Monday, November 06, 2006

Half-Nekkid Posterized!

Here's a blast from the past-- posterization!


Another image of Cassie.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Author! Author!

One of my stories, "There's No Place Like Home," has been anthologized in Best Lesbian Love Stories: New York City, edited by Simone Thorne. To order, simply click on the cover illustration.



Hey, nice kiss!

Thursday, October 12, 2006

HNT III


Cassie in a "cool" moment.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Thursday, September 28, 2006

HNT: Cassie's Coming Out


By God, it's time that Cassie joined Half-Nekkid Thursdays!

Thursday, August 31, 2006

And Trouble for an Old Fan....

One of our fans has been Tony Comstock of Comstock Films. His gay male love story film, "Damon and Hunter," has been chosen to be screened at QueerDOC, an important Austrailian gay film festival. But the authorities have demanded cuts. In a common sense move (though I'm sure a painful capitulation), Tony had to make the cuts in the hopes of finding a larger audience for his work. Then the authorities blasted him as "defaming" them for saying in the new print that "cuts ordered by the authorities." Talk about Orwellian....

You can read all about it here.


Here's hoping all the best for this excellent director whose films show sex the way it should be depicted: honest, loving, real.

Monday, August 28, 2006

A new fan

Another site likes us! Here's the new review of Beyond You & Me over at Porninspector.com. You can also read the regular listing here.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

A new Yale novel

Well, it's about Eli University, and Skull & Bones is now Rose & Grave, but it's some of the same turf I've mined. You can check out the author's blog at Diana Peterfreund

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Chapter Five (parts 10 & 11)



(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be patronizing." His apology brought my mind back to the present. I immediately felt sorry I'd said anything, his eyes looked so wounded I wanted to laugh. He's so thin-skinned, I try all the time to temper the abrasive ways I learned on the streets of South Philly.

"It's all right, poor baby!" I stuck out my tongue.

"What did de Man do during the war?" S. blurted this out of nowhere. He was standing up, pouring a glass of Scotch. "When he was born?"

"I think it was 1919 or 1920, why?" P. looked annoyed at the question or the late/early hour.

"And he's Belgian, cor-rect? That would've made him about 21 when my countrymen took that detour through the Low Countries on their way to Paris."

"I've seen the photo of them goose-stepping along the Champs-Elysées beside the Arc de Triomphe"

"Yes, it was the hot weather and marching that gave them a thirst for some Stella, Belgium's middling rival to good German beer. A reasonable justification for violating the Belgian's neutrality, don't you agree?" His laugh was both mocking and angry in one.

"I've never asked him 'what did you do in the war, daddy,' and he's never offered. I can't imagine him doing anything bad, he's too kind."

"Odd. There's a rumor in Europe he has a past in need of hiding. My father poked around a little when I mentioned I was taking his course. The details are fairly sketchy, something about the Nazis."

"I would imagine dealing with Nazis in occupied Belgium was pretty common. It makes absolutely no difference to me," P. bristled. "De Man's one of the fairest and most-decent men I've met here. Besides, if you want anti-Semitism, my first week in grad school, a Sterling Fucking Professor Emeritus of Romance Languages complained in a class how they were admitting too many 'New York Jews'. No hidden meaning there."

"Hmmm. Interesting. We Germans understand better than most that overt anti-Semitism is the tool of the thug. Subtlety produces more lasting results."

