Rachel Kramer Bussel's Blog, page 112

Upcoming events - Philadelphia tonight, NYC tomorrow, Texas Book Festival, Shag

Quick and dirty:

Tonight, October 16th at 8 pm, I'm reading along with Gwen Masters, Emerald and Robin Sampson at Philadelphia's Erotic Literary Salon.

Participate as a writer, reader, storyteller, spoken word performer or just come to liste, enjoy and applaud.

Attendees: 21+ only

Location: Time (The Bohemian Absinthe Lounge) 2nd floor, no elevator.

1315 Sansom St., Philadelphia, PA.

215-985-4800

Dates: 3rd Tuesday of every month

Time: Doors open 7:30, readings start promptly at 8pm

Cost: $10, students and seniors over 65 – $8

Food and drinks are available to order at the bar during the Salon event. No outside food or drinks all allowed.

October 17, 7 pm SHARP - free erotic writing workshop at Babeland, 43 Mercer Street, SoHo

October 27, 2:15-3:15 pm, Texas Book Festival panel with Zane and Pat Tucker, "What's Up With Erotica?" Paramount Theatre (713 Congress), Austin, Texas, and 3:30 book signing in Book Signing Tent

November 2, reading at SHAG, Williamsburg, Brooklyn - see their site for more info

And I'll be in Texas but the fabulous Bawdy Storytelling has two events in New York next week that I strongly encourage you to check out![image error]

Ths week: Erotic LIterary Salon in Philadelphia and FREE erotic writing workshop at Babeland in SoHo NYC

I've got two events this week - tomorrow night I'm at the Erotic Literary Salon reading with Gwen Masters, whose work I've published in many anthologies but have never met, and Wednesday night at 7 sharp I'm teaching a FREE erotic writing workshop at Babeland, 43 Mercer Street, NYC. See you there! [image error]

Bondage erotica BOGO offer through October 31st

Today, October 14th, through October 31st, I'm doing a special giveaway - if you're in the U.S. and pre-order my birthday month book, Best Bondage Erotica 2013, from Amazon, I'll send you a free signed book (it says December 13th there but it will be out in November). You can buy the Kindle ebook or paperback, as long as your purchase is made by October 31st and you forward me your receipt by November 1st to bestbondage2013 at gmail.com with "BOGO" in the subject and your book selection, I'll send you one of the following books, signed (to you or whoever you request): Peep Show, Irresistible: Erotic Romance for Couples, Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories or Anything for You: Erotica for Kinky Couples. I'd also love it if you'd click "like" here and here - yes, it sounds silly, but it really helps my books and I hope to have the honor and privilege of editing the Best Bondage Erotica series for a long time! If you can't pre-order but plan to buy it from Amazon, then hold off until my birthday, November 10th, because for those who order the book from Amazon ON November 10th, I'll be holding a special contest. If you're wondering why I'm doing this, it's because the more pre-orders a book gets, the more orders Amazon will place, which is great for my book and the future of the series. The table of contents is below and I will be posting my introduction soon.



Foreword: Uncomfortable Truths Graydancer
Introduction: Loving Bondage Anywhere and Everywhere
An Introduction to Shibari Elizabeth Coldwell
This Is Me Holding You Annabeth Leong
Tying the Knot Tiffany Reisz
The Great Outdoors Teresa Noelle Roberts
What Vacations Are For Thomas S. Roche
Lights Out Mina Murray
Feeling the Heat Lucy Felthouse
You Can Look… Evan Mora
The Moons of Mars Valerie Alexander
Interlude for the Troops Louise Blaydon
Hot in the City Sommer Marsden
Passion Party Purgatory Logan Zachary
Steadfast Andrea Dale
Tree Hugger Giselle Renarde
A Public Spectacle D. L. King
Seven More Days N. T. Morley
A Bit of a Tangle Monocle
Wheelbarrow Position Danielle Mignon
The Longest Afternoon Medea Mor
Plastic Wrap Shoshanna Evers
Wiped Kay Jaybee
Foot and Mouth Rachel Kramer Bussel

And here's a bonus - I hope this is at least worth you "liking" it on Amazon. Here's a few paragraphs of my story "Foot and Mouth," a very sex toy filled tale!

