HOT SEX IN ST. FRANCOIS COUNTY?

This afternoon's view from my writing studio

It's axiomatic that all genuinely interesting people in the 573 have at least a smidgeon within their complex personalities of the Imp of the Perverse. Immodestly perhaps, I count myself among the more interesting — with all that designation entails—and so I do confess it’s wonderfully violative to write about outrageous sex acts here in the Missouri Bible Belt.

If ever there was a misnomer...!

Recently at Friday night happy hour at Champagne House, my friend Professor X told me that he had commenced a sexual liaison with a young woman from his church, who enjoyed kissing and licking his arsehole—“tossed salad” was what he called that particular sexual practice. To which I replied that just before I'd left NYC, providentially, I'd gone in for a cup of tea only to find a radical sex workshop in full swing at Bluestockings, A Radical Bookstore. Whereat I learned that God in his wisdom had caused us to be begat with a concentration of nerve endings around the human anus, and therefore skillfully and sensually-practiced sex acts involving butts and butt holes decidedly enhance both male and female orgasm. So, I didn't really see the problem.

The problem was he told me quite passionately that if she wanted to “snack on his hiney” afterwards he wanted her, at the very least, to rinse her mouth with a strong antiseptic mouthwash like Listerine. Later, reflecting on the anecdote, I thought they've brought on the kink, but their sex was not actually hot. Not hot because they haven't yet found a common language for their sexual discourse; they haven't achieved a mode of eliciting consent from each other, either expressly or tacitly. At its most fundamental consent means "feeling together." I sense my friend the Professor is worried that his lady friend's aim is not to pleasure him but to defile him.

I composed the following text at Valley Creek Coffeehouse, a Christian coffee shop where the Freedom Church meets for memorably spirited Sunday morning services. They play soft Christian Rock on a good sound system, I like their skim milk cappuccino (it froths up beautifully without the milk fat), the atmosphere is devotional, and I find of all the local wifi hotspots when I want to write something potentially erotic, I do my most focused work there. This is from Kissing Booth my new experimental novel written in episodes (not chapters), which is set in St. Francois County. In Episode 54 the heroine has sought out her Downtown Development Association mentor for some hard-nosed business advice on her kissing enterprise.

In Episode 55 her editor offers his usual flavor of rectitude—total condemnation!

Episode 54

            I'd like to go over my notes for product development with you, if I may? I've been working on a literary-inflected kiss I want to dedicate to Herman Melville, meaning that it's inspired by him, two passages particularly. One in The Battering Ram chapter of Moby-Dick (a perfectly sublime fornication) and one toward the end of The Confidence Man (wherein he's rapturously licking (my) pussy for all time)). Indulging in a little fantastical process engineering, if I could make out with Herman, what, say, three effects would I want him to take away from his experience of our encounter?

            To aim at such an exquisitely sexy target makes me instantaneously amorous and plunges me into a rare almost Meneadean wildness. Is it awful to say?, even as I freely claim it as part of my jouissance package, I want to pull Melville's beard a little bit with one hand and stroke his johnson with my velvety skin with the other, walk the narrow ledge between pleasure and agony. I want to be able to compose a kiss that tells him that I have read this man with my clitoris equally with my heart or brain. I have put the book down to touch myself at almost every reading, and this is awful to confess, he has had me up on my own two feet. Do you understand? I leapt off the bed, stood in front of the mirror, put a fedora on, and beat myself off strumming with four well-lubed fingers, left hand holding my hat, tits bouncing hard for Herman Melville―that stout-hearted fuck.

            A man I know from a long time ago once asked me to explain to him what having a cock in my mouth felt like. And I told him, it's like reading Melville. In fact, it's exactly like that: solid, darkly-veined, bumpy in patches, salty, rock hard, and you know I just have to say this (I mean what else has this whole fucking education in literature as a record of unfulfilled desire been for?) sweet pre-cum. Let me say it again: tastes so sweet.

            So, here's what I came up with for the kissing menu's description of The Herman Melville. Don't laugh! With Herman, I want my head tilted all the way back, hanging off a bolster, looking up at the night sky. I HAVE TO BE outside with Herman, rocking with him on the deck of the Pequod. Herman's one to be kissed with tears in your eyes. Nothing less!

            Am I fooling myself that I can consistently deliver product like that? This is where I really need to lean on you, especially for pricing. Maybe I should offer it on a Pay-As-You-Wish basis?

Episode 55

was there an option of using anyone else's feet ?

It's a perfect heart-shaped pond--ground zero for the love revolution.