6 March 10

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I keep thinking of typing this

Then I forget what it was

Then I remember, and now I am typing.

My journey of cum drinking in the Witness of others feels good because it is simply me being myself. I get into the honesty of such direct expression and I am also aware of my relationship to shame. I know that by processing in the presence of women, some men, and sometimes publicly, I am enjoying the exposure and enjoying the purgative of emotional relief; of guilt and sometimes grief.

The presence of the woman, openly holding space, gives me permission. You in that manifestation are holding space and in a sense standing guard over my self-sacrament.

I learn to associate the mirror with the Feminine. I gradually bring the concept of woman and feminine into the mirror; into my semen there; into my emotional state when I am on my knees licking.

The only way I can abide the shame of doing that is that woman promises me that I am sane and loving and yeah it’s good that I masturbate like that; she has helped me so much, Heather Fae, all of She, you and all of you. I touch this spot in myself, I yield to the truth of her lovemaking, I am guiding myself down the vortex of: I need you to fuck, to fire my thirst

Gradually this is what the women in my life are doing, all of you.

4 February 10

Masturbation is the Opposite of Rape

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Collette. Photograph for Book of Blue by Eric Francis

How do we solve the problem of rape?

First, we need to understand it, and be honest about it. Rape is the second most violent act of aggression that can be directed at a woman.

The first is murder, and as Inga Muscio (author of Cunt: A Declaration of Independence) points out, the two often happen together. Rape is the toxic eruption of the male sex drive. The ‘reasons’ for rape are as many as there are ‘reasons’ for the projections of anger at women. That anger – whatever its supposed source – can and must be internally mediated within all of us. Rape describes us as individuals, and our relationships.

In a sense, our society is a setup for the dynamics that lead to rape. Rape is romanticized; the conflation of violence and sex is made to seem ever more normal. Then, sex is presented in the media as both an entitlement to men and something that is to be made unavailable by women (teased but not delivered; or morally derided), resulting in a profound degree of frustration for many people.

This is a fermentation tank for the sexualizing of rage and frustration. It does not help that hardly anyone is taught how to deal with their anger or their erotic impulses. It does not help that we tend to see rape as an isolated incident and not the product of an environment or a two-sided energy equation.

Women and girls are too often not taught how to set boundaries and men are taught even less often how to respect the ones they do have. Most women cannot actually say the word no, and too many men cannot take no for an answer. That most women also lack the ability to actually say yes (rather than insinuate it) does not help the assumption that no means maybe and maybe means yes. It is perhaps taboo for women to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ directly to men, but that is an extremely dangerous situation. Among cultured people, yes and no are the ultimate boundaries.

Masturbation, which is consensual sex with oneself, is the opposite of rape, and may be a key part of the solution to preventing rape.

Apart from the fact that rape is ugly and masturbation is beautiful, this is so for three reasons, in my view. If rape is sex without consent, or conscience, masturbation is sex with the assurance of consent, because you give yourself permission to give yourself pleasure.

Next, it provides for men not only an outlet for their sex drive and sexual aggression, but also the embodied statement to oneself that “I am responsible for dealing with my sexual urges, not you.” Masturbation is a step in the process of calling back sexual projection. Done consciously and honestly, it is a space wherein they may process sexual frustration and the resulting rage. This may not solve the more deeply pathological forms of rape, but it surely helps with the more common taking of sex from unwilling women, or those unable to give consent, that absolutely qualifies as rape.

Finally, for women, masturbation provides an opportunity to say yes to themselves, and in the process clear their sexual energy field and raise awareness. In a way parallel to men blowing off sexual steam with the conscious use of masturbation, women can relax into a space of freedom with themselves and let go of the internal sexual tension and ambivalence that can and often does make them a target for male sexual aggression. It’s one of the best ways to get to know your body. For those women who have rape fantasies, exploring them consciously and without guilt is an opportunity to not have to live them out unconsciously.

It is an opportunity to say yes to themselves and therefore have a more solid basis for saying, and meaning – and energetically signaling – both yes and no to others. Explored consciously and honestly, it is an opportunity to be more sexually aware, which (along with common sense) will help women avoid situations where rape happens – and many of these situations can indeed be avoided.

For both men and women, self-given pleasure can be an expression of self-approval that will help nullify violent, self-defeating and unloving impulses. If we can witness one another, we can learn to approve of one another’s sexual realities, and learn compersion – which is compassion for another person’s pleasure and needs.

I can offer at least one example of how this might work. A sexworker I know in Amsterdam said that one of her male clients who wanted to have sex with children would, instead, come to her regularly and masturbate while confessing to this urge. He would embrace her as a witness and leave his mess on the tiled floor of her studio. This, rather than send it ripping through the lives of those who had no business about it and might never recover from the damage and pain that it caused them.

Selflove is powerful healing medicine, if we’re willing to embrace it with unfettered awareness, integrity and pleasure.

20 January 10

poem for Paulina

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Julia at Poly Paradise / Evolution, 2009.

29 December 09

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Jass and mirror.

Hi Eric,

You know I love your ideas. I think I love even more that you passionately you give yourself permission to believe in them, that you embody them, and that you take them into the world. We all benefit from that. So first of all, thank you.

>>It is funny that I am proposing or exploring my own version of ‘abstinence only’<<

It’s totally funny, ironic, and at the same time it isn’t really abstinence, is it? It’s permission to embrace desire and eroticism and love for self and other. Real love, if I can call it that. I think there are lots of examples of something other than “real love” out there. What I know intuitively, and otherwise, is that human beings suffer from lack of loving relationships with self and other. I bet that if we went through each and every DSM diagnostic category, or character structure (e.g., rigid, masochistic, schizoid…), we would be able to make a good guess about how “taking up adulthood” in your sense of this term is the way to heal….

There is something else that I love about your idea and your journey: Love, embrace, compassion all happen at the intersection of self and other—or within a crucible of self/other, even if the other is an internalized or imagined/fantasied other. In my opinion, there is too much emphasis on healing “oneself” with an overlay of it’s ONLY about one’s relationship to self, as though others exist. Or, too many who avoid Self via focus on other, be it blame, attachment etc. I’m curious whether, on reflection, you would say that you could have come to where you are if your masturbation and celibacy weren’t shared in some way? I think there is something existentially foundational about your conception of this movement… too tired to think now, but I will and send thoughts as they come. .. it’s something about solving that problem Decartes made famous long ago!

I’ll finish saying that something about the presence of others within/on your journey is always striking to me…. the sense of authentic relating and how deeply that supports your relationship with yourself—? Or so it seems to me.

Sending love,


From: Eric Francis [mailto:dreams@]
Sent: Tuesday, December 29, 2009 1:59 AM
To: christine
Subject: Idea city

C-far I just had an idea, which is your thoughts as a psych and human about the idea I describe to my friend Jass below; creating a cultural movement of masturbation celibacy. [potentially crucial political tool, too, to help people break free of unhealthy dependency and take up adulthood.] It is funny that I am proposing or exploring my own version of ‘abstinence only’ and 2u of all people I can say how hot it feels to have it be so widly and wildly known what I do for myself. e

———Forwarded Message

From: Eric Francis dreams@
Date: Tue, 29 Dec 2009 01:22:44 -0500
To: lioness@
Conversation: P.s
Subject: Re: P.s

Ok here is what,

One thing about sharing masterbation is that it eludes all of those std issues. Yet it is extremely erotically and emotionally satisfying. I felt so close to you and so free, like we were not attached at the hip in the morning. But we didn’t risk one another. Nor pregnancy, but embraced one another’s sexual realities directly. I want to start a mass movement of this, with a book and videos and a rallying cry for erotic freedom through shared masturbation…open mirror masturbation…and consensual phantasy. I.e., we can agree to fuck on the astral.