"Foot and Mouth" by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Shiny silver bondage tape. Dangling bells at the ends of matching nipple clamps. A black leather paddle. A Wartenberg wheel, that tiny, mean, metal medical implement. Pink feathers. And an evil grin. I shiver not so much because Bennett has those sadistic items in his hands, save for the last, which he sported on his lips, but because I can already feel the sticky heat of the tape trapping my mouth, the brush of the light feathers against the overly sensitive skin under my arms, the wheel winding its maddening way along my tender, ticklish soles. Even more than those inanimate objects that my man loves to animate, though, it’s him who makes me shiver. Bennett knows even better than I that he and he alone can make me stay stock-still, can make me tremble in fear and arousal so closely combined I have no idea where one starts and the other stops.

My entire body strains toward these kinky accoutrements, and toward him, the pull so deep I can barely remember a time before I was at his mercy, even though I know there exists such a time. Now it’s just me and him and however he wants to use me. Sometimes he only wants my mouth, sometimes my ass, sometimes my pussy, sometimes my mind. Sometimes I put on shows for him, sometimes I tell him stories, sometimes I bend over.

Today I know it’s not about what I want or can do for him at all; he wants to hurt me, and therefore he will, and I will like it, because that’s how I respond to him. My nipples can already feel the press of the clamps, the deep heat that seems to burn its way through me, and stays there. Bennett’s smile is a little mysterious, small, playful, which usually means his mind is concocting grand plans to torture me. If he could read my desire for pain, for service, for full immersion in being completely his from day one, then now, well past day one thousand and one, it’s like he knows me better than I know myself.

He’s not the kind of person you can ever tell what you want straight on. Or you can, but it doesn’t do you any good, not as a sub. Or more accurately, it doesn’t do me any good. Bennett gets a perverse pleasure out of denying me what I crave, out of only giving in when he knows I’m so mad with desire I almost no longer want it. Then he unleashes every ounce of sadistic determination on me, but not a moment sooner. He’s not interested in the “You like to be spanked, therefore I’ll spank you” kind of equation. Too straightforward, too boring. He’s told me as much. “If you just want some man to play Dom, or play Daddy, go find someone else,” he told me on our first date. I hadn’t intended to tell him all about my kinkiest fantasies; the ones I’d never told anyone, even the men I let tie me up and have their way with me. I hadn’t ever truly gone there, hadn’t even realized where “there” was until, without even a drop of wine, Bennett coaxed the truth out of me. The very naughty truth that made my cheeks burn, as I whispered it across the flickering candles and elegant tablecloth and forgotten meal.

It’s not just because he’s a genius, literally, and his mind moves too fast for that to be at all interesting to him. And it’s not the wealth of lovers he’s had before me on whom he’s honed his Dominant skills, either. It’s that he wants each time to be better than the last. He wants it to matter. He wants me to feel it not just on the tender surface of my skin but inside, deep down, all the way, where it counts. When he takes out his knife and traces it along the swell of my breast, he wants me to wonder, even for a split second, if he’ll be careless⎯or, worse, careful⎯and break the skin. He wants me to wonder, when he tells me he is bringing guests while I’m all trussed up, if he really is, and how many. He wants me to be uncertain whether he’d actually try to get his gigantic fingers inside my tight but eager ass without lube. Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker that I fall for it every time. Maybe I just want to. But when I see and hear him taking out the duct tape, I squirm in anticipation. I know I will miss the chance to mouth off, or to simply tell him basic things like, “Yes!” or “Fuck,” or “Please,” or “More.” We are both attuned to the verbal nuances of power play, so it’s rare that he takes away my power of speech. He does like to see me drool, but gags aren’t his style. He’s more the type to shove four fingers in my mouth and wait until the saliva starts to spill down my throat, or hand me a particularly large cucumber and insist I take it as far as I can.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know that a part of him, and, yes, a part of me, is already thinking about how the tape will feel coming off, how it will rip at the tender skin of my upper lip, my chin, my cheeks. Will it leave red marks? Will my lips burn? I whimper as the future pain whispers to me, and he looks down at me with what would typically be called contempt, except I know it as love. That’s his way, and when he pinches my lips closed with his fingers, I instinctively spread my legs. Trust me, we have plenty of truly tender, TLC moments, but not when we’re about to indulge our deepest desires. I’d say “do a scene,” but there is nothing of performance art about this.