Part 11
It was getting really late now and my mind started wandering uncontrollably. I looked at the two men sparring instead of focusing on what they said. P. long and muscular, S. only a few inches taller than me. My husband's still-powerful legs seemed like they started in the living room and ended out in the kitchen. The two of them have few physical similarities— S. is handsome, not in the rugged, overtly masculine way with P., nor pretty, either, like the fashion magazine models I've read are mostly gay— finely-formed would be a better description, with a dash of the unexpected in his features, as if one of his ancestors dallied with a Gypsy. There's a softness to his looks that's disturbing on a level I still can't pinpoint— he isn't androgynous, isn't effeminate, it's an almost baby-faced sweetness contrasting with that rakish demeanor. I believed it when he told me women want to cuddle or mother him, including his whores. You think of Germans as blue-eyed blond beasts; he's dark, with full, sensuous lips like a woman, lips that always look pursed as if they're ready to kiss or be kissed; above is a crisp, chiseled nose and above it, hooded brown eyes that smolder or glaze over in easy succession, depending on his mood and things around him, all the while hiding behind old-fashioned gold wire-rimmed glasses that make him look serious, smart, and lovably unstylish all at once. What a contrast with the affected casualness of most Yalies. His skin is pale, even translucent ("I hate daylight," he would counter if I praised the sun); I wondered at one point if his organs and beating heart would show beneath his skin.

Actually that was the first time I had ever imagined him without clothes. Really.

There's a photo in a book in P.'s study about a famous German poet from the First World War, and he's dressed up as an Uhlan, one of the elite palace guards. The more I thought about it, the easier I could imagine S. in the plumed helmet and gold-embossed get-up of a Prussian aristocrat clicking his heels "Jawohl, zu Befehl, gnädige Dame." And I did, later on, imagine him— fantasize about him— in that way— and others.

I drifted out of my reverie and noticed my watch read 4:36 in the morning. P. noticed the time, and said, "Ah, fuck it, we're always looking for 'meaning.' It's another shortcoming in our desires. Like believing that possessing the object of our desires— another person— will fill the void in us that's fundamental to our very being."

P. snapped me back to the present with the same discomfort as if he'd popped the elastic strap on my bra! We'd sailed far beyond the relatively tame channels of lit crit, and I felt lonely and lost.

"We are born alone, we will die alone…" S. mouthed the words so quietly I almost couldn't hear them.

"And no one we sleep with in between can fill that emptiness," I added. "And now for a pregnant pause," I laughed.

"Better a pregnant pause than pregnant," S. riposted.

The joking didn't prevent a shudder from running down my back. I cried out and the other two stared at me, S. sitting up and apologizing, thinking he'd hurt my legs or something.

"No, I shivered, that's all. The heat must've been turned down too far." Of course it wasn't the temperature making me tremble. "Anyone ready for some coffee?"

I wouldn't sleep now, I'd go into work feeling like shit and not being sorry one bit. The excitement of the night swirled around me in a mist of images, words, sentences and feelings. S. rambled on a bit longer, then crashed on the living room floor in mid-sentence, telling us how he wanted to adapt Deconstruction to post-World War I diplomacy. It's a good thing he shut up, or I might've fallen asleep on my feet. P. and I laughed at him, then made out on the couch like horny teenagers.

"You like him, don't you?" P. asked me in mid-kiss.

"He's fun," was all I answered, pressing my lips to his and keeping him too busy to ask anything further.

"I love you, Cassie," he mumbled between my hard kisses.

Nothing much happened after that; he was far too exhausted to really make love, and I didn't feel like taking the time for my vibrator. I curled up on his chest and dozed off.

THE END

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Chapter Five (part 9)



(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"That's such a depressing resolution." S. tried to kiss up to me in my moment of sadness, though he looked bored. I laughed in spite of myself, since my ass was getting numb from sitting on the cold, hard floor, and we'd both gotten more lit crit than we'd bargained for.

"Cassie, you look all done-in." P. picked up on our ennui, and was trying to be solicitous. It was sweet of him, yet it sent me into an internal fury.

"Don't fucking patronize me!" I hissed. He winced in surprise and hurt, while S. pretended not to notice.

It was like the time he tried to teach me to play tennis and let me win a few volleys. I smacked the expensive racket his step-mother loaned me on ground, shattering its handle, then stormed off the court, tears streaming down my cheeks. I locked myself in a bathroom stall in the women's locker room for two hours until I was sure he'd gone. It was only then I realized I had changed at home and was still wearing the ridiculously-short tennis dress his mom had loaned me. I'd have to ride the Frankford El to City Hall, then change to the Broad Street bus, where the evening shift at the Navy Base would be appraising my ass that began before the dress ended. Generally not a bad ass, I'm glad to say, but it's mine and not one I'd want a group of strange men eyeing.

