David Henry Sterry

Author, book doctor, raker of muck

David Henry Sterry

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David Henry Sterry’s Chicken: “I could not put it down.”

“I bought a copy of “Chicken” Tuesday afternoon and finished it this afternoon. I can only remember one other time I read a complete book in under 24 hours. I know this sounds like a cliche, but I could not put it down. I now remember reading about the book ten or twelve years ago. Why I didn’t pick it up then is beyond me.  David Henry Sterry really knows how to tell a story and move the story and the reader forward.  To write this took guts, which he obviously has.” Larry Erickson

Find Chicken at your local independent bookstore:  Indiebound Amazon

chicken 10 year anniversary cover“I walk all the way up Hollywood Boulevard to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre: past tourists snapping shots; wannabe starlets sparkling by in miniskirts with head shots in their hands and moondust in their eyes; rowdy cowboys drinking with drunken Indians; black businessmen bustling by briskly in crisp suits; ladies who do not lunch with nylons rolled up below the knee pushing shopping carts full of everything they own; Mustangs rubbing up against muscular Mercedes and Hell’s Angels hogs. It’s a sick twisted Wonderland, and I’m Alice.”

This is the chronicle of a young man walking the razor-sharp line between painful innocence and the allure of the abyss. David Sterry was a wide-eyed son of 1970s suburbia, but within a week of enrolling at Immaculate Heart College, he was lured into the dark underbelly of the Hollywood flesh trade. Chicken has become a coming-of-age classic, and has been translated into ten languages. This ten-year anniversary edition has shocking new material.

“Sterry writes with comic brio … [he] honed a vibrant outrageous writing style and turned out this studiously wild souvenir of a checkered past.” – Janet Maslin, The New York Times

“This is a stunning book. Sterry’s prose fizzes like a firework. Every page crackles… A very easy, exciting book to read – as laconic as Dashiell Hammett, as viscerally hallucinogenic as Hunter S Thompson. Sex, violence, drugs, love, hate, and great writing all within a single wrapper. What more could you possibly ask for? -Maurince Newman, Irish Times

“A beautiful book… a real work of literature.” – Vanessa Feltz, BBC

“Insightful and funny… captures Hollywood beautifully” – Larry Mantle, Air Talk, NPR

“Jawdropping… A carefully crafted piece of work…” -Benedicte Page, Book News, UK

“A 1-night read. Should be mandatory reading for parents and kids.” -Bert Lee, Talk of the Town

“Alternately sexy and terrifying, hysterical and weird, David Henry Sterry’s Chicken is a hot walk on the wild side of Hollywood’s fleshy underbelly. With lush prose and a flawless ear for the rhythms of the street, Sterry lays out a life lived on the edge in a coming-of-age classic that’s colorful, riveting, and strangely beautiful. David Henry Sterry is the real thing.” –Jerry Stahl, author of Permanent Midnight

“Compulsively readable, visceral, and very funny. The author, a winningly honest companion, has taken us right into his head, moment-by-moment: rarely has the mentality of sex been so scrupulously observed and reproduced on paper. Granted, he had some amazingly bizarre experiences to draw upon; but as V. S. Pritchett observed, in memoirs you get no pints for living, the art is all that counts-and David Henry Sterry clearly possesses the storyteller’s art.” – Phillip Lopate, author of Portrait of My Body – Phillip Lopate, author of Portrait of My Body

“Like an X-rated Boogie Nights narrated by a teenage Alice in Wonderland. Sterry’s anecdotes… expose Hollywood at its seamiest, a desperate city of smut and glitz. I read the book from cover to cover in one night, finally arriving at the black and white photo of the softly smiling former chicken turned memoirist.” -Places Magazine

“Snappy and acutely observational writing… It’s a book filled with wit, some moments of slapstick, and of some severe poignancy… a flair for descriptive language… The human ability to be kind ultimately reveals itself, in a book which is dark, yet always upbeat and irreverent. A really good, and enlightening, read.” – Ian Beetlestone, Leeds Guide

“Brutally illuminating and remarkably compassionate… a walk on the wild side which is alternatively exhilirating and horrifying, outrageous and tragic… Essential reading.” – Big Issue

“Visceral, frank and compulsive reading.’ –City Life, Manchester

“Sparkling prose… a triumph of the will.” -Buzz Magazine

“Pick of the Week.” -Independent

“Impossible to put down, even, no, especially when, the sky is falling…Vulnerable, tough, innocent and wise… A fast-paced jazzy writing style… a great read.” -Hallmemoirs

“Full of truth, horror, and riotous humor.” -The Latest Books

“His memoir is a super-readable roller coaster — the story of a young man who sees more of the sexual world in one year than most people ever do.” – Dr. Carol Queen, Spectator Magazine

“Terrifically readable… Sterry’s an adventurer who happens to feel and think deeply. He’s written a thoroughly absorbing story sensitively and with great compassion… A page-turner… This is a strange story told easily and well.” – Eileen Berdon, Erotica.com

“Love to see this book turned into a movie, Julianne Moore might like to play Sterry’s mum…” – by Iain Sharp The Sunday Star-Times, Auckland, New Zealand).