“You want the tape, don’t you, Sophie?” he asks, even though it’s not really a question. He peels the shiny silver tape so close to me I hear its separation from the roll loudly. When I nod, he frowns at me.

“Yes, Bennett, I do, I want the tape. You know I want the tape.” Except it’s not about knowing, it’s about acknowledging these truths, saying them out loud, admitting them.

In 12-step programs, they say that admitting it is the first step, but in kink, at least my kink, admitting it is not about disowning it, but the very opposite: owning every ounce of what makes me so perverse as to want that tape on my most tender parts. It’s a good thing I’m so clear on my own perversions, because that’s the very next question Bennett asks me. “Where do you want the tape?” Oh, but is that ever a trick question. Do I want it on my nipples⎯and will I want it when it comes off my nipples? Do I want it binding my ankles together? Do I want it wrapping my wrists together so that I can see myself like a glinting Christmas present, all wrapped up and waiting for its proud owner to tear apart?

Cheeky Spanking Stoires excerpt: "Unwrapping" by Craig J. Sorensen

My fifth book of spanking erotica, Cheeky Spanking Stories (click to read the introduction and table of contents), is out now! The Kindle and Nook ebook versions will be out October 16th and I'll be posting excerpts from every day here. Here's a free excerpt from the third story, "Unwrapping," a charming punishment story. If you like it, please check out the entire book and click "like" on Amazon (it does help, and the the privilege of editing in the future and, trust me, I hope there are many, many more, it's my favorite topic to write and edit erotica about).

You stand, still as a startled rabbit measured by a circling cougar. You look so polished in your silver silk blouse, the antique silver pendant dangling down your chest. The monochrome of your light clothes and jewelry brings your warm cinnamon skin to life, accents the gold-brown hair brushing your shoulders. You look tactile, stylish, warm and so out of place here in my cold domain. So stunning, I almost forget why I brought you down.

Almost.

Your eyes follow me, questioning. I pause behind you and study the curve of your butt beneath your perfectly fitted white linen pants. I almost grip it. I circle and your eyes, big and brown, ascend until you tip your head back and meet my gaze. Your eyelids are painted soft silver but are wrapped in razor surprise. You bite your lip, and I think you may want to smile. You have to know what this is about.

I reach between your breasts and you hold your breath. I release the top button of your blouse. You exhale just slightly and I open the next button. The tiny strip of shiny fabric at the center of your rib cage comes into view, joins the silver cups of your bra. “You know why we’re here, don’t you?”

You shake your head ever so gently.

I trace up the inside of your blouse to the collar, then back to the next button that remains clasped. You cannot deny it. Don’t even try.

You exhale fully and reach up, the silver rings on your fingers and thumb sparkle like your long, manicured silver nails. You circle the big ring on your right index finger and start to pull it off.

I push your hand back down. “Leave it on, Erin.” I stare at your blouse.

You bite your lip. There is a hint of a smile, and you lift your brow. You continue what I started and open each button down your stomach, pause briefly to look in my eyes again before you pull the tail of your blouse out from your pants. You unbutton each of your cuffs. Your arms fall limp.

I reach up to your collar and open your blouse, ease it down over your shoulders. Again your eyes tilt ever so slightly to look at me. Don’t give me that look. You have to know what this is about. One close look at the boxes, carefully and precisely stacked, was all it took for me to know. “You know what you did.”

