Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (12 page)

“
I think the one thing I want to say about my writing is that I really do it to give voice to certain kinds of sexual diversity and sexual desire and pleasure, and I don’t pretend that I cover the waterfront, so if anybody is listening out there and has ever thought, I don’t see very much of this thing in print, [whisper] start to write!”

-
Carol
Queen

Scott Bentley

Bio

Scott Bentley’s most recent book is a collection of photography and text:
All
Around
Noise
:
Studies
in
Framing
,
Synecdoche
and
Juxtaposition
(Cariuna, 2014). Some of his translations appear in
New
American
Writing
(#18 Lies about the Truth, 2000) and
The
Pip
Anthology
of
World
Poetry
of
the
20th
Century
(Vol. 3)—
Nothing
the
Sun
Could
Not
Explain
:
20
Contemporary
Brazilian Poets
(Green Integer, 2003). Poems appear in
580
Split
,
and
/
or
,
Chain
,
Fact
-
Simile
,
Lyric
&,
New
American
Writing
,
Otoliths
,
The
Raddle
Moon
,
Rampike
,
Syllogism
,
Vanitas
, and other publications. Bentley has an MA (UC San Diego) and an MFA (Mills College). He teaches at California State University East Bay.

Mini-Interview

How did you start writing about sex?
How
does
it
differ
from
non
-
erotic
writing?
As I see it, in the end every thing holds some relation to eros; as such, most of my writing has some sort of erotic twinge, but I started writing this particular piece more or less on a dare.

Do
you
write
in
multiple
genres
and
,
if
so
,
why?
I’m not too sure that I acknowledge genre in any real way. Writing’s writing. Good prose, in fact, starts as poetry. I’m not patient enough to believe in time, and stories require that belief in time: beginning, middle, end. As such, well, the story arc’s something I don’t know much about. My latest book,
All
Around
Noise
:
Studies
in
Framing
,
Synecdoche
and
Juxtaposition
(Cariuna, 2014) is a photo/word collage. Moreover, if you take something like the Brazilian martial art of capoeira, well, what is it exactly
?
A dance, a song
?
Genre’s a mistake. We all ought to look toward becoming cross- dressers to freedom.

Swirl

Scott Bentley

Excerpt from Swirl:

Pro-

Noun

per (Voice

en Trapeze

by Scott Bentley

… after a while I slip out of your nuance.

You rise up and turn around, stern toward me.

And you lock back down onto this narrowly, now

resurrected cock. His vigor becomes the site of the

falling out, the look we parted, giggling, between

friends. Dazzle me with your girly throw

and catch.

Let us wed and then, if you wish

make game on the world

while I, alone, explore things.

///

We anoint your cock awakening before us.

We can see the head widen and thicken. I can’t resist.

I have to try you. Your potlatch in my mansion droves

lost ranger in the backseat. I lust to pull you inside

me, fuck you everywhere.

Slurplick and delightful. A distant harass.

Or the wing of a hummingbird twang.

///

O, how I want your girlycunt your girlhalf bad boy.

O, slap it. Slap it against my eyelids, against my

ass. Slap it, until she throbs and pauses. Tingly wiggle

seeks sloppy red fuck pole.

///

… and I think. Finding your spot I listen

to your groundswell fathoming this freedom, so silly

as you peer up at the mirror. Upon entrance, I tongue you

into a babble. Uncover the fossils, the facets. She can see

it all, the last lick and cuddle: the century

in chocolate. Chipotle.

I, now can form a question. Do you swear not to tell?

Wrapped up so cute and I, like your balls, my ass,

am in

your panties, boxers.

This battleground. Undress us …

///

And then with a plunder to peel

back the prick. Already, the early sunrise.

Track around her wattage, deeply and hard. Harder. To

worship at the porch-light of your tribe, strapping.

From under a veil we reveal your itchy-bitchy dick.

Flick it, quickly like a nipple. I stick her just a bit

and blanket planks across his fledgling girth, queer

across the benchpress. How you must between those

painted fingertips pinch-hit. I want

you, a space in bed to polish with wine stain splurges

as we writhe, writing us

up, looking

to be reminded

just exactly where to hold on.

Grip us together

tighter, still.

///

My cock can’t ever, quietly, and quite

know the limits. To scream and then flare up, slowly.

I show myself out before you invite me back in,

bring your profligate down to this level, hinting.

A salacious scene let’s work out into

(You’re not—I gather—any longer

shy in my demise.)

the magnet of the tide gone west

with every wild sense, saloon. Lick and suck

that scampi tramp while I frolic

at the ridges

with a girl’s tongue.

///

If you could you’d swallow

me, make me yours. But physics and gravity defy.

Our cocks already nearly ruined

the pomegranate split apart    in the squab

territories, down over the squalid

juices, flooding your fingers

sticky seedlings.

