That was a bad thing.
The workshop took place at a sex shop in the lower east side. I showed up and the door was locked. I was convinced I was late so I did the natural thing - I banged on the glass door mercilessly until someone came to unlock the door and let me in.
"Am I late?" I inquired breathlessly.
"No, you are early, but that's ok," I was informed. "Look around the store until the workshop starts," the salesperson suggested.
I claimed seats for myself and SK and wandered around the store. Since I am very methodical, I started at the beginning, and perused the bookshelves closest to the front door. Books do not frighten me. Even book with titles such as: Dick: A User's Guide and Nice Girls Don't... and Butt and The Beauty of Fetish and even The Definitive Guide to Anal Sex for Women.
Next I went to the display of hand blown (I'm not even trying to be funny here) glass dildos which were VERY expensive.
But as I went deeper into the store, I grew more uncomfortable.
I picked up a rubber ducky and was surprised at the weight of it. I squeezed it in the wrong way and it started to vibrate. I squealed and dropped it and then looked around furtively to see if anyone noticed. I wandered further and saw the usual assortment of dildos and vibrators and so forth. These were immediately recognizable as such and didn't startle me. After all, I've watched Sex and the City; I know of the "rabbit." After all, I own 15 "Hello Kitties."
But then I came upon a display of... well... flaccid penises. I was a bit confused. What does one DO with something like that? I had it in my mind that they were made of hard plastic. I knew it was a bad idea, but I reached out and poked one with a single finger. It wasn't made of hard plastic. It was.... LIFELIKE. That disturbed me immensely. I got terribly confused and poked it again, rather expecting it to grow and harden. It didn't. I got more confused and wished I had anti-bacterial gel. I was so confused that I backed away and ran over to the other side of the store where I found myself standing before a display of whips. To make a long story short, some whips don't hurt. Others do. I now have a new sensitivity regarding the crop I use when I am on horseback.
Bottom line, I was incredibly relieved when SK finally showed up and I could make her poke the flaccid silicon penises as well before taking our seats.
We were told that the workshop was about to start and that this was a good time to "set our phones on vibrate and put them in our pants." I chose to turn my phone off entirely.
I had hoped the exercise of going to this workshop would help me get over the block I have about writing sex scenes. It failed. "Cock" this and "suck" that and "rank cunt" this just doesn't seem sexy to me. Am I alone here? Is that actually SEXY?!? If anything, I walked away from this workshop thinking not only will I never WRITE about sex, I will never HAVE sex again.
But, being the dutiful student that I am, I completed the workshop assignment and wrote an "erotic" love letter. It's not good. It's the exact OPPOSITE of sexy. All the frighteningly enormous dildos and flaccid silicon penises and painful whips just chased the "erotic" right out of me. But here it is, because I promised myself that no matter how humiliating, I would post my literary efforts on my blog:
I was in a strange and foreign place this morning - the grocery store. I heard this is where one goes to find food which isn't delivered to your door or served at your table.
I stood alone in the frozen foods aisle, and suddenly I felt your hand on the small of my back. You were nowhere near me, yet clear as day, I felt the heat and pressure of your hand on my skin through my clothes. You touched me there the first time we met. You didn't touch me with intent then - that would come later. That first touch was just a casual gesture on your part, although it affected me quite differently.
I cook four times year - the end of every quarter, that's it. But there I was this morning at Whole Foods, only a month into Q2, consulting the grocery list I had emailed to my blackberry. Why? For the express purpose of making dinner for you. It was difficult enough to concentrate on navigating the complexities of cilantro versus basil, or the question of whether sea bass counts as a firm white fish, but then I felt your hands on me. Your hands on the small of my back, my face, my breasts, my thighs, between my legs. Your hands EVERYWHERE.
Standing alone, contemplating the frozen vegetables (I know, I was taking liberties with the recipe), I was flushed and shaking. I didn't care how fresh was the bread, or how juicy the peaches, how tender the meat. Nothing feels as good, smells as good, tastes as good as you do.
I'm home now and you are on your way to me. The fabulous restaurant around the corner that you love so much is delivering their sea bass special. I considered pretending that I had prepared it myself, but nothing in me is capable of lying to you.
Your hands... I still feel your hands on me.
I think I have to draw an inescapable conclusion: I am simply incapable of writing anything erotic. *sigh*