 

David Henry Sterry’s Chicken: Fearless writing, raw, revealing, intriguing promiscuity, raw hope

David Henry Sterry’s intensely unique writing style has the ability to grip you by the soul and take you right inside as he struggles to free himself from “SEXY.” As you read word for word into his poetic memoir he continues by assuring the reader can feel, smell, taste, touch, and hear every step of the way. So as you read about Georgia and David we can smell her vagina and taste her juices right along side him. Davids pen runs like the hand of an older man given free range in-between the thighs of a ripe young pretty thing. Fearless, raw, revealing, and even strange at times, Mr. David Henry Sterry is more than just a man with a passion to survive and cook chickens! If you haven’t read his memoir Chicken : Portrait of a Young Man for Rent I urge you too. For those who have read it I urge you to revisit the vulnerability, intriguing promiscuity, raw hope, and aspiring twist of his great memoir.

Review by Jo Cantu

Find Chicken at your local independent bookstore:  Indiebound Amazon

chicken 10 year anniversary cover“I walk all the way up Hollywood Boulevard to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre: past tourists snapping shots; wannabe starlets sparkling by in miniskirts with head shots in their hands and moondust in their eyes; rowdy cowboys drinking with drunken Indians; black businessmen bustling by briskly in crisp suits; ladies who do not lunch with nylons rolled up below the knee pushing shopping carts full of everything they own; Mustangs rubbing up against muscular Mercedes and Hell’s Angels hogs. It’s a sick twisted Wonderland, and I’m Alice.”

This is the chronicle of a young man walking the razor-sharp line between painful innocence and the allure of the abyss. David Sterry was a wide-eyed son of 1970s suburbia, but within a week of enrolling at Immaculate Heart College, he was lured into the dark underbelly of the Hollywood flesh trade. Chicken has become a coming-of-age classic, and has been translated into ten languages. This ten-year anniversary edition has shocking new material.

“Sterry writes with comic brio … [he] honed a vibrant outrageous writing style and turned out this studiously wild souvenir of a checkered past.” – Janet Maslin, The New York Times

“This is a stunning book. Sterry’s prose fizzes like a firework. Every page crackles… A very easy, exciting book to read – as laconic as Dashiell Hammett, as viscerally hallucinogenic as Hunter S Thompson. Sex, violence, drugs, love, hate, and great writing all within a single wrapper. What more could you possibly ask for? -Maurince Newman, Irish Times

“A beautiful book… a real work of literature.” – Vanessa Feltz, BBC

“Insightful and funny… captures Hollywood beautifully” – Larry Mantle, Air Talk, NPR

“Jawdropping… A carefully crafted piece of work…” -Benedicte Page, Book News, UK

“A 1-night read. Should be mandatory reading for parents and kids.” -Bert Lee, Talk of the Town

“Alternately sexy and terrifying, hysterical and weird, David Henry Sterry’s Chicken is a hot walk on the wild side of Hollywood’s fleshy underbelly. With lush prose and a flawless ear for the rhythms of the street, Sterry lays out a life lived on the edge in a coming-of-age classic that’s colorful, riveting, and strangely beautiful. David Henry Sterry is the real thing.” –Jerry Stahl, author of Permanent Midnight

“Compulsively readable, visceral, and very funny. The author, a winningly honest companion, has taken us right into his head, moment-by-moment: rarely has the mentality of sex been so scrupulously observed and reproduced on paper. Granted, he had some amazingly bizarre experiences to draw upon; but as V. S. Pritchett observed, in memoirs you get no pints for living, the art is all that counts-and David Henry Sterry clearly possesses the storyteller’s art.” – Phillip Lopate, author of Portrait of My Body – Phillip Lopate, author of Portrait of My Body

“Like an X-rated Boogie Nights narrated by a teenage Alice in Wonderland. Sterry’s anecdotes… expose Hollywood at its seamiest, a desperate city of smut and glitz. I read the book from cover to cover in one night, finally arriving at the black and white photo of the softly smiling former chicken turned memoirist.” -Places Magazine

“Snappy and acutely observational writing… It’s a book filled with wit, some moments of slapstick, and of some severe poignancy… a flair for descriptive language… The human ability to be kind ultimately reveals itself, in a book which is dark, yet always upbeat and irreverent. A really good, and enlightening, read.” – Ian Beetlestone, Leeds Guide

“Brutally illuminating and remarkably compassionate… a walk on the wild side which is alternatively exhilirating and horrifying, outrageous and tragic… Essential reading.” – Big Issue

“Visceral, frank and compulsive reading.’ –City Life, Manchester

“Sparkling prose… a triumph of the will.” -Buzz Magazine

“Pick of the Week.” -Independent

“Impossible to put down, even, no, especially when, the sky is falling…Vulnerable, tough, innocent and wise… A fast-paced jazzy writing style… a great read.” -Hallmemoirs

“Full of truth, horror, and riotous humor.” -The Latest Books

“His memoir is a super-readable roller coaster — the story of a young man who sees more of the sexual world in one year than most people ever do.” – Dr. Carol Queen, Spectator Magazine

“Terrifically readable… Sterry’s an adventurer who happens to feel and think deeply. He’s written a thoroughly absorbing story sensitively and with great compassion… A page-turner… This is a strange story told easily and well.” – Eileen Berdon, Erotica.com

“Love to see this book turned into a movie, Julianne Moore might like to play Sterry’s mum…” – by Iain Sharp The Sunday Star-Times, Auckland, New Zealand).