Thing is, P. hadn't left by the time I came out of the women's locker room. I was thrilled to see him and immediately as angry as before. We quarreled again; he insisted on taking me home, then wouldn't let me get out of the car until I kissed him, holding my wrists so tight he left black and blue marks, pushing me down onto the passenger seat with his whole body until the tears flowed as liberally as they do when I'm beside myself with blind rage.

And yes, he kissed them all away. I told him how much I loved him, that I'd kill him if he ever left me and suddenly that short tennis dress with my ass hanging out turned out to be a good thing after all— he started by fingering my pussy, pushing aside the frilled shorts and pushing two fingers into the wetness. I was coming, squirming, moaning and biting his lips as he kissed me and kissed me. Unzipping his fly, he pulled out his cock, catching its head slightly on the shorts before plunging right in. I wanted to push him off, but he was too strong, so I gave in and let him slide back and forth until he was about to come.

"Pull out, I don't have any protection," and he did just in time to spurt onto my thighs. He stayed on top of me and we kissed some more. And then he did something I can't quite explain: he sat up, pulled my legs across his, and spanked my bottom— hard— several times, with his fingers brushing across my pussy as he raised what I later saw in the mirror were red hand-shaped patches. With each whack of his hand, my cunt spasmed and then spasmed again and I was climaxing as intensely as if his cock or fingers were inside me. He held my wrists with his left hand, and although I fought like a tiger to get away, I kept coming and coming with each spank until I collapsed, breathless and spent.
Fortunately it was getting dark by then, and if any of the neighbors saw our little pornographic show, none of them squealed to my folks.

(to be continued)

Monday, April 10, 2006

Chapter Five (part 8)



(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"Fine, then let's look at Cassie's example." P. couldn't have been more confident— or more fucking magnificently arrogant and condescending, the same self-confidence which made me fall in love with him, the same self-assuredness which makes winning a point with him so damned difficult— and delicious. "What is the 'meaning' of Great Expectations?"

"Money isn't everything?"

"If you're rich, you'll get the girl?"

"Don't live in the past— especially if you have a big wedding cake in your house?"

"Pride cometh before a fall?"

S. and I looked at each other; we were conspirators again, on the defensive, inadequately-armed.

"It's about the failure of time and desire to coincide." P. paused, and I thought about his meaning. "Every character is looking to someone else for their fulfillment: Magwitch wants a proper gentleman for a son-in-law, so he adopts Pip. Pip despises Magwitch because he's common and coarse. He's in love with the beautiful and seemingly aristocratic Estella, who uses him to sharpen her claws. He doesn't know she's Magwitch's daughter, she's like an arrow on a runaway compass, unable to care about anyone, raised to be the perfect instrument for revenge on the male of the human species by Miss Havesham."

"As perfect an emotional assassin as was ever trained to kill without remorse, in this case killing the hearts of all the men who meet her," I finished P.'s thought.

"All of the characters find disappointment at every step along the way. The novel's an even bleaker assessment of human nature than Bleak House." He paused to let his heavy words sink in.

"And the happy ending?" My voice cracked slightly from dryness after so much talking, I sounded as if I was pleading for Estella's redemption through Pip's love for her. "Doesn't love mean something?" A question we'd all like answered.

"You know, Dickens added the so-called happy ending later."

"Did he? He did! Don't tell me that!" I felt manipulated, devastated.

"The novel originally ended with Pip running into a much-changed Estella on the street— not in Miss Havesham's old house as it does now. Dickens recognized his original ending failed— it doesn't tie together the world he created in the novel. So he brings Pip and Estella together in that dream-like final scene. Yet despite his powers as a writer, he can't make things turn out right. The ending leaves uncertainty and loss. When Pip says he could see no parting, he's not telling the reader they will remain together."