About love addiction – this is part of my healing journey about drinking my semen – I figure this out from your observation about yourself. Originally it was a sex thing: I don’t have to deny myself. Then it became a love thing: love yourself [myself] deeply while I’m there. Now, imagine a group of people growing and evolving into selflove, supporting one another fully. Embracing full personhood and offering that to one another.

While dealing with environmental reality. And the thing is: we really need to learn to love ourselves, and to take care of one another holistically. Sometimes I think – this is the sexual revolution 21c.
———End of Forwarded Message

24 December 09

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Dear Jennifer

Meanwhile, in reality

Winter solstice was an axis point, I reached my southernmost declination, and I was letting myself go pretty deep thinking about men: with my knees pulled up or my thirst quenched. Real conversations with female friends about this. I have some photos of me giving a man head and I looked them a lot of times, these pas few weeks (and they are always nearby).

I have some m.friends. That’s a phantasy long awaited, self-created. Mirror girls. Women I feel safe enough being in front of a mirror with. Femme self on self in mirror is so pretty. And gives me permission. Me self on self in mirror is so healing.

Then I tease myself with the phantasy that I will stop fucking and only masturbate; amidst women who can fuck who they please, and do. This hot pool into which I may surrender to myself. Some people have fantasies of getting married and moving to the Caribbean.

I have one of: the women in my life tell me, this is what you need. Trust us.

And I’m confined to the mirror for…one [y]ear.

I agree to watch my face every time.

Every drop that I ejaculate goes back into my body. My goal is to love myself. To learn, not to get my love of myself hung up in how someone else feels about me, but to deal with myself; to approach myself. I am getting to know myself, in this way. [In one variant, I journey with several friends and we make a masturbation celibacy pact and go for a while.]

And then another initiation: After being with myself for so long, I get to watch a couple fuck. And feel myself in their presence – facing myself. I seem to be at that point of my growth where I want to face myself. But like a child I need a lot of help.

The whole time you were walking around the restaurant tonight, I was craving the scent of your pussy and your ass.


17 December 09

Emails, Dec. 18, 2010

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I caught myself: by asking…

what a chickenshit way of saying:

‘it would be hot if he knew’

So I want to speak to your question: or something you pointed out: about the emotional differential before and after I climax. Stripped down to the most basic terms, while I am building and coaxing myself toward orgasm, I can go anywhere and my hottest thought is to drink myself. Then many times after I climax I have the semen and I’m ashamed and it’s a little disgusting and I can’t believe I wanted to do that. I’ve learned to drink myself in that context, gradually swallowing enough of my shame and loving myself for doing it that..on the way I noticed this may be two facets of my psyche involved; not ‘states of mind’ but rather hemispheres of self. In that refusal to drink my cum there is a homophobic moment after I ejaculate. The hemispheres may be hetero and homo, they may be male and female, they may be some mix…

My mirror became my bridge between them. I began to understand that there would be times I wouldn’t want to drink and intuitively began letting go onto mirrors. And my semen collected there. I knew what I would be doing with it. The orgasms onto the mirror with no special pressure to drink myself, were deep and honest and usually moaned out; and always near a mirror, since that’s where my semen was going. One day I was horny enough to lick the dried semen. And I realized how much there is for me there. I mean, in terms of self-reconciliation. My experience of licking off the mirror till I could see myself – what a beautiful metaphor.



I made love to myself, anyway.

Imposing, safety

Just the explicit honesty of that…knowing you had chosen, so close to that moment,

Lov e

To surrender my dignity to your elegance


The weekend you fucked nate and then visited me, you provoked me dealing with a pocked of shadow and abandonment that I needed so badly to get out.

We could go deeper on this – or I could say, I feel a way in. We can explore this more fully; such as: I admit to you that it’s my need that you be fucked by someone else. My need to take the risk. My need to be witnessed in loss and my need to honor She who chooses. My need to be confron[t]ed with your total beauty. My need to feel the pain and humiliation. My need to have the woman who does not fuck me honor my self-exploration. My need to honor the space between us.

My need to give you the healing of the ability to say yess

And not be cast off

My ability to feel your freedom, and welcome you in.

But at the bottom of me is: I explored the space of abandonment, then.

I made love to myself, anyway.


Do you see the mother-love aspect of this? In the life of a man, the woman who gets to fuck, but who he does not fuck, is his mother. As you do this, I explore that not-fucking. But the truth is that I fuck you…or I have fucked you. So if we are exploring something about mother love or the power of mother, and I fuck you…then I’ve tasted that. My mom, when she was younger, was exactly the kind of girl/woman I get hot for. I remember the sight of her nude body, when I was a little kid; maybe four, five. So curious and lovely and different and human, her body.

When I began masturbating, I made no effort to hide it. I came all over my pillows and she did my laundry and I felt comfortable and free to have her see my cum spattered and vaseline soaked pillowcases. It didn’t turn me on per se, I just felt safe and natural. I know she was aware of my masturbation many times as it happened because of the time she came in, sat town next to me for a moment, shared her love and left me alone. This, as I lay there petrified clasping onto the pillow I had been humping when she walked in quietly. Obviously having heard me again.

My masturbation feels like the most deeply approved of sex I have, from the viewpoint of mother.

And when I masturbate in front of the woman who says yes, I am a boy.

Getting naked now.



thank you for holding the mirror for me.

I am so honored to have shown you that person, who I am.

To stand in the shadow of your strength and goddess




Think of it this way. The death of an identity. Sexual orientation is not just about sex, it’s about our whole personality orientation, our image, our social role, our emotional bonding pattern, our relationships. Note the huge drama in the Heartland and even California for orthodox het’s to defend marriage as proprietary. As if, if queers marry, that makes them a little bit queer themselves. So even the institution of het is defending its position en masse.

Who would think that a bit of curiosity about sex with the same sex would threaten that like a house of cards? Yet that’s exactly what happens, and here’s why I think. One who is curious about homosex might well feel that if they get there it could possibly be really good. This is more true for men than women since society seems to smile upon f-f fantasy; it’s en vogue at the moment, lesbo porn is fun for lots of ‘het’ women and so on – it’s acceptable. Partly this is because a woman’s sex with a woman in our eyes makes her extra womanly…even if only in the pleasure of submitting to the male fantasy of her.

M-m is another category, and men know this; they know that their dominant, manly, macho, etc., is not quite the same if people know they’ve sucked a man off and swallowed him (like a bitch). And with that is shaken the whole personality structure, to the point of hinting at the potential death of that structure – which energetically feels like submission to homosexual desire. And admitting that’s really what one wants. For that to happen, the prior personality shell has to die, and before that happens or while it’s threatened, it’s scary.

I am sure there’s also something about letting go of mama. A man is not really a man until he has the sex he wants, and if he wants this, he must stop sucking the nipple and being held as he cums (so similar to a child being held as s/he cries). That is about a man letting go of mama. I’ve a hunch it works the other way around too, that women willing to give up the attachment to papa find it easier to let themselves be lesbian, or to be subsumed by the pleasure.