From Corporate Cubicle to Courtesan: Six Questions for Veronica Monet

In this original, excerpted interview, David Henry Sterry interviews Veronica Monet about her journey from corporate America to being a high profile courtesan to becoming an author, couples therapist and radio host. Her essay “No Girls Allowed at the Mustang Ranch” appears in the anthology “Johns, Marks, Tricks & Chickenhawks.” It’s a riveting story about a woman who wants to go to the Mustang Ranch as a customer, and does so for her birthday with her husband.

sunglasses-bwVeronica Monet is the author of Sex Secrets of Escorts (Alpha Books 2005) and a Couples Consultant specializing in Anger Management and Sacred Sexuality. Monet has been a vocal and highly visible spokesperson for the sex worker rights movement since 1991 having appeared on every major network as well as CNN, FOX, CNBC, WE, A&E and international television programs.  Veronica has been profiled in The New York Times and has lectured at a variety of academic venues including Kent State, Stanford and Yale Universities. Veronica Monet combines over 14 years of “hands-on” experience as a courtesan with many years of formal education. As a Certified Sexologist (ACS), Certified Sex Educator (SFSI), Certified Anger Management Specialist (CAM), Trained Volunteer for the Center Against Rape and Domestic Violence (CARDV) and an Ordained Minister (ULC) her subject matter marries the body and the soul on many levels – reuniting sex and spirit in down-to–earth terms and providing compassion, intuition, integrity and safety. Veronica Monet coaches men, women and couples over the telephone, via Skype and in-person at her northern California office. Veronica hosts a radio program The Shame Free Zone – her online radio program at http://www.sextalkradionetwork.com

Ho's cover

Ho’s cover

David Henry Sterry: How did you get into the sex business?

Veronica Monet: It was 1989 and I had just resigned from a secretarial position at a major computer corporation. Since graduating from college in 1982, I had held a variety of jobs in corporate settings including one as an office manager and another as department manager. I resigned from my last straight job because my supervisor was a sexist who wrote me up for stupid things like “not smiling enough.”  At the time I was dating a male stripper whose live-in girlfriend was also an exotic dancer. I considered becoming a dancer in one of the San Francisco clubs. Then I met this beautiful woman who worked as a prostitute and I quickly realized that she enjoyed her life and her work a lot more than the exotic dancer seemed to. The prostitute also made a lot more money than the girl who danced for a living. After I began dating the beautiful prostitute, I asked her to teach me the business so I could enter the profession too.  Funny thing was that despite my college diploma and seven years in corporate jobs, I had a lot to learn about being a successful escort. Turns out it is not a job for dummies, contrary to popular opinion.

 

DHS: What are some things you’ve learned working in the sex industry?

VM: I learned that when you take his clothes off and provide him with one of the most emotionally moving orgasms of his life, a man will show you that he is not all that different from most women. Men, too, want to be held while they cum and will cry during an internal (prostate) orgasm. There is softness and a desire to be nurtured which I never saw in men until I became a prostitute. I literally went from hating men and the oppression they represented to me at that time, to loving men and feeling regret that we live in a world culture which demands that men sublimate their feminine side in preference of appearing in control.

 

DHS:  Do you tell friends and relatives that you were/are a sex worker?  Not, why not?  If so, what has their reaction been?

VM: People sometimes assume that sex workers lie about their profession because they feel ashamed of it. This is not true for most sex workers. Instead they hide what they do from anyone who might hurt them because of it. For instance, a prostitute can be evicted just for being a prostitute. Sex workers can lose custody of their children. Sex workers almost always lose their day jobs if their employers find out they are doing any type of sex work, whether it is legal or not.

I chose to be out as a sex worker from early on when I decided to become politically active on behalf of sex worker rights. Appearing on a multitude of national and international television shows including many programs on CNN and FOX News as a sex worker, there was no way to keep my status as an escort a secret. And I certainly paid a price for that honesty. I was evicted and audited and arrested and spent two years in family court, all due to being an out prostitute. People I thought were my friends rejected me. My family was ashamed and embarrassed by my choice of professions.

Many of the women I knew in the trade were unable to sustain a relationship with a man because men are simply too jealous and possessive to tolerate their woman being a prostitute. Fortunately for me, I was married to my soul mate for 14 of the 15 years I worked as an escort. He was loving and supportive of me and although we are divorced today due to other circumstances, I will always be grateful that he loved me while I worked in the sex industry. I know how rare it is to find a man who possesses enough confidence and self-esteem to be the partner of a prostitute. I was extremely fortunate to have my husband’s emotional support and loyalty throughout my career as a sex worker.

 

DHS: What are some other jobs you had?

VM: I have worked the graveyard shift in a cannery, as a change-person in a casino, as a waitress for a family restaurant, as a personal secretary, as an administrative assistant, as an office manager, as a department manager, and as a marketing representative for a radio station. I received many awards and I was promoted several times. Although some might term my seven years in corporate jobs successful, I was never happy with the 9 to 5 grind and I hated commuter traffic. When I discovered that I could be self-employed as a sex worker, I felt freed from the claustrophobic nature of cubicles and released from the insult of taking orders from people enamored with their own transitory power. As an escort, men far more powerful than the ones who had previously employed me as their secretary, catered to my interests, needs and desires while paying me handsomely for the privilege of my company.

DHS: Would you recommend the sex business as a way to make money?

The “sex business” is a broad term encompassing a vast array of services, some legal and others illegal. I don’t “recommend” any profession as I think that is an individual choice, which should be based upon personal attributes, goals and desires. When I am asked about escorting as a profession, I do my best to inform others of the positive and negative aspects of the profession. For instance, as long as prostitution remains illegal, prostitutes and escorts remain a target for crimes such as assault, rape and murder. Fear of arrest plays a huge role in the lives of prostitutes as well. And then there is the matter of scape goating, stereotyping and outright rejection from those very support people most of us rely upon to create stability and security in our lives.

