…and join me tomorrow for my reading of Best Lesbian Erotica 2008 at Powell’s Books on Hawthorne Blvd. here in Portland. Start at 7:30 pm, and goes for about an hour, I’d guess. I’m going to read some seriously sexy stuff, talk about writing and answer questions. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a big, hot turnout and, of course, that I won’t have a heart attack in the middle of reading. (I don’t usually get nervous when I read, but sometimes I do…and then I do that “can’t breathe! can’t breathe!” thing. It’s usually good for a laugh at least, while I faint and someone has to help me up. Just kidding).
This shouldn’t be one of those times, though. I already know that there will be friends and loved ones in the audience. I usually just look at them and imagine them in bondage. No, hehe. I don’t do that, I swear.
Here’s a snippet from my story, “Native Tongue,” to whet your appetite:
Tucked back in the woods, the hut I rented for us is just that—a hut. Open to the air around the top, with a plain hammock on the front porch. Inside, there is only the bed, and a tiny table. Margret doesn’t seem to care. She runs and throws herself on the bed so that the mattress shoots her back up in the air, sends her damp curls flying out in all directions around her. She pats the blanket next to her. Come, no matter what language you don’t speak.
I start to lie down next to her on the bed, but she shakes her head. She makes a shimmying motion, her hips back and forth across the simple blanket. I tuck my thumbs into the sides of my bikini bottoms, wiggling my hips. Like this?
She puts her hands to her lips and nods. I slide my bikini bottoms down, half inch by half inch, shaking my body with it. Compared to Margret, I’m curvy. My belly slides in above my round hips, accentuates the curvy ass that I can only keep in shape with daily bike rides. She seems to delight in my curves as much as I delight in her angularity.
There is no “Am I skinny enough?” or “Are you sure you should be eating that?” There is only me, sliding my bikini bottom down over the wet and salty curves of me. There is only Margret watching from the bed, her lips parted, her own damp body soaking into the blanket.
I slide the bottoms down all the way, step out of them. Margret runs her tongue across her bottom lip and waits. I unhook the back of my bikini top. There isn’t as much here to shimmy out of, so I just let it fall away. I’ve had my nipples pierced since I last saw her: two tiny blue stones hanging from each peak. Tiny blue stones that match her eyes.
Her eyes get big when she sees them, and she puts her hand over her mouth. Then she rolls over on all fours and crawls across the bed toward me. She takes my hand and pulls me down, until I’m kneeling on the bed. When she leans forward, the smell of saltwater is everywhere. Then her tongue is on my nipple, round and round the nipple and the jewelry. Her warm mouth sucks. The piercings are newly healed, sensitive, but in a good way. Margret catches one between her teeth, and pulls up. My body reacts like she’s pulling on a string tied to my belly, the inside of my thighs. Everything pulls up with her mouth.