"No, don't say that! Don't say that!"

I felt deflated hearing his verdict. Never parting. The concept has such appeal. Never-ending love is so seductive, yet what if love changes? Or if the people who fell in love change? What then? Does a love have to last? And if it's really love, why would it end? How is it we can fall out of love the same as if we'd grown tired of a dress or the same apartment we've lived in for years?

(to be continued)

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Chapter Five (part 7)



(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"It all makes me dizzy," I admitted.

"It should. Deconstruction's motto is 'the center cannot hold.'"

"Do they pay Yeats royalties for stealing that line from him?" Leave to S. to be irreverent. P. laughed.

"Deferring," I laughed, too. "I'm deferring my life right now, it's on hold."

"On the whole, you've lost me, Old Man" S. admitted with a yawn. Out of nowhere, I started giggling despite myself— the hour was getting so late, and besides, I can't be serious about heavy subjects too long.

"Hold on," S. objected with real heat this time, "Deconstruction sounds like this year's model, another flashy, trendy tool, nothing more. We've gone through a whole laundry list of 'isms' in class. There's Structuralism, Freudianism, New Criticism, who cares?" I felt pride in S. He wasn't intimidated by our "professor" like I am.

"Right," I chimed in, hoping for strength in numbers, "isn't this another stupid search for another stupid Holy Grail to open up poems and novels to hidden meanings the writer never intended? I may be a naïve reader, but anyone with common sense can see The Picture of Dorian Gray is really about a gay man in the closet and the harm keeping that secret does to him. I want to know the answer to the questions books offer, like whether Pip gets the girl at the end of Great Expectations? That last line— " I grabbed the copy I'd been reading after work and opened it to the last page— "'I saw the shadow of no parting from Estella.' It's so tantalizing, it leaves me with goose bumps each time I read or think about it."

"Ever the Romantic," S. sneered playfully, throwing me off-balance, "wasn't it Ambrose Bierce who said if you scratch a Romantic, you'll find a cynic who hasn't been disappointed yet?"

"OK, I'm a Romantic," I blushed, backpedaling, "but a cynic in many things, too. But what about an author like Colette?"

"What about her?" P. countered with a knowing smile.

"Well, I may be a naïve reader, but I know her writing isn't compelling because it's beautiful, it's compelling because of the insights we gain from reading her."

"Why do you read Colette?" P. asked me with a wink. It's a private joke between us I wasn't ready to share with S. I wanted to throttle "the professor" at that moment.

"I read her because she writes about young women like me— who want to know more about themselves— or life." I sounded pompous and gassy, I could see I was getting in way too deep. "I want insight from her books, not philosophy." S. winked at me when I finished because P. was rubbing his eyes, though he wasn't fast enough and P. saw most of it anyway.

"Then you'll find Deconstruction helpful because it isn't a tool, it's a way of looking at the world. We define ourselves by our texts: the laws, newspapers, books, poems, letters— or in your case, Cassie, by a bisexual exile from the Parisian theater writing books young women identify with. Instead of worrying about who Colette was, or whether her books are autobiographical, Deconstruction cuts out all the intervening bullshit."

"Sounds like a literary seduction," S. snorted, "a sort of intellectual penetration, yes? I've read Foucault, you know, with his bizarre theories about sex and literature!" He was less interested in the ideas than in the intellectual cat-and-mouse game, slyly grinning at his erotic allusion.

(to be continued)

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Odd Fans & Non-Fans



One of the funnier blogs out there has little or nothing to do with sex. It's The Dead Guy: the cartoon. It's a conventional cartoon strip like "Peanuts" or the very marvelous "Jump Start," and worth reading regularly.

I always find it fascinating coming across folks who are living the Beyond You & Me story. One of them is Stiletto Diaries, the story of a 20-something woman in Canada and her two male lovers. There's plenty of drama, and frankly, I'm worried about Stiletto Girl, because she's very young and her husband doesn't appear to be too happy about her love affair with a younger man. But I wish them better luck than Cassie had, since they're both about the same age (23 vs. 24).