Order Cheeky Spanking Stories from:

Amazon

Kindle edition (ebook)

Barnes & Noble

Nook (ebook)

Powells

Books-a-Million

IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)

Cleis Press

will it be faith or fear?

You are forgiven
I open all my doors
You are forgiven
What a heart is for
I am no martyr
You give me reason
I try harder
And I wait
for a warmer season
Meanwhile,
You are
forgiven

And it's time
to go
I cannot stay
You cannot know
My love
So dear
Will it be faith
or fear?
"Forgiven," Deb Talan

It's hard not to think the lesson of this week is anything other than, You were an idiot to go to Dubai. Things I didn't expect but probably should have mean that I am being that utterly annoying person chasing down checks, when I should be using words for much better purposes. It's difficult sometimes to even face the day knowing that in a month I will be 37 and, if you judge from my bank account, I'm a complete and total failure of a person. I don't want to judge based on that, but now that it's getting to the point where I barely have enough money to, say, get to Philadelphia and back next week for a reading, it's starting to feel that way. It's an awkward place because I know in a few weeks, I will very likely forget about the scary numbers when I log in to my bank account. I will have checks and hopefully more work and books that have made me want to quit this foolish business, if I had any other skill to fall back on, will be in production.

And yet it's also been a chance to enjoy the quiet, to not leave the home in the suburbs for two days, a home that, while not identical, will likely be akin to one I'll be living in. Not tomorrow or next month or even next year, but what feels like soon. I am not a mover. I've lived in my current home since March 2000. I've never lived with anyone I've dated and haven't had a roommate in over 6 years. All of that is daunting as well, and yet this is like a mock trial. It means waking up and not having to leave the house, not just because there's nowhere to go, no equivalent of the coffeeshop I adore in my neighborhood, but because the work is right here, right in front of me. There's no escaping it (a lie: there is always something I can escape the work with). But whether I'm sitting in my underwear at the dining room table, after long enough that I've stopped marveling that someone even owns and has room for and eats at a dining room table, or in bed in the wee hours, I know that the rest is up to me. Do I want to be a writer, or do I want to be so scared I give up before I start? I've done the latter countless times, and those failures will haunt me until I die. But I've been damn fucking lucky and so many people have given me chances and I'm honored by them, want to live up to them.

Many days I'm not sure what that would even look like. Maybe it's the quiet, the stillness, the lack of plans. Because during my under three hour layover at Charles de Gaulle, in between days and flights, I wrote part of a story that I was sure I'd be so energized I would finish, immediately. Then more days passed and I was listening to Beth Orton and all these wicked possibilities for the story and still, everything else took priority. And now I have to leave tomorrow and it's already daunting, because for me, New York, much as I love it, is not about sitting still all day. Tomorrow it's going to the Bronx and then doing a reading and hope inviting my mom to it wasn't a giant mistake. And in between, I will squeeze in bits of words and blog posts, but there is always something to draw my attention away, perhaps because my attention has always been flighty, perhaps because I don't actually think I can hack this writing thing, not for real, not to live on. And maybe I can't, and that is something I haven't been able to face yet.

I'm pretty sure that instead of checking my bank account over and over and over, I'm supposed to be doing what I can to add to it. Instead of berating myself for a silly, selfish trip, I'm supposed to be pitching pitching pitching, even when it seems like the most futile endeavor ever. Yet, whether it is or not, it's all I have, so I will go back not to the 12 documents I have open, but to one of them, and then the next, and then the book I'm reading to review, Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo, & Me by Ellen Forney, where she writes, "Art was my blood, my heart, my life." It's a wonderfully written and drawn book but one, I suspect, that if you are at all prone to depression, mania, self-doubt, etc., will be at least a little challenging. She lays so many fears out, boldly, and even reading about Forney reading about all the artists, poets and writers who've suffered from manic depression, seeing so many suicide symbols next to their names, is startling, even when you know that's what you'll find.