There is all kinds of indignity presumed in death. I think that looming behind the veil of knowing a man is queer…is the flickering image he expects his friends/family/lover/past lover might have he might lay back and let himself be fucked or need to ejaculate into the mouth of another man. HE feels it poignantly and expects they must at least have a clue and the truth is they do.

And with that his whole prior identity goes up in flames. Or it’s threatened. Now imagine that there’s some experience from the past, say, boyhood of really, really satisfying same-sex sex and he ‘outgrew’ it and went onto women but that experience lives in there and wants to be honored. Imagine if he denies that in some way, and energy builds and it seems bigger than it really is.


3 March 09

All you can do now

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Kris Renta in a recent publicity photo, edited by Eric.

Synchronicity set me off. I rocked on the dildo and took my penetration, imagining a man’s hands clasping her hips, and I discovered something of where she went when that happened.

This young woman looked back at me through her stunned eyes. Hungry with curiosity, and in that female way the more she found out the more she seemed to want to know. When I felt that need to know on her part I mingled it with my own lust for her, as a sense of entitlement to her. Entitlement to pump her full of myself and leave my doubts about myself there as well.

I recognized what I was thinking and I was not impressed with myself. I felt remorse about that entitlement, which dispersed itself into guilt; and there I was, getting off in front of the art of my dreams, ashamed of herself – I meant myself but maybe I mean ashamed that I cannot be that beautiful.

We will see about that, she said – I was certain that she said it in words, she may not have, and I snapped out of my trance and looked at her, uncertain if I had just experienced direct telepathy. She handed me back the silver dish, I thought in a gesture of repudiation: but she reached for her crotch immediately and then I understood she needed her hands, and what she did was stretch her labia open. My thirst flared dry and unbearable, and suddenly I could smell her as if my face were buried in her.

Feeling this, she smiled, dipped some fingers into her core and sucked herself off of them.

This was the most humbling gesture of welcome in the universe – that I could welcome my own presence into the moment – and the look in her eyes informed me bluntly: you are masturbating and when you let it out you’re going to drink it. Miss Renta squatted up and in the same breath had removed and dropped her t-shirt where it fell, squatting again; and then resumed her gesture of delicately splitting open her labia, such that I could see her visibly drip and glisten.

A single wax sculpture in my heart, intertwined blind craving and the submission that I would not taste or fuck her, melted into one red-orange pool.

She was going to make me cumm right then either by compelling me to stare into her eyes, or at her stretched-apart vulva. Either way we both knew I could not hold back. In the moments I had remaining, I wondered where it might be.

I did not have to wait long for my answer.

The woman was fully present behind her eyes, probing into my psyche as I stroked and fucked myself. She, the psychic vibration, the soul presence, of which her gorgeous cunt was merely an instrument.

I saw her lips move and I felt her breath on my face: “All you can do now is let it happen, Eric.”

2 March 09

Breaking the Ice

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3X magnifying mirror, from around August 2008. Photo by Eric Francis.

In retrospect, I was breathing heavy as her eyes draped themselves in front of my vision, gazing into this face that knew I wanted her. But another question bubbled up from the surface, in the form of, What are you grieving?

Are you grieving that you don’t want her? Are you still embarrassed? Are you angry that you can’t rape her?

The questions shook me. I was not expecting them, and they all insinuated something different. I thought I was supposed to be handing her my macho on a silver platter. Macho pie, which covered up that moment of extreme negativity. I stood up slowly and walked across the room, leaned over toward the altar, and picked up the mirror. One that was round; to which I had switched for aesthetic reasons. I was bored or perhaps just annoyed with photographing a rectangle.

By this point the rectangle was nearly clear. Or I guess better to say, free from any thick substance, but lightly marbled with white stains. Almost like Italian glass. I documented this phase of the mirror’s story and laid it on the altar; and then placed on top of this a kind of glass bowl, polished and crafted to magnify light. This began as an ordinary 3X makeup mirror with suctions cups on the back. I had set this down on the rectangle and adopted it as my mirror.

The idea being, I would cum one place and contain things a little, because I was not exactly careful in recent months. Some days anywhere would do; any mirror, or my hand or the sheets. There were mirrors laying around my apartment and studio from different photography projects or rituals, and sometimes I would submit to one of those. Now, having cleaned up a little, I would keep things together. Monogamous, if you will.

For months, sometimes cleaning up right after and usually not; always with the understanding that what went on the mirror went back into my body.

I just didn’t predict this would be the moment.

I sat down on the bed in front of her and knew what I needed to do, which was undress; this was a naked ritual. While I was gone she had slipped on a t-shirt but was still naked at the waist and her belly was warm and pretty. I looked into her eyes. She knew she was going to get to see me get off looking at her, feeling her, wanting her, and she looked like it could not happen too soon.

I looked down at the glass, and she looked down and our eyes met, and for a delightful moment I was disgusted at what I had done. And then I was shocked and finally embarrassed because she was so perfect in her female power; I would not be having her, and this was the submission to reality. My submission to reality. In other times there would have been no question, I would have already had my tongue buried in her core, or dancing on her clit.

I dribbled spit onto the crusted surface of the glass and from that moment, my body took over. I leaned in and raised the glass and, about 12 inches from her face, started to melt away what had taken so long to become.

Then I realized my eyes were closed. As I opened them I groaned and my body went weak; I felt her take the dish out of my hands and support it with her own, and I gradually explored the surface layers. As I touched different places, the taste and the emotional vibration were different. Intellectually I knew that each of those orgasms left behind there had its own story and song, though now I understood with my body as the feelings explored my nervous system, flooding me with a new kind of awareness.

The ice was broken, I thought, and then a wave of old semen and emotion cascaded in a kind of wet, cum-scented avalanche into my mouth; this, splashed in the background with the scent of her female sweat. What had happened was obvious, and I knew that she was aware of it. As the experience flooded my senses, I was embarrassed about this, I loved the embarrassment and for the first time I was okay with this combination.

With that I let go of something that had agonized me, a barb of judgment, a hangup that revealed a place I was now diving into so religiously. I approved even of the spot that told me I was wrong.

My eyes looked back at me suspiciously, and then lovingly, and then I seemed to black out into the crashing wave of receiving myself.

24 February 09

A choice in the matter

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From Daily Mirror set #2. Photo by Eric Francis.

I now faced a different kind of decision, and that was the choice of how far to go with her now. We both knew what was going to happen next, and yet I hesitated. It was my turn, and I hesitated, looking right at her as I did.

The choice involved was not about an action, it was elemental.

Two gestures were involved, mudras; one would be masturbating in front of her. And that was an acknowledgment of not fucking her. She would be the witness to dropping my macho like a sheet and being naked before her.

Whether to get the mirror was the choice involved; and I knew that to be there for myself, to go into erotic honesty with the humility she had called on me to help her…I had to have that mirror in my hands.

21 February 09

Unravling the thread

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Ocean of Mercy. Photo by Eric Francis.

Partly it has been unusual currents in my personal life at this time that have kept me from continuing my story, and partly it has been apprehension to go on from this particular moment where I hve left off; I don’t know why. I imagine I’ll find out when I get there. I think it may be about taking a step toward letting go of something about myself and embracing something else, and at this point I knew I was about to take a step.

