You're So Pretty....

One rainy night, I found myself unexpectedly engaged in a threesome with the sultry music editor from our newspaper and her dark-haired, dark-eyed roommate, an up and coming soap opera star who boasted the mournful look of a young Dean Martin. Throughout the evening, various staff members wandered through our lair. Someone wanted clothing advice for a gig he was playing at The Whiskey. Another needed to borrow cash. Several eye-witness reports were delivered the following morning to Byron, although all were wrong. I was a willing participant. I was tipsy but not drunk. I wasn’t entirely nude (at least not while others were present)—I had on Ava’s gold satin robe. This wasn’t my first ménage (although the previous one had been with two guys, and Playboy calls that a “gang bang” rather than a ménage a trois). The upshot is that although I never told Byron everything that happened… about how Charlie cradled my face in his hands while he fucked me, about how he crooned, “Oh my girls, my sweet girls” as Ava and I took turns licking his cock clean… Byron thought he had me all figured out. Or had himself all figured out. I think he truly believed I joined in the sexfest to get him to notice me. Not true at all. You would have joined in, too. Ava was this stunning green-eyed blonde, and I looked up to her. At twenty-seven, she seemed so worldly. The first day I met her, she was going out to interview Bryan Ferry. Her whole apartment was decorated with pictures of the rock stars she’d interviewed: Echo and the Bunnymen, U2, INXS. And Charlie looked like the movie star he later became. Besides the way they looked, they wanted me. Charlie thought my naivette was charming. He couldn’t wait to demolish my inhibitions. What he and Ava—what most people in fact—didn’t understand was that I didn’t have many inhibitions. There’s a difference between being shy and being pure.

Mystery is everything. The Monday after the infamous ménage, Byron arrived at the office at 8:30 and asked me what happened. When I shrugged and said simply that I’d spent the weekend with Ava, he insisted that I move in with him. And for no sane reason, I did, effectively saying goodbye to good sex and hello to nearly four years of the worst sort of submission.

The submission of the soul.

From Byron’s extremely arrogant manner, from the precise way he dressed and spoke and wrote, I had believed that he would treat me in the way that Brock and Kelly had. But no. He was very willing to be dominant about almost everything but sex. While we’d dated, he had teased me with public displays of affection. Kissing me at clubs, twining his fingers in my hair when we were out at plays. All of that stopped as soon as I moved in. It was as if he only would do those sorts of things with a throw-away date. Serious girlfriends, potential wives, were to be treated in an entirely different manner.

Finally, in a fit of angst, I got drunk and confessed what I truly wanted. What I needed. I thought that perhaps he was treating me with kid gloves because he was worried that he would hurt me. I couldn’t have been more off base. When I got his wood-backed hair brush and begged him on my knees to use it on me, he gave me a look of such marked disgust that I wanted to vanish into the floor. In the morning, I blamed the X-rated confession on drunkenness and we never spoke of it again.

Why did I stay? No fucking clue, except that I was younger, and dumber, and somehow under his control. When we went out to eat one night with friends, the lady in the couple let slip that I’d told her a secret about one of Byron’s friends. (And I’ll tell it again. His friend JB had been arrested on drug trafficking charges and sentenced to two years in a Swedish prison.) I hadn’t known this was a secret, but when Kim turned to Byron and asked how JB was doing, Byron looked at me and said, “You just lost ten points…”

All right, so now, I would have gotten up and left. No question. But then, I panicked. My heart stopped. Ten points? Out of a possible how many? How could I earn them back?

The few times I had the nerve to fight with him, he would get a smug look on his face, listen to me rant, and then respond either with “You’re so pretty,” or “Silly girl,” as if nothing I said managed to stick into his brain. And the worst thing of all was that everyone always told me how lucky I was. He came from extreme wealth (something I didn’t know until we’d been dating for six months), and he had all sorts of degrees. We made a cute couple, and feeling sure that I was the one damaged, I tried my best to be the good little girlfriend he wanted. I bought the brands of soap (Dial), laundry detergent (Tide), mouthwash (Scope), and T.P. (Charmin) that his mommy had bought. I dressed in the style he requested—pencil skirts, crisp shirts. I wore my hair the way he liked, straight and in a high ponytail, and read the books he set by my side of the bed: Last Exit To Brooklyn, The Dubliners, Ulysses. I acted the part of the sub in every way there was, except sexually.

Until I snapped. When I asked him why we hardly ever had sex, he polled his brothers and father to determine whether we were on average with the rest of the men in his family. When I showed him books of erotica that indicated I wasn’t wicked for wanting more, he said he thought of me like a sister. I knew his sister. And that creeped me out.