I forget that there even if nobody winds up seeing my work, while I need the sales for little things like rent and transportation, what motivates me is the idea, the spark, the first line. Yet those first lines lose their luster if I never finish them, never get to the end. When I do, it's like I've given myself a present. Way too often my mind is so focused umpteen steps after the end that I don't allow myself to block out every bit of extraneous noise and actually get there. But I don't want to turn 37 feeling like this, like I'm worthless and shouldn't even bother. The same kind of faith in the unknown that I'll have to have to leave my home of what will be 14 years by then I need today, to sit down and write it anyway, knowing it's likely nobody will see my words, but that maybe, just maybe, if I'm lucky and persistent and believe in them 100%, not my usual half-assed doubtful pessimistic way, they will.

Free Cheeky Spanking Stories excerpt: "Birthday Boy" by Cecilia Duvalle

My fifth book of spanking erotica, Cheeky Spanking Stories (click to read the introduction and table of contents), is out now! The Kindle and Nook ebook versions will be out October 16th and I'll be posting excerpts from every day here. Here's a free excerpt from the second story, "Birthday Boy," about a woman's introduction into the thrill of wielding a whip. If you like it, please check out the entire book and click "like" on Amazon (it does help, and the the privilege of editing in the future and, trust me, I hope there are many, many more, it's my favorite topic to write and edit erotica about).

From "Birthday Boy" by Cecilia Duvalle:

Marta’s fingers trembled. She dropped the black cord she had been struggling with and pushed her palms flat onto the counter in front of her, willing herself into a state of calmness. She met her reflection in the mirror and sucked in air until her lungs seemed ready to explode. She let the breath out in a long slow hiss before returning to the task of lacing up the leather corset she’d purchased just the week before.

The softness of the leather had surprised her. In the pictures of women wearing such things, the corsets seemed so stiff and unyielding, but in fact the fabric was pliable and comfortable against her skin. Just smelling the sweet muskiness of it sent shivers of expectation through her body. The stiff boning provided the structure without reducing the erotic suppleness of the leather against her bare skin. She tightened the strings to cinch in her waist for a bit more shape but left it loose enough that she could still breathe. She had no desire to pass out.

She turned to the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind her for the full effect. The short skirt, the matching corset and the knee-high boots were over the top, but that’s what she had been aiming for. Something new. Something dramatic, transformative. She looked fucking hot. The outfit hid the flaws of her aging body and augmented her assets. No panties underneath left her with an airy and exotic buzzy feeling between her legs. Just seeing her reflection was enough to get her juices flowing. She clenched her thighs together in response to the growing warmth and to keep the liquid from flowing like a river into her boots.

She glanced at her iPhone on the counter. She had less than ten minutes before Carl was supposed to arrive. He’d sounded rather bemused by her directions but did not question them. He was going to be expecting sex. But did he have any idea what she really had in mind?

“Meet me at the Alexis Hotel at seven, Room Seven-Thirty-Five,” she’d said when he asked about their plans for the evening. She’d assured him that his birthday would be fun. She had never actually asked him about what she had planned. It was just awkward. How do you talk to someone you’ve been married to for twenty years about sex? What hasn’t been said? What possibly could be new? It turned out there was plenty on both counts, and Marta was beginning a new dialogue. She just hoped he would engage—and she hoped he would do it without laughing at her.

The seed for the evening had been planted a year before. She’d been reading a story from a dirty magazine as part of their foreplay. His reaction to the story had been dramatic. His cock had grown harder with every syllable as she read to him. Later, as she rode him cowgirl style, she grabbed his wrists, pushing them into the mattress, and pinned him in place. They had both come fast and hard before collapsing into breathless giggles of mutual contentment. Pretty simple play, but it was the start. She began reading more stories to him and after a while, she put two and two together. Those that involved the woman taking charge made him harder faster and caused him to last longer than other stories...