You see, I knew she would just do it if I wanted to; that I could fuck her. I knew I could plunge in, the whole game off. I felt a deep need to maintain integrity as well. Coincidentally I wanted to fuck her too, and I do mean fuck. But we had sworn in holy matrimony not to, and now we had to be good for our bid. Or not. She looked at me searchingly, wondering which way I would go. This, as I sucked her juice off my fingers like a greedy brat.

I untied her hands and the first thing they did was clasp her cunt. She soon focused on her clit so hard and so fast that I thought she was going to burst into flame there. Her legs still restrained, she pulled against the cords, her knees dropped open as her calves pulled forward against her thighs as she stretched her bindings. She looked at me at first with a pathetic gaze of self-infliction and then with a primal half-agonized and utterly sincere melting wetness in her eyes as she came.

11 February 09

White thread, contnued

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Doorwatcher outside Paris sex club reflected in the Book of Blue, photographed 2005; rephotographed 2009. Photos by Eric Francis.

I lit two candles on the windowsill and turned off the blue floodlight.

She was laying quietly, though breathing deeply. She seemed so very small. The heat from her core was beginning to melt her surface like wax. All the colors were in their approximate places, but they were beginning to blur; her clear-edged manner was dissolving fast, and this was beautiful to feel and see.

I had her stretched on the futon with her hands over her head, which in turn stretched her breasts down against her upper ribcage. Mostly she left her eyes closed, but every now and then glanced at me searchingly.

Before I tied her legs, I asked her if she wanted her thong on. She told me to do what I preferred, and so I slid my hands around her hips and guided the tiny damp, black thing down her thighs, pulled it over her feet and tossed it aside. She was naked now.

Next I took the remaining rope, the bulk of it, and bent one of her knees and wrapped her calf and her thigh together snugly; then the other side. Her legs were immobilized, and they dropped apart. She lay helpless, with her impeccably manicured vulva blossoming out of her center. Her inner lips stood out up erect. The curved line of her waist and hips, across the plateau of her belly and then to the fleshy gathering of her labia, made one gradual shape. I always associate a woman’s hips with her vulva, and now I could enjoy the full effect.

She was visibly soaked, glistening with clear liquid, which spilled over a little and was dripping down to the green sheet.

I knew I could do whatever I wanted. I felt the depth of her trust in me, in that moment. I was not going to take what was not mine, what was not offered. I knew exactly what I wanted. Clasping her hips, I leaned in and barely grazing her flesh, took a deep sniff of her cunt. And another. And then another, and finally breathed there for a minute or so, exhaling my warm breath on her plump lips, admiring her scent that was at once strong and delicate and a little sweaty.

Then I remembered the woman who less than one hour ago had walked in my door, polished and confident and seeming entirely unattainable.

Had we agreed in advance – this in particular was not the time to ask, since she was not in a position to say no – I would have sucked her forever or a little longer. I would have been content to never stop, to drink my fill and then to overflow, and feel the force of her grind and pound against my face until she lost control of herself. Then I would plunge my cock into her again and again until I flooded in just as much hot liquid as I had drank. I could do that, and I consciously chose not to.

I reached on the windowsill and found my clothespins. I sucked one of her nipples till it rushed full of blood, dried it with a bit of sheet, and then clamped it, releasing the pressure evenly and quickly. The breath of fire raced trough her belly, which heaved quickly. I sucked and clamped the other nipple and without warning smacked her vulva with my wide hand firmly and to my stunned surprise she gasped, Yes.

I did it again, after pausing for about 20 seconds, and then again, and then she said, “sharper” and this I did, focusing on her clit once. Intuitively I slipped my middle three fingers of my right hand into her and pressed up on her G-spot and pulled back gently. The heel of my hand was a place she could comfortably grind her clit, I clasped her neck and shoulders from beneath with my other arm, and then her tension began to unravel.

4 February 09

The white thread

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Another Blue World by Eric Francis.

She arrived in black on a warm night, wearing clothes that together did not weigh eight ounces. A sheer skirt clung to her hips, revealing bare legs below and meeting the floor in short patent leather boots. Her top was a thin charcoal gray sheer leotard, over which she tossed a black silk blazer. Her makeup gave her face an angular look, accenting the sharpness of her eyes and the height of her cheekbones.

She put a cloth package in my hand like someone might pass you a stash of drugs; this contained some teabags she had blended herself. She described another mad day working in the New Age center as an a/v technician, and as she talked I studied her wondering how long it took to prepare to come out tonight.

The room was dark, with blue shadows tossed against the walls, and Iris illuminated on the Vestal altar. As I organized dinner, she walked around exploring the space, and filling it up with her presence.

Her perfume that gave me the slight shock of walking down a city street late at night and noticing the scent of a tree full of flowers. This girl was all city, a morph of New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles. I looked at her, tracing the lines of her hips with my eyes and moreover my emotions, thinking: this is a woman that any man with a heartbeat would want to fuck. I was resigned that this would probably not happen, but I could not have refused her, so that’s not exactly resigned; what I could feel was the desire to yield to whatever she needed.

Her beauty was so imposing, and her presentation so impeccable, I wondered whether or how she could ever let it down, or how I could even touch her.

“What are you thinking?” she asked me.

“How does it feel to have everyone want to fuck you?”

“I try not to think about it.”

That was a little chilly, but I felt her relief getting some shelter from that sense of being needed; of being hungered after that was, I learned, so truly frightening to her. Every woman deals with being desired differently. I think that part of why she preferred the company of woman was that their desire was sweeter to her; it was less about yearning and more about embracing – but when it came down to that deep craving, there was no mockery.

I had made up two plates of food and guided her toward the playpen, where we would be until we woke up the next morning. At that point it consisted of two queen size futons covered in dark green flannel sheets, directly on the floor. These were surrounded on both sides by tall mirrors, to which were clamped deep blue floodlights, only one of which was on. It was a kind of bluegreen mirror chamber, with the sacred bondage rope tossed on the bed, visible in every direction. It reminded us why we were there with that deathtouch of truth.

She kicked off her boots and walked across this plateau and set herself down. I tossed off my clogs and joined her. The tension I was feeling had disappeared as we camped out for our picnic in the hall of blue light. A little while later I gathered the plates and set them on the windowsill.

As she looked at my face with eyes that seemed larger than I remembered, as I coated her body with my eyes, stroking her and feeling these contours and wondering who I was.

“How do you want it, Kris?”

“I want my hands tied over my head,” she said. And then one full breath later, she said, “And I want my legs tied open, if you can find a way to do it.”

I looked at her and my emotion melted from lust to compassion and in that moment I understood the difference.

“Stand up and undress,” I said, neither asking nor telling, but helping. She stood up and the thrill of having power went through me like a wave of joy. Oh, it felt really good. Now I see why people who have that don’t like to let go of it.

She was standing in front of me as I set in this hall of reflections. “I’m going to watch myself undress,” she said; and shimmied out of her skirt, leaving herself in a black thong and her gray stocking that served as a shirt, transparently revealing contours of her nipples, thus held back from attacking the air.

Then she slipped her hands up her sides seductively, massaging herself as she gathered up this bit of fabric and slipped it over her mind. There was simply a black thong on a timid girl.

I stood up and embraced her and held her, seeing our feet trail off into two arcs of infinity. The blue gel made the light feel like a substance, with a texture and vibration and a scent.

I sat her down gently. She breathed a little irregularly.

