I know what it’s like to have female sexuality abused. African women were used by slave masters as if they were one of the mules on the plantation; Native women were raped and eviscerated for sport; and every day in the news we see the reports of only a fraction of the rapes and domestic beatings that occur. But women do have a right to sexual expression that we control and we have to be suspicious of any male authority attempting to maintain control over our bodies, whether it’s about what we wear in public, what we do in bed or what we do or do not carry in our wombs: these things are connected.
It’s no accident that lesbians have been at the forefront of that activism trying to hold on to our right to be sexually active and exploratory. We have been declared outlaws for our sexual desire; or worse, told that we (as women) didn’t have any real desire. One of the last things I did before I left New York City was participate in a collective that created a one-day conference (in 1992) called Lesbians Undoing Sexual Taboos—LUST. It featured panels, readings, demonstrations (a lot of women found Annie Sprinkle’s G-spot that day), and it culminated in a dance at the Clit Club complete with a back room for experimentation. I am forever in debt to the women who engaged me in FACT and LUST for expanding my understanding of the significance of desire in our political lives.
I tell this history not to be downbeat, but to indicate how important these stories in this anthology are and celebrate them! I tell the history so that we don’t forget how easily and self-righteously some would take away our right to speak these stories out loud; and so that the younger writers included in this anthology know they are part of a heroic tradition. Women and lesbians are not having an easy passage into liberation and there are those who still believe our bodies are their own personal colonies; to paraphrase Maya Angelou… “and still we rise.”
The variety of stories here will testify to the breadth and variety of lesbian desire and the triumph of freedom of expression. Each one is my favorite, of course, because they all elicit the sense of anticipation or surprise or fun and the desire that makes life worth living. No one really knows what raises our blood pressure, engorges our sexual organs and gets our hearts pumping; it’s a complexity of biology, history and imagination. But each of these authors has created a singular landscape in which she has expert control over the facets of desire for her characters and succeeds in getting the juices flowing, figuratively and literally. Whether you’re listening carefully for the soft, tantalizing rustle of voluminous gowns in the sensual treasure “Underskirts,” by Kirsty Logan, or you’re moving with the hard-driving need of “Anonymous,” by BD Swain, you’ll find the core elements of erotica that are key to our lives as lesbians. These are elements we don’t give up easily even in the face of repression or censorship. On our backs we are not helpless like the crab or turtle; we are open and moist, ready for fulfillment. At the same time we’re ready to spring up to show the power of our desire. As Audre Lorde said, “Our visions begin with our desires.”
THE INVITATION
Maggie Veness
Dear Ella,
This is Stevie from two doors down. Sorry about leaving this under your door, but I was wondering, would you like to go out for coffee with me?
(You’ve been on my mind since last month when we spoke briefly at that carnival. At the time you had a small child asleep on your shoulder and I introduced myself while that worn calliope recording was crackling away in the background—told you I was sure we both lived here on the second floor at 151 Lincoln, me in Number 9. You smiled, said we’d passed each other on the stairs a few times, that you were in Number 7. That’s when I saw it…
I caught that split second when your shiny, green eyes swept from my lips to my flat chest, brushed down over my thighs, then flicked back to my face. That glance was like hearing the first few words of a tantalizing secret—whispered once, then locked away—and was so exciting that ever since then I’ve fantasized about feeling your amazing body surrender to my hungry hands and mouth. I think about you and get this long, slow pulse in my temples. It slides down my spine like a warm tongue, then moves to my belly and continues to grow until desire collides with opportunity—and my impatient fingers carry out an orgasmic exorcism.)
Do you have a favorite café? I’m happy to take you anywhere you like.
(I saw you yesterday from my kitchen window, chatting with neighbors down in the leafy courtyard. You looked pretty in that sky-blue satin blouse and denim skirt. I noticed the careful way you folded your washing as you talked, meeting corners neatly together, flicking and smoothing everything down with your slender, pointy fingers. I also noticed how the lean tendons in your arms flexed when you gathered that overflowing cane basket against your streamlined body.)
And, if you enjoyed our coffee date, would you consider having dinner with me?
(I also saw you last Saturday afternoon, when I took a shortcut home through Brayford Park after work. You were sitting on a wooden bench watching your son play, and I must confess to resting awhile in the shade of a nearby fig tree. After a few minutes you wandered down to join him. I saw your cheeks color and your eyes flash when you ran fast and low to the ground. You guys were having so much fun tumbling and rolling about together, in fact, just hearing all the squealing and laughter made me feel happy. By the time the chasing games were over and you headed home, there were a few wild, red curls fused to your damp forehead.
I want to play too, Ella. I want to take you by the wrists, swing you around and around and watch your aerodynamic body skim and soar. I want to see your skin blush pink as your excitement grows. I want to make you squeal.
After you’d disappeared from view I sat on the same park bench and imagined you next to me, radiating your own brand of pure sunburst energy, your smooth, bare legs so wide apart… so open to experiment. I swear I felt the warmth of your afterglow.)
Then, if dinner went well, would you come away with me for a weekend?
(I could drive you to the coast; take you up to my favorite lookout. We could hold hands and lean way out above the windy cliff face; breathe in the salt air while the sea breaks over the pebbled beach way below. If you wanted to, you could follow me along the overgrown track to this special place I know—a secluded, flat-roofed Spanish bungalow with lime-washed walls and two metal sunrays sitting like eyebrows over the small front windows.
In my favorite fantasy I lock the door behind us, tenderly kiss your mouth and begin to slowly undress you. After undoing the tiny buttons on your blue satin blouse, I slip my palms beneath the fabric and slide it off your strong shoulders. I gently bite your neck, stroke the rippling curve of your ribs, draw out your dark nipples and suck four of your fingers into my mouth. Eventually, I drag your skirt and panties to the floor.
After leading you to the low bed, I ease you down onto fresh cotton sheets, and use my tongue to wash your salty body. I shuck your oyster and hold your pearl between my lips until I hear you growl with pleasure, then turn my hand into a snake and wriggle inside you ’til the veins in your long neck protrude and your eyes roll back. Frantic by now, I scissor my legs and slide back and forth against your heat until we both arch and jerk and scream with ecstasy.
We fall asleep like that, with our warm, pivoted sex pressed together, our glistening fur tangled into one perfectly woven female fabric.)