Order Cheeky Spanking Stories from:

Amazon

Kindle edition (ebook)

Barnes & Noble

Nook (ebook)

Powells

Books-a-Million

IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)

Cleis Press

Free Cheeky Spanking Stories excerpt from "The Perfect Dom" by Lucy Felthouse

My fifth book of spanking erotica, Cheeky Spanking Stories (click to read the introduction and table of contents), is out now! The Kindle and Nook ebook versions will be out October 16th and I'll be posting excerpts from every day here. Here's a free excerpt from the opening story, "The Perfect Dom," about a very suggestive pair of panties. If you like it, please check out the entire book and click "like" on Amazon (it does help, and the better this book does, the more spanking books I'll be given the privilege of editing in the future and, trust me, I hope there are many, many more, it's my favorite topic to write and edit erotica about).

From "The Perfect Dom" by Lucy Felthouse:

“Spank me. Is that an invitation?”

Shit. Mia had completely forgotten about him. Her flatmate, Katy, had asked if it was okay if her brother stayed on their sofa for a couple of nights. His own place was being fitted with a new bathroom and conditions over there weren’t exactly hygienic. Mia had been rushing around in order to get to work and hadn’t really been paying attention, so she’d just agreed and then promptly forgotten.

Now, however, she was being treated to a huge and incredibly embarrassing reminder. Katy was on a night shift at the hospital so when Mia had woken up at nine in the evening—her own body clock being on that of working in the club, though tonight was her night off—she’d deemed it safe to wander to the kitchen to get a drink in what she was wearing. Big mistake. Alex was sitting on the sofa, an eyebrow quirked and a leering grin on his face. He held his iPad, and earphones hung around his neck. He’d obviously been watching a film or playing some ridiculous game before Mia had flipped the light on and sauntered through the living room in nothing but a skimpy vest and hot pants. The hot pants were, of course, what he was referring to. The fuchsia garment had SPANK ME emblazoned across the ass in large black lettering.

Mia gave Alex a look that would have turned a lesser man to stone. He, however, simply grinned even more widely, then said, “Well? Do you need a firm hand to that luscious butt of yours? Like a spanking, do you?”

Mia sighed. “Shut up, Alex. It’s none of your business. I’m just getting a drink. Get back to your damn gadget and leave me alone.”

“Oooh, someone’s defensive. I’m just saying, you must have those on for a reason. A statement like that printed on your backside would definitely be construed as an invitation in my book.”

“Well, maybe it is an invitation, Alex. But it’s certainly not directed at you. Now if you’d kindly stop passing judgment on my nonexistent sex life I’ll get my drink and get out of your way.”

Without giving him a chance to reply, Mia flounced off into the kitchen and made herself a drink. As she stood at the sink, Alex’s voice came from right behind her, startling her and making her drop the glass. Luckily, it fell a mere couple of inches into the sink, but it didn’t stop Mia turning furiously to Alex to give him a piece of her mind.

“What?” Alex said, his hands spread wide in supplication as he received yet another cool stare. “All I said was that if the invitation was directed at me, I’d definitely take you up on it. And I’d do it right, too.”

Call for submissions: True Sex essay anthology

Please submit and spread the word! And just so it's clear, this is a totally different project than the book of sex diaries I'm editing - if you're interested in that please read some sex diaries to get a feel for what I'm looking for, then email me at sexdiaries at nymag.com and tell me why you'd make a good sex diarist and I'll send you more information.

