Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (8 page)

Marlene Hoeber

Bio

Marlene Hoeber is a long time queer, kink, trans, sex- positive, feminist, social justice activist and a devout pervert. She is currently Director of Collections at the archive of the Center for Sex & Culture. Marlene was a founding member of the world’s first college campus based BDSM organization in 1991. She is also president of the Northern California chapter of the Liberal Gun Club, a member of the board of directors of the Center for Sex & Culture, and also a member of the board of directors of the IMsL Foundation. She also has a day job.

Mini-Interview

Do
you
write
under
your
own
name?
I do write under my own name. I have been doing sex-related activism of one sort or another for 25 years. I made my first decisions about using my own name in that context both when I was young and fearless, but also when we were all dying and fearlessness was how we did everything. I have decided in the interim that I can stick with those early decisions. I think that they have been good for me. Like everyone, I have done things that I am less proud of than other things, but if I am living (a small) part of my life in public, it is very important to me that I be honest.

What’s
the
inside
scoop
on
your
story?
This story started as a series of emails between my partner, Dorian Katz, and I. She is an artist (see cover illustration drawing) and I am very supportive of her career. I began at one point joking about being the “artwife.” There was, for much of the second half of the 20th century, a myth that the real Lee Krasner scuttled her own career as an artist in deference to the career of her partner, Jackson Pollock. This is not true. Sexism in the art world is what diminished her career. I began writing to Dorian as Lee writing to Jackson, snarkily complaining about that public perception, simultaneously taking about actual things Dorian and I were doing regarding her art career, and also we were writing each other love letters and talking dirty to each other in character. The notion of Lee as the aggressive top when away from the public eye seemed to perfectly skewer the old sexist myth.

Letter
to My Girlfriend

Marlene Hoeber

Lee Krasner c/o Guggenheim

30 W. 57th St.

New York, New York

April 4, 1947

Jackson Pollock

The Springs, New York

Dearest Jacks,

It’s almost as cold today as you can be. It’s almost as wet today as you can get me.

I know days like this can be hard on your old bones, my darling Jack. Come back into the house to warm up, if your hands get too cold in the studio. I wish I was there to warm them up for you. Put some sugar and hot water in your gin, that’s good for you when it rains.

I know you hate working when it’s cold. I know the paint drops differently, but you are so much happier when you just keep going. Maybe you’ll find new things with the paint working differently, thicker, slower.

Oh, it was so horrible last night, Jack. I had to go to this horrible dinner event and all the damn Guggenheims were there. You think we aren’t always that fond of Peggy, well, the rest of them are real barbarians. They know all about oil and silver, but are positively stupid about everything else. They don’t even know what good booze is. I have a headache that screams Courvoisier.

All is well, no worries. I did my duty as the good art-wife. I put a face to where Peggy sends a trickle of their riches. I was “interesting” for them. I even held my tongue when one of the uncles started going on about splashes of paint that a monkey could make.

I wanted to ask him if he knew where I could find a monkey that fucks like an angel and pours gin over my tits. I wanted to know if he could really train a monkey to beg for my cunt so sweetly that I can’t resist. I didn’t ask any of these things. I had another drink and smiled something stupid about how everyone has differing taste in art.

After dinner, the bunch of us staying at Peggy’s place went back there to continue the party. Peggy went on and on about how she has never been with a woman but the prospect seems so in-ter-es-ting. She kept looking at me when she said these things. She is such a hideous bore. I don’t think any amount of money could make it worth her bourgeois obsession with the daring and in-ter-es-ting. I thought one was supposed to be jaded by as much wealth as she has. Didn’t she get this bit of exploration done with at Radcliffe or Sarah Lawrence or wherever it was that she went? You know that I have nothing against women, but she is so horrible!

I ran into David Smith yesterday. He is planning to come visit you in a day or two. I put two cases of gin in the back of his truck for you. It’s the good stuff. I charged it on Peggy’s account. Make sure you get both cases. You know how David can be.

This is important—I told David that your black eye and broken nose are from a bar fight. It might spoil your reputation as a tough old drunk for everyone to know that your injuries are from me.

Would David be able to look either of us in the face if you had to explain that I broke your nose grinding my cunt into it? Let them think you are belligerent. Let them think you rail against the world. I know that all I have to do is lift my skirt and the great fucking genius of the twentieth century begs on his knees to do whatever I want. If you are a genius, Jackson, it is as my toilet.

I can’t wait to be home. It’s the only place I don’t have to hear about Jackson Fucking Pollock, the Greatest Fucking American Painter. I can’t wait to be in my own studio. I’m tired of everything always being about you. If there wasn’t a little hate, I suppose the love wouldn’t be so sweet.

I wish I was waiting for you in the kitchen, by the big wood stove. I’ll be there for drunken sex and lunch soon enough. Just ten more days, my sweet grumpy. We’ll be in each other’s arms soon. I’ll be as rough or as sweet as you want, old man. I’ll give you whatever you want, as long as I can be with you. I touch myself thinking of you when I go to bed. I wonder if Peggy hears me moaning your name in the dark. I hope she doesn’t hear the other names for you I whisper at the ceiling: Worm, Fool, Bastard.

I miss your rough hands on my skin, even though I always tell you to try the new soap to make them softer. I miss that bump on your nose, too. I miss you in my mouth and in my cunt and in my ass.

I’ll be on the late train next Friday. Jack, will you fuck me in the car in the train station parking lot?

Answer me when I am there with you.

Love L.K.

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Christine Solano

Bio

Christine Solano is the pen name of a poet, writer and photographer who lives in San Francisco. Among her previously published erotica is the story “Walls of Fire,” which appeared in
Herotica
5
.

Mini-Interview

How did you start writing about sex?
How
does
it
differ
from
non
-
erotic
writing?
I don’t see a clear boundary between the erotic and the non-erotic in my writing, it’s a continuum. I can only write about my experiences, including my fantasies and fears. Some of it turns out to have sexual content, some of it can be scary, sometimes both.

Do
you
write
in
multiple
genres
and
,
if
so
,
why?
I wear many hats, including as a writer, but I started as a poet at an early age and will likely end up as one. In between, I continue to write fiction and non-fiction, mostly the latter.

How
is
the
Erotic
Reading
Circle
part
of
your
writing
process?
The ERC is a special place where I meet and hear voices that are at the edge of my usual circles, which I love. The range of flavors of erotic experiences presented on any given evening is inspiring, intriguing, and mind-and body-tingling. I only wish I could attend more often.

Do
you
write
under
your
own
name?
Why
or
why
not?
Do
you
have
any
concerns
about
publishing
erotic
work?
I use a pen name for erotic work mainly because it frees me to share some very personal experiences and feelings while protecting both the innocent and the less-so.

Gift

Christine Solano

You’re the gift

I stole

wrapped between my legs

I tied you up

licking

each salty drop

I tell myself again

this is the last time

again

wondering why

in German

“gift”

means “poison”

Ordinary Time

Christine Solano

Afterwards

a measure of peace

our skins cooling, my hand

counting your heartbeat

slowing down

we share a beer,

we tell jokes,

like friends would

I wipe away

the taste lingering

from your last kiss

that chilling flavor of

so
long

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“
You were once wild here.

Don’t let them tame you.”

-
Isadora
Duncan