Best Sex Writing 2006 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  Where’s the Sin? An Anti-Sermon

  The Coming Boom

  Romancers and Raincoaters

  Tortured Logic

  Where the Truth Lies

  Rope Burn

  A Porn Valley Story

  Naked on the Set! Auditioning for John Cameron Mitchell’s Shortbus

  Man-Hunting with the High-School Dream Girls

  The Pole Test

  The Nutty Confessor

  The Cuddle Puddle of Stuyvesant High School

  An Ode to Ass: Reflections on Sex Ed, Porn, and Perversity

  Fuck Abstinence

  Private Dick

  Havin’ Buck for Breakfast

  Erection Selection

  The Art of Anal Fisting

  An Ode to Ass

  What I’m Giving Up

  Good Fences Make Good Affairs

  The First Fence

  The Sex Zone Grows

  To the Limits

  The Perfect Wall

  Just Always Be Good

  Out There: Mountain as a New Bridge

  About the Authors

  About the Editors

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  The editors are grateful to our authors, and to Scott Idleman, Karen Quigg, Regina Marler, Gary Morris, Mark Rhynsburger, Kim Wylie, Elise Cannon, Kevin Votel, Luke Carmody, Rich Freese, and in particular to Diane Levinson and Chris Fox for helping Cleis Press remain as independent and iconoclastic as ever.

  This book is for Constance and Melanie.

  Introduction

  This was the year that the U.S. Attorney General’s office declared war on porn once again. In an action that reminds one of the Meese Commission of the 1980s, we have the current AG tilting at the windmills of human desire. The new federal mandate calls for clamping down on Internet porn, and they are targeting hard-core BDSM and fetish sites, specifically the sites least likely to raise the sympathy of most Americans.

  Will the campaign against depictions of fantasy sadism and depravity at home make us forget the images of real-life sadism and depravity at Abu Ghraib? The irony would be comic if it weren’t so tragic.

  Representations of sexuality are ubiquitous, as anyone who has ever clicked a mouse can attest. Yet even in the relative democracy of the Internet, personal revelations about sex are often cheesy, or coated with a layer of false sophistication.

  Despite our overexposed culture (or perhaps because of it), we forget how courageous it is to write authentically about sex. We aren’t used to honest depictions of sex. What we’ve been given is airbrushed, or if not airbrushed, then at least contrived in its imitation of the raw physical expression of emotion. So idealized is the sexuality we’ve been taught to live up to that the real experience may leave us feeling embarrassed or shameful. Real sex is not necessarily pretty. Cataclysmically erotic experiences don’t necessarily leave you feeling Downy Fresh. Even in the realm of Hearts and Flowers, all is not hearts and flowers.

  Thankfully, sexual inventiveness has not been worn down by excessive disclosure. Innocent beginnings, with all their implied freedom and spontaneity, are still possible. True love is real, generosity of spirit abounds, and good politics win out. Integrity, self-knowledge, and the ecstasy of transcending the self to touch the Universal—all are to be found within these pages.

  Taken together, the essays in Best Sex Writing 2006 comprise a detailed, direct survey of the contemporary American sexual landscape, one that we at Cleis Press have helped to shape over the past quarter century.

  The authors in Best Sex Writing 2006 write movingly—and authentically—about sexual politics, sexual culture, and sexual expression. They offer an in-depth look at sex the way it actually happens in America today. Their work is humorous, informative, challenging, sexy, serious, deeply disturbing, both thoughtful and thought-provoking.

  Here then is the fruit of their labors, both in the reporting and in the reality.

  Felice Newman

  March 2006

  San Francisco

  Where’s the Sin? An Anti-Sermon

  Shalom Auslander

  Yesterday afternoon I received an e-mail containing the names and addresses of hundreds of horny MILFs right in my neighborhood, which I deleted without reading. I didn’t even bother opening the one about a gorgeous teen taking it deep in her ass, and when, curious, I opened an e-mail titled “Looking to Refinance?” a new window popped up on my desktop featuring an animated picture of an attractive blonde girl with an enormous black dildo thrusting in and out of her mouth. I rolled my eyes, clicked the mouse impatiently to close the window, and sighed to myself, “Oh, come on, already.”

  What’s happening to me?

  I wake up in the morning to the sounds of a lesbian in Howard Stern’s studio; blindfolded, she is trying to guess which of three contestants is her girlfriend by licking their pussies. I yawn, switch from FM to AM, and try to find the weather report.

  I trudge through Manhattan, oblivious to the towering billboards of near-naked models, oblivious, too, to the near-naked women around me. Two girls hurry by; their asses read “Juicy.” How come, I wonder, you can never get a goddamn cab in this city?

  I arrive home in the evening, turn on the television, and I’m met with the latest music video from the latest teenage ingenue, bent over, her barely covered ass shaking at the camera. I reach for the remote and change the channel. “There’s never anything on,” I sigh.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  Genesis 2:25—The man and his wife were both naked and they felt no shame.

  Genesis 3:6–7—When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it; she also gave some to her husband, who ate it. Then the eyes of both of them were opened and they realized they were naked.

