Pairings

Dialing, texting, emailing, blogging... there are many activities that can (but certainly not SHOULD) be paired with drinking.

But what about drinking and kissing?

In my now epic trashy novel (which I've been writing off and on for the last 7 years and which will NEVER see the light of day) I have documented dozens of Best First Kiss stories from anyone and everyone willing to share theirs. Not someone's FIRST kiss, but a BEST first kiss with a particular person. The stories range from comical to tragic, but there are two major thematic elements that emerge: alcohol and stairwells. Makes sense, yes? A lowering of inhibitions coupled with a sense of urgency to plant one on someone before he/she leaves.

SL in Beijing is very affectionate when she's had one or two or twelve too many. But on those occasions, she has her friends looking out for her, and while we don't necessarily prevent her from showering affection on the random guy sitting at the other end of the bar, we make sure that nothing TOO untoward happens. She just always looks so HAPPY when she hits that groove.

Of course, one doesn't always have the entourage along as a safety net. And often that pairing of drinking and kissing can be yucky, or just plain silly, or forgettable, or embarrassing, or worse.

And then sometimes, it can be lovely.

"With Bacchus and Venus we'll ever combine,
For drinking and kissing are pleasures divine."

-old English ballad

Sex, Sex, Sex

"I've always felt that a happy sex life kills a person's sense of humor about himself remarkably quickly."

- Stephen McCauley

I've been thinking lately of resurrecting my trashy novel. It is November, after all - National Novel Writing Month.

And so, of course, I've been thinking about writing sex.

Elizabeth Benedict, in her book, The Joy of Writing Sex, outlines five principles to follow when writing a sex scene:

1. Sex is not an ATM withdrawal
2. Hire a decorator
3. Your characters don't have to speak to each other, but don't forget that they can
4. You need not be explicit, but you must be specific
5. Surprise me

It occurs to me that these principles apply equally well to having sex. Not that I remember sex, but I think there's a certain fungibility there. And since I'm supposed to have sex next month, I've been reading this how-to-write-sex book and thinking about how it applies to having it.

Benedict divides her book into chapters which deal with different kinds of sex:

• losing your virginity sex
  
• wedding night sex
  
• married sex
  
• adulterous sex
  
• recreational sex
• illicit sex
• solo sex

But what's on my mind now is recreational sex - particularly in light of the mandate I've been given to have sex in December. On one hand, I get it. The physical closeness, the endorphin release, having a sandwich afterwards, no emotional demands to counter. It's all good. But I get all of that (minus the first) after a good session on my yoga mat. And I don't have to wash my sheets afterwards.

There's also the pizza argument. Even cold, bad pizza is still pizza. But given my rocky relationship with carbs, I can masterfully avoid pizza, unless it's REALLY GOOD pizza that I really really want at that moment.

But this is my thought... it's what might be inconvenient or deemed "unnecessary" with sex that makes it interesting. And that's exactly what is, for the most part, lost with recreational sex.

Anais Nin said it best:

Without feelings, inventions, moods, [there are] no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine.

But now that I've just typed that, it seems like an awfully tall order. And, oddly enough, makes me think of going down to Ray's to get a slice, with everything on it.

Life Aspirations

I have two:

1. By day, to write trashy novels
2. By night, to be a lounge singer

My sexless trashy novel will never see the light of day. But my second aspiration might just be achieved - at least for one evening, if SK has anything to say about it.

Mid summer, SK told me that she wants to do a cabaret night sometime in November, starring herself, VH, and me. I immediately enthused about the idea and then promptly forgot about it until she came over one evening last week for wine and girl-talk and reminded me about it.

VH, if you read this post, consider yourself reminded as well.

Since SK is appalled by my karaoke song choices, she wrote up a list of songs for me and told me in no uncertain terms that the list is non-negotiable and that I will have to learn them.

Not only does SK know music, she also knows my voice. So her choices for me are spot on. I did try to be helpful by volunteering my karaoke favorites - all of which she rejected out of hand by telling me, "what you like to sing at karaoke and what you can actually do justice to don't have much in common."

True enough.

So we sat at my little kitchen table while she searched for various songs on youtube, muttering to herself, and I sat opposite her, drinking my wine, swaying along to whatever she was playing on my computer, and pretending that my remote control was a mic.

What do we need to make this cabaret night happen? I'll make a list:

1. a pianist
2. mics/speakers/piano/assorted other equipment
3. a venue
4. a date
5. an audience

But for now, I'm off to download Whatever Lola Wants from iTunes.

More Than Words Can Wield The Matter

As far as New Year's resolutions go, on the top of my list is to floss everyday. I also toyed around with the idea of forgiveness - forgiving myself and others.

Then I remember Jane Smiley's A Thousand Acres. When Rose is dying, she tells her older sister Ginny, that by any measure, she (Rose) is the failure of the family - dying, widowed, despised, in debt. But that despite all those outward signs of failure, she did succeed at something very important - she succeeded at staying strong and never forgiving the unforgivable.

I have a strong appreciation for the myriad shades of gray and I believe that truth remains truth even when altered by differing perspectives. I draw my lines in the sand and am happy to rub them away and re-draw them based on new understandings and sympathies.

But sometimes, you have to carve those lines into stone, and never waver. Because what's on the other side is simply not acceptable.