In terms of younger lovers, you ladies should check out Mike at I'm Not Touching You (see above photo). Alternately funny, gross, inventive, crass and horny, he's a typical young guy with sex on the brain who also writes well.

And speaking of writing, there's Adrie Santos: the Accidental Sex Writer. She got the name because her smut is selling better than her regular writing (I can relate to that). She posts about a variety of interesting topics, both related to the printed word and to life in general, including her stint as a sex toy reviewer.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Passing the 100,000 visitor milestone...

I think that sorta says it all (please look to the right and the hit counter that says how many people have stopped in here since March, 2005).

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Chapter Five (part 6)



(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"If I tell you it's OK to borrow my vacuum cleaner," P. rambled on, "my words are expressing a gesture of social politeness at odds with the natural, selfish desire to withhold what's mine from another person."

"And if I asked to borrow your wife, old man, it's much plainer why you might say no." S. laughed at his own cleverness.

"You'd be wasting your time loaning him a vacuum cleaner," I quipped, "try hiring a maid." S. made an overly-elaborate wincing motion, then rolled over and buried his face in my lap.

"Loaning me a wife would accomplish two goals at once, including having a cleaner room," he mumbled through the cloth of my skirt. His voice vibrated against my thighs, tickling, distracting me momentarily from "deep thoughts."

"You're a male chauvinist, Retter!" I scolded after bringing my attention back to the conversation. "Besides, the ideal ménage à trois for a woman is one man to do the dishes and another to clean the house."

They both laughed, though I'm sure it was in competition to seem the most solicitous. Ah, testosterone. Still, I relished the competition between them with my attention as the prize.

"We subvert our own selves through these hidden desires or urges," P. went on while shoving S. over onto his back. "It's the same with texts: they have hidden subversions." He put his hands on my shoulders and began rubbing out the deep knots of tension there. S. couldn't compete with him on a physical level.

"Sounds like shrink talk," I blurted out with S. joining me in a conspiratorial laughter.

"There's definitely an element of the psychoanalytical to it all." P. sorta shrugged at our small point. "In French it's called différance."

"Not more jargon!" I protested.

"Ah, vive la difference!" S. leered, first at me, then at P. to show he didn't mean it for anyone in particular.

P. parried by running his foot along my bare legs, nearly lifting the hem of my skirt. His showing off made me blush— I didn't like him letting S. know whose property I am that way, men are so fucking possessive!

"It's not the same word, old man. Différance is a Derrida made-up word combining 'deferring' and 'difference.' The meaning's pretty straightforward: no poem or novel or play, no writing at all can sustain a coherent meaning."

"What? That's absurd! What about political writing, or scientific texts? And what about propaganda? Explain that to those of us like myself who are by-products of the Second World War." S. wasn't grinning now. "When Nazis talked about gassing Jews, where is the incoherence in their meaning?"

"No matter how tight or logical words seem," P. shot back, "all texts have internal contradictions. Those contradictions cut us off from what we call a real meaning."

I thought then how much Deconstruction applied to my life: an outer façade (good girl, good wife) plastered over a maze of impulses and "meanings" at war with one another tight. "A mass of internal contradictions." Perhaps that simply describes human beings in general? I didn't think it applied to P. He's usually so constant— except perhaps for sex. He likes experimenting in the places we make love, the positions, etc. Beyond that limited sphere of his personality, however, he's so grounded. Unlike me, he knows he was born to teach, that he'll someday write important books and think great thoughts, and eventually become Sterling Professor of Comp Lit like de Man."

(to be continued)

Monday, February 27, 2006

We Didn't Win!