  The great eleventh-century French Torah commentator Rashi asks, “What does it mean that they realized they were naked? Even a blind man knows that he is naked.” Rashi goes on to explain that having eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, Adam and Eve suddenly knew of good and of evil, of morality and of immorality, of sin and of virtue, and they were ashamed.

  Genesis 3:11—God busts them.

  Genesis 3:14—God curses them.

  Genesis 3:24—God chases them from Eden and bars the Gates of Paradise so that they may never return.

  And what’s the first thing they do? What is the very first thing that they do?

  Genesis 4:1—And Adam knew Eve.

  They fucked.

  The very next chapter. The very first verse. And Adam knew Eve.

  The very. First. Verse.

  Pre sin, not a single mention of fucking (aside from the somewhat clinical reference in Chapter Two to a man and woman “becoming one flesh”). Rashi doesn’t mention this, but it’s right there in the text: sin comes along, Adam and Eve get chased out of Paradise by a bellicose Deity, they are cursed for generations with toil and agonizing labor, the gate to their former home is blocked for eternity by two belligerent Cherubim and something called the Blade of the Turning Sword, and what do they do?

  They fuck.

  And Adam knew Eve.

  No setting up their apartment, no stopping at Ikea for funky lighting, no sin offerings to their Lord, no journeying to Ur, or to Goshen, or to The Land Which I Will Show You.

  The moment they knew sin, they fucked.

  I know how they felt.

  I spent most of the first eighteen years of my life in all-male yeshivas (same thing as madrassas, only with a different book), being instructed in the wily ways
of the Evil Inclination, the dangerous lure of women and of the horrible punishments for wasting seed. In the Yeshiva of Spring Valley, the girls were safely hidden away in a separate building that stood across a busy four-lane thoroughfare. At summer camp the girls had their own campus, half a mile away from the boys, through a forbidding, densely wooded forest guarded by watchful camp rabbis and religious camp counselors. Even the bus that traveled from my Orthodox town into Manhattan had separate seating—men sat on the right, women on the left, and a thick woolen curtain hung down between them.

  I was never hornier.

  If they forbade me to look at it, I wanted to touch it. If they forbad me to touch it, I wanted to lick it. If they forbade me to lick it, I wanted to shave it, pierce it, and put things inside it.

  When the rest of my fourth-grade Torah class had moved on to the story of Abraham, I was still picturing the orgies back in Sodom. When Rabbi Glatzer read the verse “And Abraham knew Sarah,” I pictured my busty matriarch in fishnets and high heels, with a cumshot across her face.

  “Yeah, that’s it, Abraham,” I thought, “know her. Know the fucking shit out of her.”

  Purgatory was no deterrent. If I burned for it, I yearned for it.

  And Adam knew Eve.

  Like Adam and Eve, once I learned of sin, there was no going back. If they’d really wanted to cool me down, they’d have told me everything was permissible. Permissibility is a cold shower.

  I need sin.

  I need transgression.

  I need to violate, to desecrate, to abominate.

  And so today, whether it’s lesbians on Howard Stern or Britney’s new boobs or horny MILFs in my neighborhood, whether it’s the radio or the television or the Internet, I yawn, and I reach for the dial, or the remote, or the mouse pad, and I find myself wondering: Where’s the sin?

  It’s all so…allowed.

  Where’s the violation? The desecration? The abomination? Please, take me back in time—take me back and book me the Presidential Suite in the Gomorrah Hilton with Lot, all his daughters, a ten-pack of nipple clamps, and a gallon of Wet Lube.

  There was a time when the exposed nipple of a national sex symbol would have generated something more than derision. But what’s a nipple anymore? If I check my e-mail in the morning, I can see a dozen nipples before breakfast. If Janet Jackson wants to be naughty, provocative, sexual—if she hopes in some way to even pretend to be transgressive—she and her choreographers are going to have to figure out a way for Justin Timberlake to “accidentally” fist her asshole while she “inadvertently” eats out her sister.

  Where’s the sin?

  Fuck saving trees. Fuck whales and lemurs and spotted owls. Save sin. Save sex. Save fucking.

  Save thongs.

  What a thrill that used to be!—that stolen glimpse of a woman’s panties as she bent over in the gym, or the restaurant, or the supermarket, the frenzied hope as I circled back around the canned goods aisle that she would still be there, squatting down to get a bag of sugar. Now I can’t get away from the damn things. Where’s the sin? I’ve gone from glimpsing a woman’s thong and thinking about how much I’d like to tear those pants off and fuck her, to thinking about how much I wish she’d just pull her fucking pants up.

  Thongs are dead for me.

  Thongs are dead for me, and TV and advertising and the Internet and Howard Stern and J.Lo killed them. What’s next, J.Lo? Vaginas? Will that be a trend? Women just walking around with their vaginas sticking out because J.Lo did that on her last video? Are you going to ruin vagina for me next?

  I want my sin back. I want transgression.

  Iniquity.

  Abominations.