Call for Submissions
True Sex essay anthology
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
To be published by Cleis Press

Editor Rachel Kramer Bussel is looking for true (nonfiction) essays about your most powerful sexual experiences. The final book will feature a wide range of scenarios, settings, writing styles, ages, races, genders and sexual orientations. These should not be academic in tone or about theory, though there can be a political or serious element; I’m mainly looking for extremely personal, one of a kind essays focused around compelling sexual events in your life. I’m looking for your hottest sex, or the worst sex, or the kinkiest, or the funniest, or the meanest, or the most unexpected. Sex with a celebrity? Sex with someone forbidden? Sex you’ve never told anyone about? Sex on vacation you wouldn't have had at home? Sex on drugs? Group sex? Sex on camera? Sex you paid for or were paid for? Sex that surprised or confused you? Sex that changed your life? I want the story that most speaks to you about your sex life, either as a defining moment or simply one you’ve never been able to forget. No poetry. First or second person POV welcome. See the Best Sex Writing series and videos of true sex confessions from my former In The Flesh Reading Series for an idea of the types of essays I’m looking for. Please keep in mind that the more original and unique your essay, the better its chances. I want the story that only you can write told in a lively, compelling, can't-put-down way. Original essays will get priority, but I will consider reprints as long as you retain the rights; you MUST include the previous publication information with your submission.

Payment: Contributors will receive $100/essay and 2 copies of the anthology on publication. Contract is for one-time rights.

How to submit: Send only the final version of your proofread work along with your bio and mailing address. Include essay title and byline at top of first page. Send double spaced Times or Times New Roman 12 point black font Word document OR RTF of 1,500-4,000 word essay. Indent the first line of each paragraph half an inch and double space (regular double spacing, do not add extra lines between paragraphs or do any other irregular spacing). US grammar (double quotation marks around dialogue, etc.) required. Include your legal name (and pseudonym if applicable), mailing address, and 50 word or less bio in the third person to truesexantho@gmail.com. If you are using a pseudonym, please provide your real name and pseudonym and make it clear which one you’d like to be credited as. Cleis Press has final approval over the manuscript so you can expect a final answer by April 2013.

Deadline: November 7, 2012 (earlier submissions welcomed and strongly encouraged)

My way

While I was in Dubai, I think it was my second night in my hotel room, I wanted to take a bath in the deep, wonderful bathtub. I was exhausted and couldn't wait to sink into the hot water. I turned on the tap and the spray started coming out of the huge round showerhead. I tried a few knobs but couldn't figure out how to get the tap to switch over, so rather than not take a bath, I just let the water come out of the showerhead while I sank into the tub. It made me think of the whole nature of how I went about planning my trip: my way. I know I didn't do things the way many other people might.

I didn't research every single thing, or even all that much, about where I was going. I knew what I wanted to see in Dubai, knew that I could afford it, knew that I felt compelled to go, and that was enough. Once I made that decision, I didn't think twice or second guess it. It's funny because an American friend who's lived in a non-primarly-English speaking European country said she wouldn't travel to Dubai alone, but she would live abroad, whereas I don't think I could hack living in another country. I wasn't sure, at all, of how things would proceed in Dubai, but I realize now that part of why I went was precisely to show that I can handle obstacles, be they missed flights or ATM frustrations or unwanted visitors or not getting my unemployment payments.

The flipside of doing things in my sometimes roundabout way is that I live with a sometimes debilitating amount of fear. I would almost always rather be deferential than confrontational, even when I know I'm right, because it's so rarely worth it to me to push a point or tell someone I think they're wrong. I live with such terror that I will be someone who is too tough, too mean, too demanding, too selfish. In service of that, I often bend over backwards for people, to my detriment. The other day, an electrician was working on the intercoms in my apartment, and what I thought would be a short wait turned into an hour and a half of me being stuck at home. I overheard my neighbor, who works at home, say she couldn't keep walking out to test the buzzer with the electrician, and I wondered why I'm not more like her, more assertive, more protective of my time, which is the most valuable thing I "possess."

My way is often the way of least resistance, which assumes that everyone else's priorities are automatically more important than mine, but the problem with always saying yes is that I wind up resenting it. The anger that I don't think I'm allowed to have starts to simmer and build, all because I didn't think it polite to tell someone to fuck off when they try to tell me where to go or what to do or how to behave or whatever it is. I'm not really sure where that fear comes from, especially considering what I do for a living. By default, I already have opted out of plenty of social niceties. There are people who are going to think I'm somehow automatically unacceptable because words like "bondage" and "spanking" appear in my books.