They said it wasn't based on popularity, but they displayed the winning votes at the end. Well, what are you gonna do? At least Beyond You & Me made it to the finalist round! Better to get that far than not at all. And thanks to all our fans for voting, and congratulations to the bewitching Magdalena for winning "Best Sex Blog"! Oh, Darling, you are both beautiful and slutty.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Polyamory



Although the term "polyamory" wasn't invented until the 1980s, the idea is old: loving more than one person at the same time. While Cassie would never have thought of herself as on the cutting edge of social change, she is actually way ahead of her time. She's an early Feminist, and her sexual adventures are not only more radical than most of the women of the 1970s, but put her squarely in the tradition of ground-breaking trendsetters.

Today men and women have a variety of choices about their love lives and sexual identity. Whereas Cassie was mocked by lesbians at Yale for being a "fence sitter," and "refusing to choose," women today can love whomever they want, and don't even need a label. There is even a cachet now to being bisexual, something that definitely wasn't there when this novel takes place.

Taking a break from Chapter Five, I wanted to provide some links to sites about polyamory, including the beautiful cloisonne pin shown above, which can be purchased from the Poly and Proud website (along with t-shirts that harken back to the 70s with slogans like "question monogamy").

The most prominent poly sites are "Poly Matchmaker," "PolyLiving" and "Polyamory Weekly" (a podcast of polyamory topics and fun stuff). "Poly Matchmaker" has lots of information about "ethical non-monogamy," and is also something of a dating tool for those who want to meet others with the same ideas. From all I could gather, polyamory is not the place to meet casual sex partners: there's a strong disdain for casual sex in some of the things I've read.

Indeed, polyamorists (or "polys" as they prefer to be called) are often confused with swingers, yet their goals are more about relationships than casual sex. So their sites and writings tend to sound like those from the early GLBT movement, including "coming out" to friends and family, and legal protection, including a desire to have group marriages. Cassie would've thought she'd died and gone to heaven if she had been able to have P. and S. under one roof.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Sex Films for the Rest of Us



I really don't like porn films.

They're boring. I don't care if the people are "objectified," and I think it should be clear by now you won't find any reservations about sex on this site. It's not that adult films are objectionable on theoretical grounds, they're just not interesting. Commercial porn is formulaic: the same set-up, the same obligatory positions, the usual "money shot" to prove the dude actually had an orgasm. Yawn. They never show a man so excited about his lover that he comes right away, it's always "iron man triathlon sex."

That's why, when porn sites write me asking to trade links, I don't even answer their emails. I'm not trying to be rude, but you don't "get" Beyond You & Me if you think it's just about sex.

Comstock Films is making movies about sex that break all the rules of gonzo porn, and I want the fans of Beyond You & Me to know about these exceptional DVDs. "Xana and Dax" (the couple pictured above), along with "Marie and Jack," are films about real people in love/lust. Not only is the sex hot, but the film is edited in a way to show the genuine sparks between the lovers. Director Tony Comstock uses attractive people who aren't models, and who have an emotional connection, not a financial incentive, to have sex on camera.

Director Comstock doesn't mind if his work is considered porn, since the sex is quite explicit, yet he's clearly making movies for a different audience than the Chatsworth, CA adult film industry. For all the "couples" porn being made, it's still mostly from a male POV. Fortunately, you can either purchase the DVDs from the Comstock site, or rent them from X-RENT DVD. Currently there are four titles: two heterosexual, one lesbian and one gay. I watched "Marie & Jack" and "Xana & Dax." The first one was a little talky, as the two people described their careers in adult films and how having sex on camera has changed their private romance ("a little more vanilla"). The sex was a bit too quick to unfold, but Marie and Jack are both very attractive and at ease in front of the camera doing intimate things (Jack looks like a young Michael Keaton).

"Xana & Dax" is about a younger man with a slightly older, more experienced blond (see photo above). Hell, she could be Cassie a few years after Yale, it was quite unnerving watching her. The sex was hot, the couple seemed to enjoy themselves (her eyes rolled back in her head at one point), and I definitely recommend it.