If an individual has an independent and self-supporting nature; if they feel they can shrug off the judgments and projections of people they care about; then prostitution can be a very rewarding profession. But money should be only a secondary goal.  Yes, escorts can make amazing amounts of money in a short time and the temptation is to envision escorting or any other branch of the sex industry as a “get rich quick scheme” but if you go into it with that goal, you will quickly find yourself on a dismal and destructive path.  Like all professions, the best reason to get into the sex industry is because you enjoy helping other people. If you bring your love, compassion, empathy and nurturing to the sex professions, then you will not only make a lot of money, you will create a lot of happiness for your clients and yourself.

 

DHS:  What are some of your best and worst experiences being a sex worker?

VM: My worst experience being a sex worker was being arrested. It was a humiliating and disgusting effort to “teach me a lesson” for shooting my mouth off as a sex worker rights activist. I fought back and in the end I prevailed as I was neither convicted of anything nor did I go to trial. But still, the handcuffs and the sexual leering from the police officers at the station were insulting and degrading. The irony of course is that law enforcement is fond of saying they want to “save” prostitutes from a “degrading” lifestyle.

There are so many happy memories of my escorting days. It is difficult to say which are the best. My first trip to New York City often stands out for me. It was my first foray into the life of a courtesan, which is distinct from that of an escort. The courtesans of old had only a few patrons and became quite wealthy by associating with the wealthiest and the most powerful men of their day. Likewise, as I moved from being a high-priced escort to a true courtesan, I stopped charging by the hour and began obtaining a fee for several days of companionship, which may nor may not include sex.

As the sex worker who was showing up on shows like Bill Maher’s Politically Incorrect and in publications like The New York Times, it was not difficult for me to command an impressive fee for that day, while demanding the best in accommodations and travel arrangements. Gaining access to wealthy socialites and billionaires was fascinating for me as well as extremely educational. Born to working class parents and literally growing up in a trailer, this side of life was completely foreign to me. Learning what true wealth looks and acts like as well as absorbing the particular pains and challenges that wealthy men experience also expanded my compassion for others—regardless of how much money or stuff they might possess. I think that window into the world of exorbitant wealth and what our society terms “success” was very instructive for my own spiritual path. It gave me the freedom to walk away from money whenever I feel like it. I know the allure of money is mostly transitory and illusory. It is what lives in our hearts that determines the level of happiness each of us will attain.

Rosabelle Selavy Dirty Dances the Naked Wild Thing

Conceived & performed by the dancer herself!

Jessica Rabbit in the Sexiest Naked Dance Ever @ Sex Worker Literati

Jodie Sh.Doff x-Times Square Bad Girl on Love Life Sex & Being Bad

Jodi Sh Doff, (aka Scarlet Fever) brilliant and hysterical x-Times Square hooker, scammer, & drug addict, & one of my favorite people, talks about Times Square, weird hair, sex, love, $ and life.

jshdoff2013

All-American Erotica: 2 Inside Jennifer

2.  In Jennifer.   The picture in her mind made her melt into wet.

William and Jennifer had discussed it.  Many times.  But neither thought the other could really go through with it.

The sun felt good.  Blood hot.  Bones melting into wet.  Smell of coconut oil baking on warm skin.  Seasalty air floats on the breeze thick with exotica, flowers purple red and yellow and all that green the greenest green they’d ever seen, sky so robin egg, kissing aqua velvet blue of ocean.  The lush.  The overgrown tropical paradise intoxication.  Growing wild.  Running amuck.

It was William’s idea to come here for their honeymoon.  Kauaii.  The Garden Island.  And now here they were.  Jennifer and William.  Laying totally naked.  Honeymooning.  On Kauaii.

One day exploring, William and Jennifer drove to the end of a dirt rode, hiked a path through jungle and coconut trees, bright painted birds serenading them on the ukulele, a fat frog praying next to a flat black rock.   A clearing opened like legs to reveal a small cove nestled away from the shoreline in balmy calm.  Jennifer and William breathed in soft air, breathed out a sweet kiss into each other.

Two hundred yards up tender white belly of beach two wild white horses grazed in grass, nuzzling, gazing lazily at them.  William and Jennifer felt the magic the blessing the gods gathering and smiling on their moon made of honey.

They came every day, until it was their beach.  And their was never anyone else on their beach.  Except those wild white horses.

William was washed with waves.  He looked at Jennifer and smiled all over.  Like he’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes.  I, William James Osborne, am going to get to have this beautiful woman for the rest of his life.  Yes, people may be starving, wars may be gone to hell, and the whole world may be all fucked up, but at least this one thing had worked out.  As far as William was concerned this was a miracle on the order of loaves and fishes: he was gonna get to have Jennifer for the rest of his life.

Jennifer quarter-dozed and half-floated, the way she loved to do, not a care anywhere, sea-gulls scatting and waves tiding like the earth’s metronome.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  Years later when she would have trouble sleeping, a psychiatrist would ask her to visualize a peaceful place that made her feel completely relaxed.  She pictured this beach.  Their beach.  Naked.  Horses neighing and playing.  Honey moon hanging heavy in the fragrant air.  Honeymoon.  She loved that word. It was every romantic fantasy she ever had, all rolled into one.  Honey.  Moon.  And here she was.

Jennifer loved how his eyes were so wild and kind.  How his hand moved over her body perfectly and pulled her into the crux of him.  How his hair was different every day.  It shocked her that he could get up in the morning and not look at himself in the mirror.  Just go out into the world.  No comb.  No shave.  No one-last-check-to-see-if-I’m-decent.  She could old see herself growing old with him.