  So here is where I find myself—a religiously irreligious, devoutly nondevout, strictly nonkosher former religious student—in a sexual position more strange than anything dreamt of on the Internet: silently cheering for the self-appointed, holy-spirit-anointed morality police, for the podium-pounding religious right, for the outraged moral majority, for Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity, for the Mothers Against Everything, for the fist wavers with their balsa-wood crucifixes and their typo-laden placards shouting about The Children, for the pandering pornography-policy-passing politicians, for the bills restricting online porn and strip clubs and prostitution, for the fire—and—brimstone LA County Sheriffs kicking in the doors of porno production companies.

  Lock it up, boys. Shut it down.

  Burn it, ban it, bury it in the vaults beneath the vaults beneath the Vatican and seal it with the sign of the Seven Seals.

  I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

  The Coming Boom

  Annalee Newitz

  I’m in Newark, New Jersey, in a small room dominated by a large conference table. There are no windows, and no sounds except for the whir of the ventilation system. “This is going to be great,” my host, Rutgers neuropsychologist Barry Komisaruk, says, grinning.

  A woman walks in with a large black duffel bag and shuts the door. “This is my graduate student Janice Breen,” Komisaruk says. Breen opens the bag, unpacks a few electromechanical components, and begins to assemble them using a screwdriver.

  “So what do you call this?” I ask. The device looks like a tampon attached to a hefty electric toothbrush, which is in turn wired to a box with a glowing red digital readout.

  “It’s the, um, contraption,” Breen answers distractedly, hunting for an outlet.

  “Actually, it’s called the calibrated vaginal stimulator,” Komisaruk tells me. “It’s a modified tampon attached to a transducer for measuring the force that women apply to the vaginal wall.”

  The tampon looks big enough to be in the supersize range and is connected at a forty—five—degree angle to the metal handle, which houses the transducer. Scores of women have inserted Breen’s contraption into their vaginas. (The tampons are disposed of after each use.) As I fiddle with the tampon, the pressure from my fingers registers as a few grams of force.

  “Women self-stimulate,” Komisaruk explains, “and we use fMRIs”—functional magnetic resonance imaging—“to look at which parts of their brains respond.”

  I stare at the instrument in my hands.

  “Basically,” Komisaruk concludes, “it’s a dildo.”

  The tools are crude, but that’s because the science of sexual arousal is still young. Viagra revolutionized the field in the 1990s. The little blue pill that gets blood flowing to the right places at that special moment became a blockbuster for Pfizer, spawning Eli Lilly’s Cialis and GlaxoSmithKline’s Levitra. Millions now take these drugs to kick-start an evening of private recreation.

  Flush with success in the fight against “erectile dysfunction,” the pharmaceutical industry set out to develop Viagra for women. First, researchers simply gave women the same pill that worked so well for men. The good news: The drug does pump a woman’s genitals full of blood. But it won’t necessarily get her frisky.

  The results were surprising and frustrating to the pharmaceutical industry, which had assumed that what was good for the gander would be good for the goose. Julia Heiman, a psychology professor and director of the Kinsey Institute, conducted some of Pfizer’s Viagra studies and found that while some women “really noticed their genitals” and felt aroused, others “barely paid attention” to them and weren’t aroused at all. In other words, signals originating from these women’s genitals just weren’t translating into conscious desires. That insight put a new target in researchers’ sights: the female brain itself. “The brain is where things are made sexual,” Heiman explains. “It’s the organ that causes us to be attracted to certain body types or looks. That kind of preference isn’t processed in the genitals.”

  Even before Pfizer abandoned the bottom-up approach in 2004, the industry began investigating top-down options. The reigning wisdom these days is that making arousal drugs for women will involve targeting the female brain the way Viagra targets the male vascular system.

  The first arousal drugs
aimed at women’s gray matter are expected to be on the market in the next couple of years. The active ingredient: testosterone, a “male” hormone that is also naturally present in women’s bodies in smaller quantities. Procter & Gamble plans to release a testosterone patch, Intrinsa, and Illinois-based BioSante is entering Phase III clinical trials with its testosterone formulation, LibiGel. Even so, most researchers agree that testosterone isn’t the end of the story. Testosterone drugs will never have a direct, rapid effect on women the way Viagra does on men, because it’s a hormone that fosters an overall sense of strength and well-being rather than specifically catalyzing sexual arousal. More promising is a drug called PT-141, which is being developed by Palatin Technologies in New Jersey. The first in a new class of drugs called melanocortin agonists, PT-141 targets the central nervous system. Early trials show both genital arousal and increased sexual desire in women who take it. But even more precisely targeted drugs are coming—those that won’t light up the entire nervous system in the blind hope of hitting pleasure buttons, but actually home in on parts of the brain that are directly connected to arousal and orgasm.

  The total market for male arousal drugs is $2.7 billion per year and rising. Thanks to a study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association estimating that 43 percent of women are dissatisfied with sex—as opposed to 31 percent of men—the market for a pink Viagra could be even bigger. For now, those future billions are locked up in the labs where scientists are attempting to reverse engineer the female orgasm.