Well Prepared

Maybe you're the kind of person who can just enjoy nice things. If you are, more praise to you. Hey, who knows, maybe I envy you a little bit, even as I worry that you won't be quite as well prepared as you could have been for the End Times.

But enough about you.

This week, my friends, this past week was a good week for me. Back in the summer, I had a story accepted to one of the lovely Rachel Kramer Bussel's collections, Best Bondage Erotica 2011. In and of itself, that was pretty fucking good. And then the money came, and that was nice too. But it's not like I haven't been paid for writing before, so it felt a normal kind of nice.

And then the book itself came. With my name in it. On my story. Hot fucking damn, I must say. That was something.

On the same day that the book came, I got an email from another editor who had seen my story and was emailing out of the blue to ask me did I have anything around I might want to shoot his way for a collection he's working on.

That, I will tell you, that is a good day. "This day," I thought to myself, "is the day I am going to remember when I am having a really bad day and then. Well. Hmm. I guess it will still be a bad day but at least I will remember that not all days are bad days like that one will be."

The story had its genesis in a writing class I took with Rachel in Brooklyn last February. I walked in thinking that the class would be huge and I'd be able to lose myself a bit if I didn't want to stick out. It was in a nice little shop called SHAG. I walked down the steep and narrow stairs into a white-washed, low-ceilinged basement and saw 5 chairs ranged behind two perpendicular tables. Oh boy.

It was great, though it passed in a bit of a blur. Mostly I remember what I saw in my mind during the 5 minute writing exercises. It was during the first one, I believe, that we were to write something about a chair, and The Apiary was born.

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Take your clothes off. Start with your shirt.

The shirt was a complicated affair, with buttons and ties, hooks and crossing loose pieces. I fumbled at first, then my fingers found the right rhythm and I played it for her, the material revealing my olive skin in random geometries, sliding slowly down my sloped shoulders, making my nipples hard and darker red as it brushed them. My breasts felt fuller for her gaze on them. I dropped the shirt, finally, to the subtlest intake of her breath.

Grab your tits and squeeze them. Tilt your head forward, too. Keep your eyes on the floor.

The pressure of my hands on my breasts made my vulva grow between my legs, like it might blossom out obscenely.

She opened drawers and closed them. I heard wood on wood, metal on wood, clinks, a few quiet slaps of leather on flesh. I felt her in front of me but didn't raise my head. Just kept squeezing and pulling and twisting until I thought I might come just from waiting.

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If you liked that, please do check out the whole collection. And don't forget to tell me if you liked it, so I can add your email to the list of things I will think about the next time I get sprayed by the shit from the fan.

Always be prepared, is what I say.

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