William loved the way her laugh tasted.  Big goofy laugh blasting out of this so serious woman.  How flat her belly was, and the way the bones of her hips jutted up and the curve of her thigh that smell that made his stomach jump.  The way her face looked when he made her cum.  He cold see himself kissing her big pregnant belly.

Eyes shut, he put his hand on her.  Smile.  Before she even knew it.  His big finger in her mouth.  Jennifer sucking on big finger.    Sigh.  Wet and tasty close at hand.

Jennifer felt her socket plugged in, juice jolting bolting through her, savage urgent rumbling.  Jennifer sprang into action and the wet heat flooded her gates, William’s thick thicker, saluting him.

Jennifer had never had an orgasm before William.  Never.  But now, on their honey moony beach, his mouth sucking her finger in his throat, her orgasm peeked cheekily through a crack in her wall and wave wicked and willing.

William sucked slow deep.  My goodness, Jennifer thought to herself, this is awfully fellatio-like, the way he’s sucking on my finger.  But she didn’t say anything.  Didn’t want to disturb the spinning around them, creeping up into her belly making her move to the rhythm of the beat.

William pulled her up on top.  Grabbed around the small of her, wrapping his arm, nestling his hard brown with his thick between her legs.  Then her thumped her into him.  Once.  Thump.  Quite took her breath away.  She teased him about how he liked to thump her into him like that.  But she loved was the one who loved it.  That’s the truth.

Jennifer was always in control before William.  Her whole life she waited for someone else to take control.  Someone who knew what to do.  Someone she could trust her nasty to.

She growled grindhumping into his.  William lived to hear her growl. When he first met her of course she’s beautiful, any idiot can see that William was thinking but he never in a million years imagined that she was so growly.  And now she was. Growling a honeymoon growl.

William took Jennifer’s in his hands, squeezed, right where the edge of her met her, just the right amount of pressure on her everything, just the way she likes it.  Sweating all sticky salty wet coconut oil she slid up and down on his hard brown chest her breasts slippery slithery sliding gliding, wired into her buzzer.

Jennifer wondered what it would be like.  William wondered what it would be like.

And he pulled her up all easy as you please, one knee either side of his head, looking down into his eyes wild and kind, sticking the tip of tongue through thick lips.  She was inches from his breath and she smelled like perfect love.  Everything good in life.

Then Jennifer lowered herself ever so slightly so that his tip grazed her tip licking her slow the love-flavored ice cream cone.

Jennifer felt the ripples lap her shore.  In, out.  In, out.

She watched William had his thick, so familiar, yet always a revelation, in his hand slapslapslapping the flesh.  A tiny droplet glistened in the sun, a deep sea diving sigh.

Jennifer slid along him and down so he rap her tongue and lips around.  William sucking swollen hard, gently slow suck sweet suck just the way she likes it.

Jennifer grabbed his tongue, squeezed, wrapping herself around him, delight shuddering as the slapslapslap of his jacking hand and William felt his cum swim around his lap pool and he swam with it, then let it drift away.

“Can I?”  Jennifer had never talked to anyone like that before William.  She had been waiting her whole life to talk to somebody.  Hearing Jennifer’s mouth made William.

She slipped down his flesh slide and grabbed him and she flexed back all, wide-open wanting.  At the tip of her he stopped.  Stopped there at the tip.

“No baby, put it in.  I need you all the way inside me now.” Jennifer tried to, but he held her tight.  Held her.  Tight.  And wouldn’t let her move.  “Are you sure you do?” he asked.  “Oh yes, sweetie, please,” never more sure of anything.  You see, Jennifer had never begged for anything before William.  Imagined she would beg.  But never begging.  Until William.  Loving the aching craving for something that was right there that she couldn’t quite have.  The more he made her beg, the more she wanted it.

“I don’t think you really want it,” William goaded.  “Yes baby, please.  I’m serious,” she said. “What do you need?” he asked, keeping the tip of his very thick William in the tip of her very wet Jennifer.  “I need you, baby.  Come on, please.”   “No, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said, pulling back a little.  “No, baby,” Jennifer said with urgent in her voice, “I’m serious, stop playing.”

“Okay baby,” said William.

And he put a thick inch into her.  “How’s that, sweetie?  Is that enough?” he asked as she tried to suck more into her, take all of him.  But he held her strong.  Held her.  Tight. Like she liked it.  Like he liked it.

“No, baby, come on, I want all of it.  Really baby, I’m not kidding any more.  Please.”  She meant it.  He wanted to give.  But he loved hearing her.  For him.  Almost as much as she loved to say it.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” asked William.  “Yes baby, come on” she was almost screaming now, out of her mind from the needing and the teasing, so close, but held right there, so she couldn’t have any more, no matter how hard she pushed down.

“This all for you, baby,” he grabbed her hips and she arched herself wide open, so William could all the way inside Jennifer, that’s where she wanted him, where she had never wanted anyone, in the center, the core, the heart of her matter, into her as she went onto him he so thick, tight and deep they were.

Jennifer felt like she was gonna black from all that bullseye and William in the middle of paradise at the center of them.

Suddenly, magically, there he was.  Blocking their sun.  Big deep round face.  Long hair, wavy black, pushed back from his forehead, hanging down past his shoulders.  Big deep brown eyes with smiles.  Lean.  Muscles smooth a glistening of sun and ocean.  Naked.  Standing over them.