“Raise your hands, Kris. I’m going to tie them now.”

This she did, and laid down, and I laced her wrists together and to a steam heat pipe that was cool in the summer months. She looked at me for a moment and then closed her eyes, dipping into the private enjoyment of her moment.

“I’ll be gentle with you,” I said, kissing her mouth lightly.

“Not too gentle, I hope.”

3 February 09

The sacred cord, part one

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The sacred cord on my kitchen wall, in a photo called Three Mirrors. Photo by Eric.

For nearly a year, a length of soft, silky rope hung from the wall in my kitchen, over my desk. I’ve never gotten seriously into bondage play but I love the idea, so I left that rope there as a kind of public declaration, so far as my kitchen is public. I tend to keep my fetishes out in the open, figuring that sooner or later someone will notice and make a proposal.

When I got my studio, the rope came over, along with the tripods and lenses and computers. Then one day last summer, I found a business card in my mailbox, from somebody called Kris Renta. Her note basically said she knew of my work, one of her friends suggested that I was her kind of guy, and she wanted to do something creative. I didn’t waste any time getting in contact. In that first call, I learned that she did kink modeling, and that she had a bold imagination.

The next day she was sitting at my studio desk.

Now for background, my taste in women tends to be a bit hippyish. I usually go for earthy girls with long dark hair, unshaven armpits and with no makeup; the kind of girl you fantasize you’ll meet at the Food Coop. This is definitely a throwback to Quaker summer camp, where my erotic body awakened at the dawn of puberty. However, I am open minded and it’s a good thing, too. Kris has the kind of beauty you can’t believe you’re sitting in the same room with. She is Latina, quick witted, well-spoken and no-bullshit. Her platinum hair was impeccably cut, short and butch, and her makeup looked like a professional cosmetic artist had done the work; which was true – she had.

Her clothes were intentionally created down to the last detail: the red skirt and tight white babydoll t-shirt, braless and stretched across her adorable little tits. Then there was some fishnet kind of thing involved in the outfit that covered her arms and shoulders. I couldn’t figure out how it worked, but it looked really good. She was wearing these shoes that it looked like they took half an hour to lace properly. Her eyes were pure mischief. I had to look at her but I didn’t want to seem like I was staring. Finally I gave up and just ate her with my eyes.

As for her creative bents, she said she modeled and did makeup and also some photography; and that she was writer, and also an electronic musician and singer. When you see talent like this in one person, this kind of multidimensional ability to use the world like paint, you can figure the person has a strong Venus. At age 28, she was heading for her Saturn return and I knew that it was soon going to be time to pull her act together. She struggled with focus, but with no lack at all for talent or guts.

Then it occurred to me I would probably be photographing this complex, magnificent young woman nude. There are times to stay cool and calm – and this was clearly one of them.

She wanted to see my photos. I suggested that we go from my studio down to a nearby park. I wanted to get this girl near some trees and not look at my work on a computer screen. I brought the whole collection: the women in mirrors from around the world, the cum spattered mirrors, my closeups of vulvas, my cocksucking self-portraits and a few scattered pictures of Europe thrown in – the whole Book of Blue portfolio in a two-pound pile of 8×10 proofs. I figured if she could dive into this whole collection and was still taking to me, she was the real thing; and she was.

As it turned out, we never took a single photo. She had something more important on her mind: she wanted to be tied up. She explained that she had only been restrained as part of a photo shoot (fancy Japanese knot-type bondage), and she wanted to try it for real. Would I be interested? I looked at her clear, sincere face somewhat stunned and, somehow without drooling or dropping my jaw, I said I would be happy to tie her up.

So we made a date for that Friday night.

Now, as background, I learned a few things from our conversation. One is that she rarely did anything sexual with men. She’s bi but I knew from both her energy and her description of her life that she had a strong preference for women. Personally, I find it much easier to relate to women who unabashedly enjoy female and female beauty, because it gives us something meaningful in common.

Neither of us were into having sex, that is, intercourse or oral sex, at least without knowing one another better. But we were open to what in the sexpositive community is called playing. Playing can include sex but it doesn’t have to; that’s not the goal. The goal, if you can call it that, is to have fun and see what happens.

Friday arrived, and then it got dark, and finally she arrived, after sending a few text messages updating me on her progress getting here. She entered my studio in Blue mode: only the blue lights on, the play space prepared, a light dinner ready and the cameras out of sight. And the sacred cord ready for when its moment arrived.

To be continued.

2 February 09

Side streets of that night

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Droplets of Information. Photo by Eric Francis.

There were a couple of side streets on my phone call with Lora that night [see “Making Love to Chaos” for that story, below]. You see, to slip into the feeling of freedom, I take full on the truth that other men fuck her, and mostly how much she loves it. I let this melt me to a place where she is supremely powerful…and I must relax, submit and be myself. I’m getting what I need and we both know it.

Releasing to her absolute power in that moment is the freedom from all hypocrisy.

As this happens, we both guide me to a depth and directness of pleasure, both psychic and physical, and mutual awareness that this is what I am, what we are, doing. I’m not alone for a second. So it’s safer or it feels safer to let go, and there is someone who is capable of acknowledging my needs and helping push me where I want to go.

And when I’m down there, we might resume the narrative of one of her moments, to soak deeper into the truth and pleasure of them. I think the thing most touching to me was touching the beauty of her love of giving blow jobs. That was a plunge, and I could really see her face and feel her mouth.

I knew I was fixating on her strongly, and called my attention back to myself, which she felt and heard. I breathed deeply into the dark void. Each breath seemed to fill it with light.

“This is your sex,” she said, with reference to my selflovemaking. “This is something you give yourself. Only you can do it.” I understood this made my experience unquestionably valid, necessary and unique. And the feeling was, absolute relief.

“You may choose this as your sex for the rest of your life. Feel this, Eric. You may never fuck a woman again. You’re free to do this. Dance with this for a moment.”

I moaned freely.

This was a strange thought, and I don’t know exactly where it came from. I was stunned how hot the possibility felt, this profound giving up – then it’s another form of surrender. The original idea was celibacy until March 21. But as I let myself feel it, the totality of the words she had expressed, I let go into myself. The thought of giving up cunt made me want it all the more in that moment.

I let myself fly in the memory of so much female that has been bestowed on me. Including the ministrations of the Priestess Lora in this moment, and how she was inviting me to wallow in the emotion of her lovers fucking her while I thought of giving myself over fully to myself.

“And you’re going to continue fucking,” I asked, or stated, terrified.

“Oh yeah. Why would I stop?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t. And for as long as I know you, you may fuck hundreds of men…” I said this again; I needed to acknowledge it another time, and I felt myself doing it for the pleasure.

“That’s right. You will know about them, if you want, which I think you will. And I may never fuck you again. I don’t think it’s going to happen. But remember, this is about you choosing first. You made this choice. You asked me repeatedly and I had to think about whether I was willing to commit to that. And you convinced me because you said it was about you taking control over your life.”

As I thought about that I knew I had other choices to make. In this month or year or lifetime of getting to know myself. Also I was beginning to see something about this dimension. Everywhere was hot. Everywhere an opportunity to let go in the world. Every choice or denial, every fact, even misunderstanding, every pair of eyes alert to my existence.

Feb. 7

A week after writing this, I am thinking:

This is a confrontation with total female power. This is the sense of her prerogative turned all the way up to the point where I can really feel what it is.

