.

So why am I ranting? Because, when I commented, I didn't link back to this blog like I usually do. Because I was afraid. Afraid because I write about sex in the fictional, the poetic, and more and more, the non-fictional. Because those lines blur for me. I've always been interested in sex, and I realized that it will be a major topic of my writing for the foreseeable future. But there's a subtle but false dichotomy when it comes to writing about sex. One can write about sex from what I call the intellectual standpoint, somewhat removed from the actuality, the down and dirty of it. To do otherwise, to write erotically, brings the whole "intent to arouse" into it. And that's what erotica is, intended to arouse. Just like porn. But there's a lot of folks that think that's a bad thing, that intent to arouse, and is a cause of stuff like what happened in Texas.

And right now I'm thinking I should just stop now. Delete this whole post. Go chill. Write my silly quick fiction piece. But I won't delete it, but I am going to stop writing for a bit.

I have a whole shitload of topics that I've decided to tackle here on my blog. As soon as I can work up the courage. I've got quite a backlog of links and ideas. Not all to do with sex or sexually-related things, but most are. And that scares me. Because in the back of my head, there's a voice whispering "you shouldn't write/say/talk about this." That's the shame voice talking. And I know where that voice comes from. It comes from inside the head of a little girl who thought she was to blame for the things that happened. And so whenever I encounter that kind of mixed up thinking (like in one of the news articles where someone suggests this 11-year-old-girl "knew what she was doing"), something snaps in me, and part of me wants to go all Lisbeth Salander on folks. But I rarely do, except maybe in words.

So, I'm going to be using my words. I'm going to use them to figure out where I stand, how I feel, and what I want. I'll weigh in with my probably-more-than-two-cents. Because I'm tired of listening to that voice telling me to shut up.