Jennifer and William looked at each other.  And then they looked back at him.  He was still there.  Smiling a deep sweet smile.  Infectious.  They caught it.  Before they even knew it, they were smiling back at him.

He dropped to his knees right by her head.  And he took himself largely in hand and put himself next to Jennifer’s lips.  Just put it there.  Right there.  Next to her lips.  It’s yours if you want it.

And then before she even knew what was happening, she took the tip of him, sucking softly little kisses, her hip muscles undulating on William, sucking  him as she sucked a little more in her mouth.

Jennifer had never felt so full of life in her life.

The man was now fully thickened, blazing glazing ecstasy throwing head back and arms open sun bathing face and heart, an, “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” went out into the universe.

Jennifer took him now into mouth adjusting herself on William for maximum thickness

Her cum right now right there in extreme close-up, rocking on William, sucking on the man, throat opening on him tremor trembling her.  But she just danced with her orgasm then sent it away.

William grabbed Jennifer’s, pressed down, extra pressure on her in just the right spot, pulling up flowing down, and now she had to fight off her cum, “No, no, not yet,” she sighed as the man laughed.

Jennifer pulled the man out of her mouth, and kissed William while she held the thick of it in her hand.  He tasted her lips and they tasted of him.  It surprised him.   He was suddenly aware it was hard and big six inches from their lips.

Then Jennifer did something completely unexpected.  Something she never thought she could do.  Something no one expected.  Something she would never have done if she had stopped to think about it. Something she could have never done before William.  Something he could never believe she did whenever they talked about it for the rest of their lives, until they were old.

But she didn’t think about it.  She was past thought, into her animal.

Jennifer took the man in hand and put the tip of him on William’s lips where they were kissing her lips.  She licked, little nibbles, kissing lips and man at the same time.

Then William did something that he never thought he would do.  He opened his lips and sucked on the tip of that man, all hot and hard and big and on her beautiful husband’s lips.

She rocked and shook at the sight of all this, and her cum finally won, overpowering her in a huge, “Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h my-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y Go-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-d!” followed by a series of short hard, “Oh Jesus”’s as she bucked and shot shaking screaming beaming flying from the Garden Island to the heart of the world.  .

When Jennifer parachuted back down she disengaged, and the man stood up and the man seemed to know exactly what she wanted.  He lay down in the white bed of sand.

Without ever taking her eyes off William’s eyes Jennifer got on top of the brown eyed man and suddenly, he was just the tip inside her.  Still.  He was still.  Perfectly hard.  Perfectly patient and peaceful.  It’s yours if you want it.

William looked at Jennifer.  At first he wasn’t sure what to think.  Then he was.  He knew what his beautiful wife wanted.  And she knew what he wanted.  They had discussed it many times.   And she looked into William and with her eyes she said oh yes.

William walked behind her and ran his hand across Jennifer’s beautiful back, salty sweaty slick with sun and desire.  And he spread her apart a little and he watched that largeness, so hard and so still as she sucked him in and out.  And he put himself on the tip of behind her all wet and hot and Jennifer growled again pushing back into him, the craving raising Cain in her, wailing to be full.

Jennifer looked back into William and said with her eyes, “Baby, I need you, too.”   William took himself hard lathered-up with coconut oil poured it down her sliding melty.  While he teased her the tip of her drenched she pulled up and down on the man inside her and groaned each time she did, another cum appearing and moving forward at a steady pace.
William pressed his thick against her tip of her, and it was so good there.

As William thought – There is no way all this is gonna fit in my beautiful wife – Jennifer looked back and through bared teeth hissed, “Baby, I want you to bad.”

“Yes baby,” said William.  And he held himself right at the tip of her wet, spreading her just a little feeling the man throbbing in Jennifer’s sweet and she pushed back so slow the coconut oil so slippery, and just the head of his thick slid into her.

The suddenness of it almost too much, a flutter of pain a sweet little ache jolting in her shivering through the big heat beating inside her.

Jennifer deep breathed let everything smooth out and squeezed down and clenched her tingling there the skin so thin between her husband’s thickness and the throb of the knob of the man.  So tight the pressure swollen full.  She had never in her sweet short life felt so full of so much.  With all the skin so thin, so almost touching.

Jennifer pushed back now on her oh so sweet thick of husband and then he was all the way in.  Almost too full.  Almost.  She breathed squeezed both of them now the pressure right on her, and she shook and she felt it coming round the mountain riding six white horses.
William could feel hard pulsating in Jennifer, and buried himself in her.

“O God,” growled out of Jennifer as she had both of them back now, her rhythm section dancing the rhumba.

“O God,” growled out of William as he groaned and grabbed her in synch feeling all that through thin skin climbing with her, all the wet accumulating in the thundercloud, ready to bust his bolt of lightning.

Jennifer clenched her self as they all went full into her, squeezing and needing, all the way inside.

Then William was gushing buckets of rainbows, colors everywhere, and the man spasmed hot and shot tropical.  And all that rain made Jennifer flower, as she was swept away again, and they all leapt off together, beyond her and him, swandiving Icarus soaring, ballistic, boom booming, sirens singing, and the walls cum a-tumblin’ down.

The man looked drugged with the love of Jennifer and William, and he threw his head back and arms open sun bathed in his face and heart, a large, “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” went out into the universe.

The ocean roared in applause and the trees swayed and waved danced and sang for them with the birds and frogs and the sun smiled shiny bright.

