I am swamped. Buried under a tide of erotica. Not a bad place to be; in fact it’s a pretty damn fine place to be. Really, it’s an extremely arousing place to inhabit, langourously reading through over 200 (!!!!!) submissions for Best Women’s Erotica 2006. It’s overwhelming, and I’m taking it nice and slow, like a slippery hot afternoon fuck on sweaty sheets, when you don’t want to eat… food. Anyway, some of the submissions are so pivoting that I find myself carrying them with me for the rest of the day, like sense memories. Like the Buttercream Frosting I bought this morning and wore behind my ears all day; a whiff of a particularly memorable story will catch up with me while I’m waiting at a crosswalk for the light to change, and I’ll wish I was in that story I read before I had to fold up my iBook and flee the cafe, too aroused to sit still.

Too much information? Well, anyway, for me it’s a good sign to have so many good stories to choose among, and The City isn’t a bad place to meander from wifi to wifi with an iBook, among Victorians and comminuty gardens, especially when you’ve got erotica freshly coursing through your veins. Not that the stories all as sublime as I described; I did reach a point of frustration a few days ago when I read the eleventh story that started out hot and sweet, then had a breakup, or a death, or a depressed main character… and, what the fuck? It’s a head-scratcher I’ve been scratching about for several years. Why do some people think that “women’s erotica” needs to be black in order to be… Taken seriously? “Edgy”? “Women’s”? I don’t know, but I have to say that I’ve noticed a huge difference in the way that previous generations of women have edited erotic anthologies in comparison to my generations’ attitudes about sex. We don’t think that “literary” erotica, especially women’s erotica, needs to be somehow qualified by sadness, anguish, pain or suffering (unless you mean a tidy spanking). I think that’s a holdover from older generations’ beliefs that because the writing is about sex, it needs to be something more, or less, to be taken seriously as literature. Which of course has a totally different meaning now in the world of blogs, which I see as living, breathing books. A message to the publishers and editors (and filmmakers) who imbue the hot fuck with a moral: you’re not relevant anymore. Our erotica is alive. Girls like me, emotional pain and gender stereotyping hinders our hot fucks. We do crazy things and get off like screaming tattooed banshees doing them. We get hard-ons. We suck, we lick, we conquer, we cut and bleed, we cuddle. Our erotica is edgy, yes, but it is joyful. You can wank to it. You want it to happen to you. Its edge comes from authenticity of experience; I get the feeling that a lot of erotica editors try *too* hard to capture that hunger, that drive that comes from being a real woman on the street, feet on the ground, looking for sex with lips like sugar and a view of the world that’s slightly askew, like a familiar puzzle all rearranged to make a new picture. It’s a feeling that you experience, like a scent.

So, no. I’m running totally sexually fucking amok with BWE ‘06. I’m tossing OUT all the fucking depressing submissions I’m getting. I want erotica that totally turns my head around, and makes me want to fuck. Erotica for girls like me.

Okay, so I had a bit of nigori with dinner. Which goes perfectly with this crazy clip (nsfw) that makes me want to go back to Tokyo really bad.

Also do check out my most recent crushes: allison inge trembly, Miss Deja Vu, John John Jesse, Queen of Pink, Rob Clarke, and, as always, forever yours, Body Collector