I think about it when I'm writing pieces like one I'm about to file, one where I have to, if not ask permission, let people know that they are part of a story I'm telling about myself. Where I'm admitting something I'm sure plenty of people will think is stupid or dumb or misguided. I'm not saying it's not those things, but if I've learned anything this past year especially, but really the past decade, it's that it's okay to have stupid and dumb and misguided feelings, and even if it weren't, how exactly I could control them I'm not sure. It's always when I tell myself my feelings are "wrong" that I wind up getting myself into worse trouble. I think about how my heart was pounding in my hotel room at an unexpected knock on the door, how I was shaking, and later second guessed myself, wondered whether I'd imagined that, and if not, whether that had been an outsized, incorrect reaction. I know now that maybe it wasn't the reaction someone else would have had, but if we spend our limited time on earth trying to emulate someone else, we miss out on all the things that make us unique.

In five weeks and one day I will turn 37 and that countdown feels important to me, like there are things I still haven't gotten right since last year that I now need to fast track on my life learning curve. One of those things is simply allowing myself that space to be myself, to be angry or scared or jealous or uncertain or stressed or whatever other "bad" things I have somehow internalized I'm not supposed to be. The weight of trying to fight those off, thinking they will contaminate me, mark me as a horrible person for that sinful act of feeling, is just too heavy. I know part of my wanderlust has indeed been about shaking off that weight, but now, at home, and as I prepare to go places like Houston and Austin and Scottsdale and wherever else, I need to unburden myself from that heaviness right here, right now.

I still don't know how to be a writer, but I know that the deeper I dig, the more I discover about myself. I find that after the initial seed of an idea lurks something more, things I wouldn't have discovered without putting those first thoughts down.

I saw Beth Orton last night at Town Hall, seated next to two men about my age, who I'd bet money were gay, looking up Monica Lewinsky on one's phone before the show on my left and a slightly older couple to my right, plus two men who should maybe have some slapstick reality show in front of me. Beth told us about how a taxi had kicked her and her crew out of the cab for giving a wrong address, to drop them in Times Square. She told us about her flu. She apologized a few times, and had the same nervous shyness I've witnessed at every show of hers I've attended. For a second, my cynicism crept in, and I wondered whether that shyness is indeed an act, and I concluded that the answer to that is both yes and no. It is, in that it is what we see of her there onstage, with a guitar strapped around her neck or sitting at a piano in her t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. But it's also her, with that voice and whatever fears she has to conquer to get up there, and those songs. "Could you please knock me off my feet, for a while?" she sang during "Galaxy of Emptiness." I love that line. I love the fantasy of escape, but I also know that my job is to dig in, in hard times or otherwise.

Marie Claire UK on my free Babeland erotica class (next one is October 17th)

I spent part of my 8-hour layover at Schiphol airport checking out Lindsey Kelk's "50 Shades of Pay Day" article in Marie Claire UK (with Blake Lively on the cover) about the free erotic writing workshop I taught at Babeland (the next one, also free, is October 17th at 7 - don't be late or you'll miss it!). I haven't found the article online yet but here's part of what she wrote about me:

Far from being a slinky Jessica Rabbit-type sexpot, the night's speaker, Rachel Kramer Bussel, who has edited more than 40 anthologies of erotica, reminded me of my year-eight English teacher. I wasn't sure if it was the 'take me seriously' specs or the fact that she just seemed a little bit awkward handing out pencils. But I wasn't surprised to find out that her other passion was reviewing cupcakes on her blog

Her advice was straightforward: write what you know about, don't be afraid to use humour. After a quick talk, she led us through a few writing exercises, giving us two minutes to write a short erotic scene featuring a given subject, the first two being food and a chair. The idea was to realise that anything can be erotic.

FREE workshop is Wednesday, October 17th, 7-7:45 pm, Babeland, 43 Mercer Street, NYC - see you there![image error]