Jennifer rolled off the brown eyed man and collapsed.  William absorbed her in the circle of him and they melted butter into each other, into the warm white sand slipping into a tropical sleep of deep paradise.

When they woke up it was near dark, sun pink winking goodbye.   He was gone.  They were alone again.

Except for the wild white horses cavorting in the thick.

Jennifer and William saw them and smiled into each other’s eyes, lighted by the honey dripping off the moon.

All-American Erotica: Father James Sins with Mary

James  burned. 

With Mary.  With God.  With the Devil.  With blood fever.  Lately Mary came to him every night.  Bathed in golden light.   Sweet Mary, dripping love, dropping down with the wings of an angel as he lay on his small hard bed, Jesus on the cross behind him bleeding for his sinning.  And he would pray to God.  That she would go away.  That she would come to stay.  Flowing crow black hair.  Raving raven eyes.  Skin white clouds.  Breasts secreting the milky blood of Christ.

James sinned.
As she floated down, a sister of mercy, sweet Mary, all over him.  And he would pray to God to deliver him from evil, to help him resist temptation.  But his God would be gone, and he could not resist.  And she would whisper, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” as she spread herself with her fingers and hovered over James, rigid as the rock of ages, the blossom of Mary so opening and he would be enveloped by the sheer drunken sin of it all.

James stiffened.
And she would put her breast in his mouth, and he would drink the milky blood of Christ as she slid down, down, down his vein of sin a pounding pillar, the shaft of his Satan.  And he would whisper, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”  And he would think to himself, O Jesus, save me, O Jesus, kill me. And she was like a cherub, the holy music of her filling him as he was filling her.  Mary blanketed him like in holy snow.

James froze.
And his hot love of God would shoot into her valley of death, the Devil lurking, smirking in the corner.  And James would scream, “O Lord, why have you forsaken me?”And then woke up, soaking from the wetness of his nightmaredream sweaty and sticky salty unholy water boiling on his belly.  And God was watching him, James could feel the shame aimed at his heart, and he would pray for forgiveness.  And afterwards, to calm himself, he would say, It’s only a dream.

James knelt.
And now, here she was.  Mary.  In her flesh.  In his booth.  Inches away.  So close James could smell her flower blooming, perfuming through him, strangleholding his soul. James had to punch himself hard in the thigh.  You are nothing, you are a servant, you are a vessel of the Lord our God.  A vessel of God.  You are nothing but your sacred duty, James told himself.  You are hear to minister.  Hear confession and recommend penance.

James swallowed.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” drifted from the darkness like a chariot of lightness, singing sweet and low, swinging him around her little finger.  “What is your sin?”  That is always the question, isn’t it? James thought.  You are my sin.  He’d never been anything but certain his whole life.  He was the Whiz Kid Priest.  That’s what all the papers said.  Memorized the Bible by the age of ten.  Already groomed to be a bishop, a cardinal maybe even.  Audience with the Pope on his eighteenth birthday.  Quoting verse and scripture, a greatest hits of the Good Book with the square jawed easy charm of Jack Kennedy back in the Camelot days, a poster boy for everything good about the church, a throwback to a happier time when priests weren’t predatory pedophiles and it didn’t matter if you had sex with Marilyn Monroe in the White House, as long as you didn’t do it on the Front Lawn.  A face for everything good in the church

James sighed.
He loved the ritual of it, the pageantry of it, the hidden symbols and the rock hard unthinking certainty, the blind obedience of it all, from before he could even remember, making everyone around him so happy, his father, on his deathbed, pleading with him, James, the only son, the last hope, to be a priest, his mother so proud, beaming, telling everyone about her boy the Whiz Kid Priest.  The pride of the neighborhood.

James pulsated.
And it had been so easy. Until Mary.  In his booth.  Now.  Smelling like sin itself.  “Father, I have impure thoughts,” confessed Mary with a breathtaking piety.  Impure thoughts.  Just the words raced his pulse, her skin ivory, hair ink black, a black Mass, parting to let him in. James had to punch himself hard in the thigh.  He wanted to run, hide.  And he prayed to God, his God, to give him the strength to resist, to pass this test, this plague of locust, He was inflicting on pious Father James, the Whiz Kid Priest.  And no one was there.

James twitched.

“What are your impure thoughts?” James asked, straining to keep the quiver out of his voice, not really wanting to know the answer, desperately wanting to know the answer.  “Well, Father… I’m too embarrassed to talk about it…” Mary said shyly.  “I’m your priest, Mary, I’m hear to listen and forgive, as a vessel of Christ out Lord and savior.  We all have impure thoughts.”  James said.  If you only knew, he thought.

James breathed.
“Do you ever have impure thoughts Father?” asked Mary, and it shivered him cold and lit a fire in his hell, sending a white-hot shot of juice jumping through him jumping under the hardening under his robe.  O God please make it stop now. I have given You my life, please do this one thing for me.  “Well, yes I do, of course I do.  I’m not just a priest, I’m a…” But the word “man” stuck hard in his throat like a wafer with no wine chaser. “…that is to say, I confess my thoughts and sins and I pray to God to forgive me, and He does.”  James said in his best Father James voice.

James clenched.
He had never confessed his sins of Mary.  As if by not confessing them they weren’t really real. Maybe that’s why God is punishing me, that’s why God is testing me, for my mendacity, for believing I can hide anything from his omnipotence.  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.  “Father, I have wicked, sinful thoughts, and… I touch myself Father, I can’t help it… I… give myself pleasure… I can’t stop, Father, and I don’t know what to do…”  James was trying to control everything, slow it all down, cool it all off.  No more visions.  No more breasts of Mary.  No more holy bloody milk.  No more Cardinal red lips.  Save me for I am lost.  Find me, miserable wretch that I am.  Lord I am blind.  Please, let me see.  Help me cast out Satan.  Make me roar, “Jezebelle, be gone!”