Comstock has one other film in the editing process you can purchase in advance for half price. All in all, these movies are a big improvement over commercial porn.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Sex Week at Yale!

How can I resist flogging "Sex Week at Yale"??



Friday, February 10, 2006

Chapter Five (part 5)



(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"But when I say 'dog,' I mean a real dog," S. interrupted. "And Humpty Dumpty says in a scornful tone in Through the Looking Glass 'When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean.' What of that?" I told you S. and I connected on many levels. Hearing him bring up the same example I'd thought of made me shiver.

"We have a collective understanding of what words mean, but you don't mean any particular dog. We agree on what certain words signify, but then fall down right away with terms like 'make love' that can mean something besides fucking. In the 19th Century, it meant 'court' or 'flirt.' Nietzsche, and after him Heidegger, tried to break the iron chains linking our words to real objects. Heidegger especially wanted to get back to a cleaner, more basic philosophy by going back to the beginning of philosophy with the pre-Socratics and Heraclitus."

"Heraclitus? He's the dude who tells us we can't step twice into the same river, cor-rect?" S. cracked me up using slang like "dude" with his clipped Teutonic accent.

"Cor-rect!" P. smiled. "Heidegger liked Heraclitus precisely because he's obscure. With such dark and suggestive shit to work with, Heidegger can make him say whatever he wants."

"Sounds like ventriloquism for the over-educated," I whispered loud enough for P. to hear.

"You're correct, too, Cassie. Heraclitus has become a sort of ventriloquist's dummy." He nodded at me, and we exchanged a look that can only be shared by people who've shared the most intimate and profound of loves.

"Yes, well Heidegger had a habit of saying things he'd later regret," S. interjected with sudden bitterness in his voice. "How inconvenient letters signed 'Heil Hitler" survived the war. Nazi collaborators are not too popular among my generation."

S. lying in my lap might sound sexy, yet it was really more like putting an arm around a friend. P. puts his head in my lap when we watch TV— that's something altogether different. Besides, the three of us weren't thinking about things sexual then, at least I wasn't, we were lost in the life of the mind where the body falls away and only the intellect remains, at least for a brief time.

"With Deconstruction," P. continued in stride, "we use tools already within a text to subvert its assertions."

"Subvert?" S. parried, "I like subverting things, especially morality."

"Be careful, Stefan, of the contradictions undermining what we say. Insisting you want to subvert morality is more troubling and ambiguous than you might imagine."

"Sounds ominous to me," I almost shuddered. "Yet so many things we'd been warned about by our parents turned out to be less than fatal: marijuana, sex, dirty books. Just what IS bad for us, and how can we know?"

(to be continued)

Monday, February 06, 2006

The Purity Test p. 2

I took the "Purity Test" with Cassie in mind (remember, the lower the score, the more degenerate your life has been).

http://www.puritytest.net/

Her score was 60.8% What's yours?

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

The Purity Test

(photo courtesy of the toilet museum

Here is the infamous "Purity Test." The lower the score, the more degenerate your life.
It's a gas.

The Purity Test

Who can guess Cassie's score?


(photo courtesy of Magdalena)



Thursday, January 19, 2006

More Beyond Beyond You & Me: Clean Sheets



Another story, "Making Do," is now featured in Clean Sheets, a free on-line magazine. It's considered one of the premier erotica publications on or off the web.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Finalist for "Best of Blogs"!!



Well, recognition keeps coming--

We're a finalist for "Best of Blogs".

Monday, January 09, 2006

Story in "Tit-Elation" Wins First Prize!



"The Wager," the story accepted by the on-line publication Tit-Elation, has won first prize in their "My Partner Doesn't Understand Me" contest!

Monday, January 02, 2006

Beyond "Beyond You & Me": Fiction in Other Venues



While the wheels of the publishing industry slowly grind on, I am writing for a variety of magazines and erotica sites. A story I milled over on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association site has been accepted by the on-line publication Tit-Elation. And another story will soon be appearing in Clean Sheets (details to follow).