Unfortunately, I didn’t break up well. I flamed out. With his diamond ring sparkling on my finger, I engaged in several devious, yet delicious, affairs. I’m no cheat at heart. But when I was honest with him and told him I needed to try life on my own, he demanded I seek professional help. He wouldn’t hear a word I had to say. (“You’re so pretty…”) Ultimately, I felt that there was nowhere else for me to go. Nowhere except into the cherry-red convertible of a handsome young man named Connor….

XXX,
Alison

Confessions of a California Lolita

A reader wrote to ask me how I became interested in writing porn. I have a standard answer to this query—about how I spent several years penning sexy short stories for my friends in Latin class. But this reader wanted more. How the hell did I know how to write erotica in the first place? Had I seen smut somewhere? Read it online? Well, there wasn't an "online" universe when I was in high school—I didn’t have email until college—and my mother's version of porn is strictly Colette, which just isn't my style.

So... truth and confessions... when I was 14, I went back East over the summer to stay with family friends. One son of the family, a drop-dead handsome man who was 27 and worked as a long-distance trucker, still kept a bedroom at the house. This is where I slept, and they kicked Jamie out to the living room. Right before I went to bed that first night, he came in and pulled a cardboard box out from under his bed. "Give this a look," he grinned, "you might find something you like." The box was filled with European porn magazines. I flipped through—no way was I going to let an opportunity like this go by—until I found a whole slew of letters-style magazines. Seriously, I’d never even heard of anything like this before. My friends and I had come across Playboy and Penthouse while babysitting. (Babysitters have a network. My girlfriends and I all shared secrets about the families we sat for. "The Penthouse is under the mattress." "The good chocolate is on the top shelf.")
But this stash was different.

The two letters I remember the best were both spanking-themed. (Oh, big surprise there.) One was from a seventeen-year-old English school boy, who had the unfortunate problem of climaxing whenever he was caned. He decided to take care of the situation by jacking off before his next punishment session, only to have the headmaster continue the beating much longer and fiercer than ever before until—voila!—he came anyway, shooting all over the Oriental rug. As he left the room in shame, and pain, he realized that the headmaster must have been waiting for his climax before quitting.

The other letter was from a self-described diva who tended to make her husband’s life a living hell, until one day he snapped, snatched her up, and threw her over his lap. While she struggled against him, he hiked up her floral housedress, tore down her panties, and spanked her bare bottom until she screamed for mercy. When he was finished (which was long after she thought she was finished), he shoved her onto the floor and fucked her, running one hand under her body, plucking her clit until they came together.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much that night.

In the morning, Jamie gave me a cunning look that made me blush. I don’t think I ever looked him in the eyes again. And by the time I went home, I'd memorized a whole list of new fantasy fuel.

Thinking back now, I realize how deviant it was for Jamie to hand over the porn. I was a kid, after all. But from the time I was twelve, older men noticed me. I don’t mean one or two perverts. I mean, many, many men. I started working at a beauty supply store before my freshman year in high school, and I was regularly asked out on dates by men in their twenties and thirties. I even got Christmas chocolates from the attractive forty-year old who owned several of the buildings on the block, including the store where I worked. (I still have the wrapping paper from it—with “Love, George” written in his sloping cursive.) Meanwhile, guys my age didn’t know I existed. I was beyond a wallflower at dances. I was invisible. Crazy thing is that I didn’t really dress older, or act older—God, I was naïve for years. But that didn’t stop the men from coming into the store, sizing me up, flirting. I look at photos now and see this dark-eyed kid, with long curly black hair and too-big lips. The beauty standard in my school was straight blonde thin-lipped cheerleader.

Luckily for me, I had an extremely protective boss, who would scare away most of the true predator-types. And when I finally went out with my first real boyfriend (I was 16, he was 27), I knew a little bit more about taking care of myself. Not enough to protect me from heartbreak. But enough to hold my own while we went out.

I hadn’t thought of Jamie’s porn stash for years. But I realized today, that he saved me. At the time, I definitely had fantasies, I just didn’t know anyone else would ever share them. Movies showed people kissing. People making sweet love in fluffy white beds. Those scenes did nothing for me. My friends were all dying for their first kiss, or their first grope session in the back seat of a car, while I was dying for someone to tie me down to a bed. Dying for someone to cuff me. Blindfold me. Discover me. I wonder if those older men who sniffed around me sensed that I was different from the thin-lipped cheerleader types.
Ah, who knows?

But that long-winded response is my answer. Where did I learn about erotica? From Jamie’s porn.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Art is from SweetHeartSinner.