My next thought – she’s not going to do it for me. She’s going to notice and be supportive while I do it for myself. A woman is an easy space to let go into. It’s a little more difficult, with that warm casing stripped away and feeling like an exposed wire out in the universe. All I have left is her awareness.

1 February 09

Toward a sexual revolution

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Neisha from Book of Blue. Photo by Eric Francis.

In practical terms, how do you go about it? Let’s say you’re at the point where you recognize that the old framework of relationships – Cinderella or the one night stand – isn’t working for you. The chances are if you’ve arrived at this point, you’ve paid for it dearly. You’ve paid in loss, in pain, in having your hopes dried out on the rocks and bleached in the too-hot Sun of desire; and you’ve probably paid in longing and loneliness. You may have given up, or you dearly need to.

And then what? The first thing to recognize is that you’re in new territory. People have been here before, but the trails are all overgrown. Previous explorers took notes and some of them are available. The stories of what happened in this forest are enough to keep away all but those who are truly brave of heart, or whose souls yearn to express more of their human potential lest they die of inhumanity.

I think that the first step is total honesty with yourself. This is not a hopeless cause. Honesty has a way of feeding and thriving on itself. Be honest with yourself any way you can. Write the words, say the words, tell others, stretch your language on the air and walk across it like a high wire. Notice what you’re feeling. See where your boundaries are. Feel your inhibitions. Feel whatever you’re feeling. If you can’t take another step, feel the awareness of where you are.

Check out the view!

You’re the one who is going to be leading the way for a while. Get used to that. Read whatever you can and be conscious about not taking on the fears of people who say you’re trespassing. This is self-exploration. You can’t be trespassing, even if everyone else has to deal with the fact that you’re becoming self-aware. If anyone doesn’t like that it really IS their issue. If you’ve lived an erotic and emotional life of passivity, you might find taking this kind of leadership refreshing. Once you know what you want and how you feel, it’s easier to speak about it; but you still have to be ready to let go.

The guy might think that masturbating together instead of fucking is just too weird. Maybe he’ll think it’s the hottest day of his life. Maybe your girlfriend will be offput by the idea. Maybe she thinks about it every night. One basic image in this journey is mirror holding for one another. Relax until it’s easy.

Take that chance and suggest what you want. You’re hot for even saying it.

Gently weave community. Remember that many people will initially step up to sexual liberation and then back down. Others try to get there without the spiritual content, that is, at the expense of love. There are many people you would never suspect want to break free, but they most of them scared, fearing judgment and, I believe, being declared unfit for relationship.

Beware of anyone who willfully lies, particularly if they just lie a little. I don’t think there is any point trying to convince them of anything, though I admit to having tried a few times.

Confront the issue of weird head-on. Okay, so you are. Assuming you stay away from anyone underage, and you have a tangible concept of consent, sex is legal. Any fantasies of the police kicking in the door can be assumed a bit of paranoia implanted directly by the Pope, and removable only by you.

Forget your ideas about who and what turns you on. Most of them are based on expectations and inhibitions. Most of them are probably written in a thick book of laws that must exist somewhere.

Don’t take your inhibitions too seriously. Sure, have a conversation with them – but they ain’t the jury.

Desire is mutable. What turns you off, or even disgusts you a little today, can be a masterpiece of curiosity tomorrow. Curiosity leads to liberation because it sets your mind free to discover. Mingle your desire with the desire to find out. Be prepared to find out nearly anything.

Embrace embarrassment. The heat you feel is ego going up in psychic flames. Go there willingly and indulge the sense of relief. Right behind the veil of embarrassment is the real pleasure, but you need to go through the veil to get there.

Recognize that the fear of sexual diseases is a form of genital anxiety: that is, general fear of existence projected onto the genitals (usually as a form of death). Know everything you need to know about keeping yourself safe, set some basic protocols, follow them and let it be. Be honest with your fear and decide if you’re going to let it stop you. Learn how to have explicit conversations about sexual diseases, pregnancy and your history involving either of these things.

Deal with your jealousy. Deal with your guilt about making other people jealous. The best way I’ve found to approach jealousy is as an erotic phenomenon. I know that not everyone can do this so easily. Jealousy exists many ways, at many depths in the psyche. If you’re jealous admit it – it will be ten times easier to get over. Then I suggest you build some scenarios that eroticize the experience and give you a chance to stretch your boundaries. If it makes you jealous that someone you want is fucking someone else, let yourself imagine their pleasure just as you arrive at the point of no return. The opposite of that jealousy is not “being okay with it.” Rather it is being so turned on by what you perceive that you cannot hold back your pleasure.

Embrace death directly when it shows up. If you find yourself in an avoid/approach pattern, this may be either about hidden guilt, or an unarticulated relationship with death. On an erotic journey death will arrive in many ‘smaller’ forms, all of them daunting, including orgasm, jealousy and the fear of abandonment. Let them draw you closer to yourself. It’s easier to share and listen about this stuff than you think. Be ready to let yourself go.

Pride is your enemy. That which makes you feel like you’re worthy of the approval of others is precisely the root of the guilt trip that necessitates that pride. Experiment with the indignity of sexual surrender. Consider how you’d feel if everyone knew. Fall in love with how unpresentable you are when you’re all splayed out like that, and how gorgeous.

Let yourself grieve that you are an impermanent being.

If you cannot imagine your mother, father or brother seeing you in this state, imagine it vividly.

Explore, taste and smell your pussy. Squat over a mirror with a bright light on.

Talk to yourself as you tip over the edge of orgasm. Record yourself and listen. Watch your face let go over and over.

Smell, lick and make peace with your semen. Smear it all over your cheeks and mouth and go out for a walk.

Sexual orientation is mutable. It can change from hour to hour and day to day. Gender is mutable. Your imagination is limitless. You contain all potentials.

Learn how not to get pregnant, and use the knowledge when it counts.

Indulge your pleasure. Allow others to be aware you do so. Be a vehicle for others to embrace their pleasure. Help and encourage them. Embrace the growth, freedom, strangeness, frustration, sorrow, terror, passion and whatever ever ever else shows up when you do.

30 January 09

To what edge

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Second Life. Photo by Eric Francis.

Well, a lot of words spoken this week. I’ve been pondering my own ideas, questioning where I’m coming from. That part is fun too. Edgy. Mostly I’ve been wondering about my Planet Waves version of the Venus story, in which I set forth a few proposals for what might constitute a woman living in her potential, and how men might have to react. I gave my first definition of equality between the sexes ever: men, and women, dealing up-front with the unlimited sexual potential of our sisters.

As women become independent, men (I propose) are going to claim back the many issues they’ve left behind in that bonded mommy-child feeling. Basically, on some level it must be that ALL of the unfinished business between mommy and child; and between mommy and grown son; is imported into any [or nearly any] male-female relationship.

Once that’s divested, what does it look like?

I’ll put it this way. A relationship from an autonomous place with a woman feels entirely different than one where the boundaries are blurred. Whatever we might say about fucking, it blurs boundaries, or perhaps explores their fiery edges with a bright torch, in a fog. What I love about you fucking is that it makes me deal with myself. There is a well of feeling in you fucking, and I can’t really direct it into you. So I have to take it on – but it’s mine to take on.

I need to see and feel you fucking. I want to remember all the time.

