Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (18 page)

Dorothy Freed

Bio

Dorothy Freed was born in New York City and became a San Francisco transplant in late 1975. She is an artist turned writer, who earned her BFA at Syracuse University. She currently enjoys life in a coastal Bay Area community. Visit her website at
DorothyFreedWrites.com
.

Mini-Interview

Do
you
write
in
multiple
genres
and
,
if
so
,
why?
Yes, I write in multiple genres: memoir, fiction, and personal essays—and about all aspects of experience, from inspirational stories to ones about dogs. Several years ago I decided to tell all the stories inside me that want to be told, in the way they want to be told.

How
is
the
Erotic
Reading
Circle
part
of
your
writing
process?
The ERC is an invaluable part of my writing process. It differs from a “regular” writer’s group in that I am reading my work to like-minded individuals, with no limits placed on the subject matter I present.

Do
you
write
under
your
own
name?
The name, Dorothy Freed, is a pseudonym chosen to spare my sons and grandson any potential embarrassment involved in having the world- at-large know that their silver-haired, sixty-nine-year old mom and grandmom writes about the sexual side of life.

What’s
the
inside
scoop
on
your
story?
My story,
The
Gambler
, is creative non-fiction, inspired by my an erotic involvement with a professional gambler many years ago.

The
Gambler

Dorothy Freed

I met Jerry, the gambler, on a sunny August afternoon at Bay Meadows Racetrack. I was standing near the finish line, breathing in the smell of sweaty horses, combined with cigarette smoke, beer, and plenty of dust, while checking out my fellow gamblers, who were mostly men. The day at the races had been planned with a friend from work, who’d canceled at the last minute. So I’d come alone. And why not?—it was 1977 in the San Francisco Bay Area—repression was out, freedom was in. I was thirty- three, single, and dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure, after ending a dull ten-year marriage.

In spite of my cheering, my horse came in dead last. “Damn!” I said, irritably, crumpling my losing ticket and tossing it in the trash.

And that’s when I met him; the well-dressed, black hunk who’d been watching me for the last three races, taking in every detail of my long, wheat-colored hair, and pale, smooth skin. He caught my eye and smiled boldly—all the proof
I’d
ever need that black is beautiful. I was glad I’d worn heels that day, and the green velvet pants that showed my full, round ass to perfection.

“Have you picked some winners today?” I asked, starting up a conversation, and he pulled a fistful of tickets from his jacket pocket, in response, and said a little smugly, “I’ve been betting horses for a living for many years, baby. It’s my business to win.”

I looked him over carefully, from his polished leather boots to the tightly wound ringlets of his Afro, stopping along the way to check out the expensive wool slacks and sports jacket. His silky white shirt was open halfway down his chest, revealing curling black hair and smooth, brown skin. He had full lips and even, white teeth. And dimples; I’m a pushover for dimples. I told him I’d never met a professional gambler before and was sure he had interesting stories to tell. He suggested we discuss his profession over dinner—which sounded like a winner to me.

I bet along with Jerry after that and won money all afternoon. As we placed our bets, cheered our horses to the finish line, and collected our money, little electric shocks of excitement zapped back and forth between us, a promise of more to come. I gave him my phone number before leaving the track and drove home, happily speculating on what he’d be like in bed.

***

We met for dinner in San Francisco, at seven the next evening, at the Hyatt Regency across from the Ferry Building. Dinner was a heady combination of delicious food and mounting sexual tension that had my nipples standing at attention for the entire meal.

After dinner we retired to the spacious, lushly carpeted suite Jerry called his Bay Area home. While he poured Chardonnay at the bar near the refrigerator, and set the radio to an FM jazz station, I sat cross- legged on the plush, brown sofa facing the front window, looking out at the darkened sky and night lights of the city. I was thinking about how getting it on with a new lover is always a gamble—and hoping this one would pay off with some great sex and, maybe, a new friend.

Jerry joined me with two crystal glasses, and we sat, side by side, chatting, sipping the cold dry wine, while exchanging meaningful glances in anticipation of what was to come. He surprised me by inquiring whether he would be my first black lover. I told him he would not and asked why he wanted to know.

He said he was curious because some white chicks really dig black men—hadn’t I heard the saying, “try black, you won’t go back”?

I told him that sounded catchy, but it was the
other
rumor that intrigued me.

“You mean the one saying black men are hung like horses?” he asked, grinning.

“That’s the one,” I purred, staring with meaning at the sizable bulge in his slacks.

“Yeah, baby, I sure have heard that there rumor,” Jerry said, nodding his head. And with a look promising I wouldn’t be disappointed, he stood up, took my hand and led me to the spacious bedroom—and the giant, satin covered bed.