… regions hard as glass. Her legs wrapped around

his neckline with palms on the bed she leans to. Rush

me, wanting me further and harder inside this rusty

mood. You pound and muster.

We kiss, fainting. Trust.

///

The only one on the runway clad in clear neon jet.

What if our pussies were sun spots among flowers?

Huddled in a puddle

gritty swank to mandate

a satellite constellates my classmate. Like two lovers,

shy, in a ritual acquaintance of bodies, bookends.

The curve of a spine, stuttering at that …

little freckle

just off the banks on

onto her Psalms

secret spasms

the way he rises to accept my mouth.

///

Breathless, you say “Fuck me”

in a whisper; yes, no avoiding the strength of our retro

interiors of secret obsession in depths of understanding

that for millennia have brought us to these extremes, one

body needing to come into another—as if, for but

a second, beauty, to merge a machine, pumping, one

only, gasping for air, for more—born again and again,

direct and singular in loss, gaping, endlessly.

///

Today I almost came right in front of the

Gap. Right there on the sidewalk. I just want to float

in this lustpuddle and bathe you at night in my pussy

dump.

Get a purchase and grind ‘til I lay there so far

… you’ll lose your ground.

My pulse busting sockets, waiting for his dick, his

digits, his blanks on my gauge to recover. Dizzy into

fellows. It’s difficult to say, the possibilities of measure

seem so numerous. To please my baritone drop that

speed-o.

///

Hold on tight. X marks the spot! I’ll have to let

go now and then I twist with my teeth. Let’s say we pack

my satchel while you draw my page. I kneel at the torture

in my mouth, the dirty flinch. And we feel lost as my

hand fits, trembly, around her terrible mounds. Yet I

know where to go, instantly.

Let’s together sit nude on the king-sized duvet, your

hair put up in a white towel.

///

Whether it’s so soon along, or

full-fledged we handle her ass, sweet lady

your labia in labia: a continent inside, alias,

tease me. Euphoric at the fact that with a single

stroke, you find the exact key.

… ajar, the doors. Half asphyxiated, stumble out

out of the bedroom, onto the balcony of starlit

nights like these.

///

I want through a broken window to watch

you dine inside me. The bridge of your nose slightly

wrinkled, project expansion. Another golden gate.

Sun on cunt.

Just to let in a single ray. Balmy. Perfect origami. If

I should barely dangle it between index and thumb,

ivory translucence spins. Pretty in the afternoon.

Yes, I want

a long dress made from this.

///

You’re reading. Honeysuckle in the gentle

breeze, the bees and wild calls of a jay. You’re sitting

in a chair, out on the lawn, in a country frock, taking

some leisure, legs crossed, barefoot.

My shirt’s undone. You unbuckle your polity.

It’s getting pretty warm on the Cape

this summer    I’ll dampen your lust

my shades    in satins once you dawn

… just to cool down above mid-thigh at lift-off

As you slink up your dress I sneak a look, note, on

this morning, unshowered beneath you have no

gin spilled. Over my Ray Bans, I do declare, until, finally

she takes notice. Who’s there in the foyer? To glance

at the hemline up your mini—nanny, feline—

as we smile.

///

The puff of your femininity, coiffed. Piss titty clit

pretty girl. A woman like you can change the course

of history, make a day sway chipper that much more.

Damage in carnage, the arrangement off our garage

my mouth a mass of dick and balls

twister, a dapper hurricane.

///

My garlic tongue inside your candy stench.

One never knows who might pick up the phone

at your house. Everything sparkles, startling

in the rainy fronds. The luckiest plucks flunky

in memory. I recall a day when we all with delight

twilled pistols little in your sticky honesty, a lonely

trick. Wound in twine, particulars—

happily pink, darkling lavender. Simile major

I ponder stripes, quit. Pond grant.

///

Your center-fold innocent of hair,

your lower-most terrain in the same hue as those

purply layers of gush. A fascination in wonder curves.

You flower out, wafting. Watch me change color.

My pool of languid grace on increase at the hearth of

warmth. Astounding, every time!

Astonish me, mister. Tonight, your grace

positions make way to the flattering sway

of our astronomy.

She sprays he spray by the she sore. Tempt

me. Sit on my gash and face the wilds out of me,

darlin’. My lick slitty slut. Let me stack your ginger

digs on in. Paper-thin lips, flower petals to petit mille-

fois. Cum blossom.

///

The lark-grey the philatelists flew in. Piano planets.

I travel the sides—recto and verso—

with a pout-y attraction to take to her. She’d swoon

on and on and from time-to-time rip, ferocious as far

as she could go nether this chemistry, upward.

This lullaby lulling us, behind her lush

streams these busy, busy men.

Rock candy, flamingos aflame. Stamp tango.

///

… and thought of you, thought of how you

wouldn’t, if you were here, clench your mandate

when I do like that; how you would open slender

instead; how you would with both hands render my