I would love this drama of being confronted with the primal scene; being there; with god and goddess doing their ritual that brings me into the world. I think if it were safe to feel infantile anywhere, it would be here. I don’t think I would have a choice.

In the mirror here, I acknowledge my existence before prime creators. I welcome living and dying. I directly experience that I am creative. I accept and receive myself held in the heart of the divine cosmos.

29 January 09

Venus unbound

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Alyssa, photographed by Eric Francis.

for Liz

Who is really interested in a woman’s sexual freedom? I am, but it’s a strange and volatile place to go. Yet I cannot stay away. I cannot go part way: it is abject surrender, and I think that surrender is what hands them back the key to themselves, so long kept by the patriarchy. To get there, to retrieve this, I must open up and exhume something long believed dead, and set free the ghost that haunted my relationships.

I don’t seem to be able to get there without letting go of my own sexual and relational needs, though if I’m proceeding with awareness and following the desire of my heart, I can embrace a different set of needs. I must also touch anger, and sorrow, and jealousy and the feeling of being abandoned.

I must directly face a dimension of fear. I have to let go of myself, almost entirely. When I can do all of these things or slip into them accidentally, the feeling is like looking directly at the Sun, in feminine form: a light of femaleness so hot it must be some daughter of Kali Ma. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel her heat and light verging on burning my face. Is it touching me, or am I touching it? In letting go of my prerogative, and allowing her space for total existence, and moreover knowing something about her total experience, I can go through the pain and find my way to a depth of freedom and selfhood that must be directly parallel to hers.

This feels bigger than both of us, taking on a level of religious devotion to the Goddess. It is Vestal in nature: embodying the celibate sacred prostitute. In this mudra (my word [I typed world] for psycherotic posture), it’s necessary to let go of all expectations that Woman will attend to any need I have, except to have her be free. That is a need I have encountered all my life, but have never given a name.

In giving up my own needs, I am emulating her former position – of giving up her needs for those of men. Now it’s her turn. The responsibility is mine to let go of my possessiveness or presumptions of a claim on her, and to allow her the space, mostly within myself, to be who she needs to be. It’s easier if she is not “my partner” when I do this, but still the surrender is poignant. I am letting go of her, but also of something in myself that was always taught, for generations really, that I was entitled to that something. Every cell in my body expects it. My mind has other messages for me, particularly of not deserving her.

One message that it was wrong for my mother in particular to take care of me veiled an implicit message that you don’t deserve being taken care of. Or some such convoluted thing. Children take on adults’ issues and add their own meaning, it becomes extremely difficult to let go of the pattern.

I’m also realizing how delicate that place is, where a woman trusts that she can set aside her impulse to take care and express her freedom in spite of the impulse, and that is an incredibly delicate space. She must walk across the fires of guilt, betrayal, and stepping out of a conditioned role that not so many generations ago could have got her killed. And for a man, its about letting go of the right to the jealous rage, child-styled tantrum, the crime of passion, and the pride that a woman’s pelvis is the only true place to discharge the tension and emotion of an erect penis. Why can’t she take care of me and do whatever else she wants? There’s a conflict of interest involved; that would need to be resolved, and this may be part of the resolution.

Therefore it’s sacred territory; a journey for the initiated, or for the sincere seeker of healing. To go into a space where sex becomes about embracing her power of choice takes the faith of breathing underwater. There is a flirtation with drowning necessary in that.

In my experience, the embrace of letting go of all my male prerogatives reveals a complicated emotional wound, countless childhood humiliations, the shame of my sexuality that I would normally bury in her. I don’t think this is inducing humiliation—I think it’s about exposing that desperate craving for the humility that gradually displaces shame. It’s about giving up a certain kind of need for woman, because that need is a demand – it will be experienced by her not as an option or a request but as a direct compulsion to respond in her emotional sphere, so that is what I must give up.

If I can do this, I can do something profound for her, which is to affirm every gesture of her liberty, and to give her the space to grow into this new person she is becoming: Venus unbound. Every nuance of desire, and the fact that she has gone so far as to taste the water that would quench her thirst, her ancient thirst, dabbled with at the peril of being deemed a harlot. She, for her part, must embrace her harlot, and so must I.

In her mercy she lets me masturbate to the longing for her, and to the celebration of her own desires fulfilled. It’s the easiest way to lay myself at the altar of the Feminine, submissive to her for the pleasure of it. I surrender to not having the choices that she has available to her, and loving that she does. She affirms my need for her, but not its fulfillment. This is important. This is the essence of, “I love you but I don’t want to have sex with you.”

I admit my own need to have the experiences she has had with men.

She sets me free to have the experience of taking care of myself, of nourishing myself, and of being loved for doing so. In that moment she loves me for loving myself, resolving the ancient riddle.

I recognize and accept that I still need her approval. I need her to give me buoyancy within my own shame and when I am breathing my own existence. Her presence, for now, helps set free the love I need for myself. I admit that I can’t do it without her all the time—sometimes. I accept that I need her forgiveness for what I have done to her for centuries, which is impossible to receive unless I forgive myself right in that moment.

Then I remember.

28 January 09

Making love to chaos

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Mirror of Sin. Photo by Eric Francis.

“Oh yeah, I’m getting sex. All I want.”

This was the first time I’d talked to Lora in a few months. In the fall she was keeping everyone at bay. Now she had four men she was sexual with. Four men who got to see her naked, and hold her hips.

“Would you talk about it?”

“Anything you want to know.”

“What are you getting that you really need? I mean something special.”

“Well there is the Scorpio. We are experimenting with oral sex. I’ve never gotten into that, but he’s very tuned into me and he knows how to do it. It’s a combination of his mouth and his hand. I’ve only come from cunnilingus two times before, my whole life. Now it’s happened again twice. He’s very good at it but what’s really happening is that I’m learning to relax.”

“Do you come into his mouth?”

“I do. He works my g-spot and he gets me to, well, to gush.”

I knew where the conversation was going, or I could feel it. I switched to a headset phone and slipped into bed, and the dark silence of a snow storm that was currently enveloping upstate NY. a I let out a deep sigh, verging on a moan.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“I’m just listening,” I said. It was partly true. My hands were starting to explore, but in a very light touch. I was prepared for the pleasure I was about to receive to come through my mind.

“He fucks me very well, the way that I need it.”

“How is that?”

“Laying on my belly, with my ass up a little bit.”

This time I moaned. She continued, “Or, I am on top. But when it’s time for him to come, most of the time I want to be on my back where I can hold him, and see him.” She took a sip of her drink. “His cock is big, and he’s strong. He knows how to fuck me well,” she said. “He follows my movements and my breathing and he fucks me in that deep place, you know what I mean?”

“I do,” I said, flashing to the scene of the one time I had penetrated her. “Lora, I’ve fucked you,” I said with a delicate feeling of confessing proudly.

“Yes you have. And that may never happen again. I don’t know.”

My heart pounded. I could perhaps live without fucking her, but hearing about other men taking her made me want her all the more. Both could not be true. They do, and I do not.

“But I want you,” I said, imagining my mouth clinging to one of her lush, luxurious breasts as I wiggled my hips between her legs.

“It’s not happening,” she said, seeming to have resolved a doubt in that short time. “But I’m going to masturbate with you. That’s what I want. That was hotter.”

“Lora, I want to tell you something, that’s what I need. I need to be confronted by your sexuality. I need to know you fuck you who want to fuck, and I masturbate. To have other men, and I have myself.”