***

I stood near the bed, my heart racing. Currents of excitement coursed through me as Jerry removed my clothing, piece by piece, in a lazy strip tease. He smiled when I was naked, looking me over for a long, slow minute. Then he bent his head, kissed me deeply, his full lips pressing mine, his hot tongue exploring my open mouth. I responded eagerly. We kissed for a long time, my erect nipples rubbing deliciously against his chest, until I felt my legs give way beneath me and dropped to my knees before him, staring up into his eyes. Reaching down he unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock.

Rumor or not, it
was
enormous, and hard as a brick. I reached for it eagerly. It was the color of rich, dark chocolate, and felt hot and silky smooth in my hands. I licked lightly at its head, breathing in his sharp, musky scent; lapping at the delicate droplets of precome seeping from its tiny, mouth-like opening. I ran my tongue up the shaft, and made the fluttering movements around the rim that I’d learned from experience made a man lose his mind. For a grand finale, I relaxed my throat with the ease born of practice, took the whole thing in, and just sucked. (Linda Lovelace, shove over).

I sucked him like my life depended on it, until he’d had enough and led me to the bed, laying me back against the pillows. I felt the mattress move slightly under his weight, when he sat down next to me, sliding a hand between my legs, and whispering, “Baby, you’re
so
hot
!”

Slipping two fingers inside me, he explored my dripping vagina—moving around the opening at first, caressing my swollen outer lips, tugging them gently, then parting my inner lips and delving deeper inside. The exquisite sensations made me moan with pleasure, and roll my hips around on the bed. When I was ready, more than ready, he bent and went down on me, pleasuring my clit with his knowing mouth and tongue. I moaned steadily, as he continued—licking, sucking, nipping lightly at my aroused pussy with his teeth. His fingers teased my tight little anus which opened and closed in response to his touch, like a tiny, hungry mouth.

“
There
,
exactly
there
” I gasped, and, man among men, he stayed exactly there. My excitement mounted, overwhelming me until I came, hugely, crying out with pleasure.

Jerry entered me then, plunging in with abandon, holding my wrists over my head, making me feel I had no choice in the matter. He could tell I liked that by the way my hips rose up to meet him, and my inner muscles gripped him, squeezing down.

His cock felt enormous inside me, wonderfully, painfully hard. I wriggled beneath him, beside myself with delight, grinding my clit against the base of his cock. Raising my legs I wrapped them around him, hanging on for the ride as he pumped me fast and hard, His heavy balls slapped deliciously against my ass. Finally, panting with pleasure and mindless with excitement, I exploded, moaning, into a thousand fragments of pleasured flesh—and lay flushed, breathing hard, and completely satisfied.

***

“I’ll be here at the Hyatt for most of the summer,” Jerry said. We were side by side on the plush brown sofa again, exchanging smiles. We chatted like old friends in the morning sunlight, devouring the eggs, toast, and hot, strong coffee delivered by room service. “Will I see you again, Dorothy?” he asked, and smiled, with that cocky, confident look a man gets when he knows he’s satisfied his woman.

“You can bet on it,” I said, turning to kiss him lightly—thinking, any man I can laugh with
and
come with is a big-time winner to me.

[go to top]

“Erotic means ‘in relation.’ Erotic is what those deep relations are and can be that engage the whole body – our heart, our mind, our spirit, our flesh. It is that moment of being exquisitely present.”

-
Terry
Tempest
Williams

Ember Eli

Bio

Ember Eli is a gender-fluid shape-shifter, whose passions include exploration and facilitation of ecstatic experiences; giving and receiving service; and building family networks with humans and other animals. She brings a queer leather sensibility to her teaching and writing, and finds sharing story to be a potent means of both unraveling and re-weaving. Ember is captivated by the eroticism of quiet control, and loves unleashing characters who find themselves changed by love, lust, dubious intentions and chance encounters.

Mini-Interview

How
is
the
Erotic
Reading
Circle
part
of
your
writing
process?
There is tremendous power in being in a space with overt permission and invitation to share erotic writing. Such permission provides a counter- balance to lifelong cultural messages against such writing and speaking. The value of a “regular” (i.e. closed, time-limited) writing group with a focus on sex—such as Jen Cross’ Declaring Our Erotic workshops—is that the format creates safety and spaciousness for exploration of writing about sex. For me, one value of the Erotic Reading Circle—which is drop-in and ongoing—has been that it allowed me a gentle step out of the cocoon of a closed writing group. Sharing my writing in that setting felt like a deeper level of risk, and experiencing my writing being positively received there felt empowering. Another value of the Erotic Reading Circle is exposure to erotic writing with a wide range of writing styles in various genres.

What’s
the
inside
scoop
on
your
story?
In my erotic writing, my characters are frequently confounded by an unexpected, intense attraction that calls them to some form of transformation. Sometimes I write from the point of view of someone struggling to reconcile an out-of character attraction; other times I write from the catalyst’s point of view. I am fascinated by shifts from stasis to movement, and I enjoy exploring how the dynamic nature of sexual energy can propel people towards accelerated change.