More On Writing Sex

"Release your inner slut," advises the description of the upcoming "Talk Dirty to Me" Co-Ed Sex Ed Class & Social Mixer. And it continues: "From moans and groans, to long sentences detailing what you want now, good dirty talk is about being authentic." Takes place January 26th - birthday party idea?

I am beside myself with joy. I am hopeful this will revive my seriously flaccid trashy novel. Trashy novels NEED sex scenes, and perhaps with my upcoming schedule of events lined up for January, I'll finally be able to put pen to paper and let loose a torrent of steaminess.

January 17th: In The Flesh Erotic Reading Series

January 22nd: Best Sex Writing 2008 Book Party/Reading

January 27th: Erotic Love Letter Workshop

SK is convinced she might just die of embarrassment, but I assured her that death by embarrassment would be far more likely during our pole-dancing classes.

I've spent the past year repeatedly killing off my trashy novel's main characters in the most gruesome ways possible. Maybe now I'll have them talk dirty to each other and get down to business. I'm so excited I'm shimmying in my seat.

I don't need to remember sex, I can find inspiration from the filthy minds of others. I love it. Plus, these are events during which I need consume nothing (my detox fast, in mind).

So while I can barely contain myself, I will approach this seriously, notebook in hand. Because after all, as Samantha Jones said, "Honey, they don't call it a job for nothing!"

I am curious to learn what else will seem like a good idea to me this month when I am teetering about in a state of deprivation-derived delirium.

Writing Sex

I once watched infomercials and re-read books after losing the fight with insomnia. But there are only so many flowbees one can buy as gag gifts for friends you don't like so much, and there are only so many times one can re-read a trashy airplane novel. Even Nabokov begins to suffer on the 127th read at 3AM: "She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line".... blah blah blah, I get it Humbert, you had a pervy thing for a little girl, SHE seduced YOU, you still loved her even when she grew up and became all gross with heavy breasts and arm hair, you killed for her, and now you are in jail because of it. I GET IT!

(Wow. The BLASPHEMY. I'm waiting for lightning to strike.)

Lately, I've been reading blogs when I can't sleep. And last night, I read a bunch of blogs describing sexual encounters with great attention to detail. This is my big takeaway: It's HARD to write a good sex scene. The mechanics of sex, when written down, are NOT sexy. I'm not saying that it's impossible to write a good sex scene. It's just absurdly difficult and I've read very few descriptions of sex that didn't make me cringe.

In my epic trashy novel, I avoided sex scenes like the plague. Imagine, a trashy novel with no sex scenes! Not everybody can write a scene about a little girl and an apple and make it erotic and compelling and strangely beautiful despite the obvious ick factor. And I gave up trying years ago - my trashy novel sex scenes were like those out of black and white movies - the leading man plants one on the leading lady in a manly, closed mouth sort of way, and then it cuts to trains going through tunnels.

Well, last night I tried again. I ended up using lots of words beginning with the letter "T": turgid, tumescent, tumultuous, torrid, torrential, tango. I know, I know, "tango"? (It sort of made sense though). At one point, delirious with lack of sleep, I tried to alphabetize my "T" words, but it just didn't fit with how I wanted the scene to flow if I used "tango" first.

Instead of referring to the internet, I've gone old-school, back to my bookcase, to end this post with a REALLY GOOD sex scene describing a girl's first time:

"Let's just stay," he said, breathing hard.

"Well, okay." I closed my eyes as tightly as I could. "I'm ready," I said bravely. When nothing happened, I opened my eyes.

He look at me as if he had amnesia. Then he looked surprised, then frustrated. "Okay, okay," he said, half pulling me up. We stood and I saw his erection and was so surprised I walked into the doorjamb on the way out. When we got in bed I was surprised how ready I was, and how easily he slipped in. He moved in and out hard at first, making my head hit against the headboard. I wouldn't have minded, expect I was scared I might get knocked out, and then I'd miss the most important part; but that didn't happen.

- Cynthia Kadohata, The Floating World.

Mixology

I stayed in today. Far too cold and wet and dreary outside to get me out of my apartment, not even for the inducement of boozy brunch.

So I turned on my newly acquired electric heater that looks like a wood-burning stove, curled up on the sofa and re-read Hemingway's Garden of Eden this afternoon. From the back cover:

"Set on the Cote d'Azure in the 1920s, it is the story of a young American writer, David Bourne, his glamorous wife, Catherine, and the dangerous, erotic game they play when they fall in love with the same woman."

Well, that pretty much sums it up. Catherine decides to bring another woman, a gorgeous young vibrant woman, into the marriage. That seems singularly ill-advised, if you ask me. And it ends as much as you'd expect it would.

Hemingway was exploring the dynamic between two damaged people, and what better than the addition of a destabilizing third party to forcibly reveal what might be strange and confusing or even ugly. Add destabilizing ingredient, throw in some Bollinger Brut 1915, stir, serve very very cold.

But I can't help but think that there must have been an element of self-indulgent prurience on Hemingway's part as well. Don't ALL boys fantasize about having more than one beautiful woman in their lives?

But then again, there is nothing wrong with a little self-indulgent prurience.

There is a scene I particularly like: David (the husband) is drinking cocktails with Marita (the "other" woman). David, having finished his own drink, reaches for Marita's and drinks from it. As he sets the glass back down, he realizes that his lips touched the glass at the exact place where Marita's had touched. And that thought gives him pleasure. That is the moment he realizes he's falling in love with her.

I must remember to try that one day.