“I know this is what you need. That’s why I’m giving it to you. So listen to me. I fuck who I need to fuck, you are correct. And suck. All the men I have sex with, I go down on. And if I won’t go down on them I won’t fuck them.”

“You suck them all off? To orgasm?”

“That’s right.”

This was power in her voice that I had never heard. It was like a person I had never met and was talking to for the first time, but it was her, this person I’ve known for loving years. So often she seemed weak and frangible. As if she were in pieces.

“How do you like to do it?”

“I massage my lips very gently up the shaft, over the head. I focus on the head and I sip some of that sweet clear liquid that bubbles out gently at first. And back down the bottom of the shaft. I make love to their balls with my mouth. I love doing that and I’m very good at it. It makes a bigger ejaculation.”

“And you swallow…all of them?” I was fascinated by this and kept asking.

“I wouldn’t do that to a man, get him to the point of total desire with my mouth, and then not swallow the product of his pleasure. That would be like rejecting him. I want to accept him. I always swallow. Preferably into my throat.”

“I’ve done that.”

“Yes you have.”

“I know what it feels like. It’s really good. Lora, you’ve sucked off a lot of guys?”

“A lot of them, I don’t know how many.”

“And I’ve kissed you. I’ve kissed the mouth that swallowed all that semen?”

“Yes you have.”

“Lora, I would love to see that happen. Do you think you could find a partner who would be willing to let me see him fuck you?”

“Every time I sleep with a man I wonder if he might be the one to try that with. I’m already thinking of it. It may happen. And if it does there is a good chance that he will be dark, or black.”

I could only moan. “And bigger than me?”

“Definitely. Big boys. That is who I like. And when the Scorpio fucks me from behind, I make him strip off the condom and come all over my back.”

I was frantic with the knowledge that this could really happen, that could witness this. Thunder ripped in my chest. I gathered the courage to say what I was about to say.

“If I see that happen…” I hesitated. “Yes?” she asked. “If I get to see that happen, I want to clean up. I want to lick the semen off your back.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “That would be a lot. That would be going all the way. It may be that the only semen you’re going to drink is your own, in front of both of us. I think that would be healing for you.”

“It would,” I said breathing out, pleading with the universe for it to be so. “I want to see you because I love you. I want to see you get what you need. I love that you fuck, Lora. I love that you fuck.” I said the words for the pleasure of it, slowly. “I love that you fuck who you want. Lora I love you.”

There was a pause, and I made love to myself in it freely.

“Tell me something,” I said to her.

“This is your sex,” she said directly. “This is what you do. You’re the one who gives this to yourself. You’re the only one who can. How beautiful do you feel?”

“Very beautiful.”

“That’s right, because you are. And I understand that you still need someone to approve of you, someone to keep you out of the shame. I’ll do that for you. I’ve done that for you. It’s given me so much. You reminded that I’m beautiful, and you reminded me that I’m free.”

“When was that? When I came into your hand and you fed me to myself?”

“That exact time.”

I was floating on a churning lake of orgasm but I hadn’t yet let go. She knew how far out I was. “Why don’t you come?” she suggested sweetly. “I think this would be a good time. Do you have your mirror?”


“Why don’t you get your mirror?”

27 January 09


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Iris in the Eastern Gate. Photo by Eric Francis.

Cloaked deeply at the core of the death taboo is the suicide taboo. Suicide is based on the combination of an impulse (Thanatos or the death instinct) and a decision (setting off some event that ends life). Masturbation is based on Eros or the erotic urge, and a decision to set it free. There are numerous parallels between eroticism and death, and the various bans on these conversations (particularly in the same place). At the core of death is suicide, that is, consciously exercising the option to die. At the core of eroticism is masturbation, consciously choosing to pleasure oneself and often, to give oneself orgasm.

Have you ever said the words, “I give myself orgasm”?

It is sometimes said that all death is suicide and elsewhere that all sex is masturbation. I think that these ideas both recognize the seed at the center of the experiences. Both speak to a form of the inevitable. Masturbation speaks to the inevitability of desire. It also speaks to the inevitability either of unavailability, or of the need reach deeper than sex and to relate to oneself in an unspeakably honest way. The honesty is facilitated by the melting or loss of control by the ego, which is an experience we associate with death and an undeniable craving: sometimes subtle, sometimes not.

An old Latin phrase for suicide is felo-de-se, which means “one guilty concerning oneself.” I could not think of a more apropos phrase for how our society looked at masturbation for so long; this, despite the reality that most people do it because we need to profoundly. Not proudly, but the Witness is being born and sees that we are cultivating respect for one another’s Self Love Making; and our own.

We all die (so why not); and that is considered something not to admit either; death is a kind of guilty act. Undignified. Or what you might call a sacred taboo; a secret daliance; a necessary and true thing with the veil of denial tossed over it carelessly.

From a certain angle, the thought of death, of giving up oneself, can be profoundly erotic. Masturbation, experienced from a particular angle, can breed an erotic quality that leads to the feeling of the ultimate surrender of oneself. I would call the place where the two meet rendre-de-se.

In a ritual space recently, I was accompanied by two priestesses in rendre-de-se, one in the role of Life and the other in the role of Death. Death was holding the mirror, and the mirror told the story of my life. I was asked to accept what I had done and created. Life herself was observing at a slight distance, in her exquisite beauty I had yet to touch. With her mind and her senses, she witnessed the point where I lost control of myself.

Death made a statement about the truth of her own reality, and I questioned: how do you know?

And she said, I just do. Then I had a physical experience to parallel the idea. I began to orgasm in a position that I was not planning on: it just happened, and I was there, and it was there and nowhere else that I could surrender.

Then I understood that when I die, I will be unlikely to control the position of my body; I will have to surrender in whatever position I am in, at that moment in time. And from there I relaxed into my rendre-de-se. I breathed that moan from where my body was then, as she held the mirror, allowing it to happen.

26 January 09

One woman who...

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Brussels, rue du Mont Blanc.

...never saw me masturbate is the young lady depicted here. I have in a few other places described what it was like to fuck her: that is, to be beneath her. She fucked me and did so from a particular psychological angle that pushed me into some deep releases while in the cradle of her universe.

It was something in her eyes comingled with the movement of her hips. It was the way that her mentally violent, argumentative personality would convert to a woman intent on her satisfaction. Part of that would come from her taking some pleasure in being fucked, but for her it was a kind of guilty pleasure: as if she was a few shades embarrassed by seeing someone observe her obvious self-gratification. This, a woman who said she was abhorrent of masturbation; that is, she told me that didn’t ever do it. The feeling was that it disgusted her. So fucking a man was the closest she came, and for an adorable moment she would grind her hips into my pelvis and suck me deep into her space, with her eyes closed, as if sucking from a straw.

Then she would come to her senses and her eyes would focus on me and I knew what was going to happen. She was going to take me, and stare me down till she did it. And I would whimper a little about needing to be seen, and then this energy would pour out from a dark space behind her curtain of hair and she would, as slowly as she pleased, finish me off.

I so enjoyed moaning to her.

I always felt like I if I tried or were more honest or a better person I could moan with a deeper feeling of surrender. I did what I could and she seemed satisfied. I knew this to be the primary thing she needed from sex, the pleasure of how I would yield to her. Then she would reach a point of maximum curiosity and push me over.

Oh god, how beautiful to just give up.