James quaked.
James thought about the way she looked at him when she passed in line after Sunday service.  The way she always managed to corner him somewhere, when she knew no one was around, and stand a little too close, until she was almost brushing up against him, so close that he couldn’t even follow the thread of the meaningless conversation they were having.  So close that he had no choice but to breathe in the ripe juice of Mary.  “I want to do things, Father. O God, I want to do terrible things…”  Deliver me from evil.  Is this evil?  It must be.  It is.  Sin.  The sins of the flesh.  Her flesh.  The flesh of Mary.  “Sometimes,” whispered the sweet breath of Mary, “I want it so bad, I don’t care if I burn in a flame hotter than any human fire for ever and ever.”

James shuddered.
Maybe I shouldn’t be a priest.  Maybe I’m too weak.  Maybe I’m just doing it so everyone will like me.  So I won’t let my dead dad down.  So I’ll be the Whiz Kid Priest.  “Sometime I think God would understand.  God understands love, doesn’t he Father?”  Does He?  Do You?  I don’t know, James thought.  I thought I knew.  God is love.  Isn’t He?  Aren’t You?  I thought I knew.  I was so sure I did.  Everything seemed so clear and simple.  A sin of the flesh is a sin of the flesh is a sin of the flesh.  Father James is not a sinner.  Father James is a vessel of God.  Devout.  A son of the son of God, pure in His celestial mansion on earth.

James dripped.

I want Mary.  More than I want God.  Could that be true?  Or is this Lucifer worming his way my Holy Soul?  Making me want Mary’s sweetness.  To eat her flesh.  To drink her milky blood.  James had to punch himself hard in the thigh.  Her smell was everywhere.  His dream flashed in front of him, the wings of the wet archangel Mary, the parting of her red sea, so rigid and dizzy under his robe.

James rocked.
“I’m touching myself right now, Father,” confessed Mary, “I’m touching myself, and I’m very… it feels very… Father, tell me, what should I do?  Am I going to hell?  I can’t help myself… Help me, please help me Father.” God was everywhere.  God was nowhere.  James felt God pumping hot blood under his robe.  No, it’s Satan, this infernal damp dark underworld where black meets red.  James wanted to die and go to Heaven, never having been tested.  Please God, I’m ready.  Take me now.  Before Mary takes me.  But God did not take James.

James shook.
And he was aware she had left her side of the booth, could faintly hear her walking to him.  Mary was coming.  Or was it a flesh demon sent to suck out his soul.  Run James, run, that little piece of rational brain that was left screamed.  But he couldn’t run.  Didn’t want to run.  Wouldn’t run.  The door slowly opened as the worm turned.  And then there she was Mary. Floating in on the wings of a prayer.  Deliver me now from evil, deliver me through the desert like Moses to the promised land.  But where was the promised land?  It was here in his confessional booth.  It was her, so pure sweet and Mary.  Please, God show me.  Tell me, for I am nothing.  I am your vessel.  Help me now or forever hold your peace. God did not come.  God did not help.  God did not tell James what to do.  Betrayed thrice, thought Father James.  By the Father, by the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

James sank.
He was alone with her.  With this speaking in tongues, this massive tower of Babel so huge and confused under the shroud of his black robe.  And James was filled with her crimsoning bouquet.  Her ivory so flesh, bright burn of the eyes so Mary, the pleading of her thighs, her breasts so full of God’s blood and milk.  Take, eat, this is my body and is meant for you.  “If you want me to go, tell me right now, Father, I’ll go and I’ll never come back.”  Mary blazed into him with God’s light.  Yes, go!  Be gone, whore of Babylon, temptress, she-devil, be gone.  James heard the words in his head.  But they would not come out of his mouth.

James muted.
And Mary did lean down to him, bathed in a golden halo of honeydew perfume.  James heard a heavenly choir soaring and a devil’s organ grinding.  And she did lean down to him, her breasts so full of God, closer, her lips florid, touching him, the first time a woman’s lips had ever touched him.  I’m the Holy Virgin, James thought.  And she is Mary.  I’m the Unholy Virgin, James thought.  And she is sweet Mary.  Her breath is so deep so red so wet.  And her tongue is so full of life and fruit so forbidden touching his lips so light and his holiness jumped under his robe and he was so full and taut and fierce.  O God, I’m burning up.  I’m already burning in hell, James thought, and I will burn in a flame hotter than any human fire for all eternity.  For ever and ever world without end, Amen.  And I don’t care.

James opened.
And Mary slipped her tongue, the hot tight serpent tongue of Eve, deeper into him.  And a hurricane crucified his brain.  And a twister spun through the third eye of the snake under his robe.  O God, it’s so hard, James thought.  And Mary took his face in her hands and her tongue slowly slid into his mouth and he moaned from his soul.  And his hands reached out as if they weren’t his hands at all and grabbed her hips and she gasped under his grasp, sucked on his lips and those hips of Mary were liquid in his hands, undulating, swelling, swiveling into him.  And James could smell her now. So fertile and earthly and heaven sent.  And it made him want to give her everything he had.  The keys to the kingdom of heaven.

James flushed.
And Mary pulled her breasts out of her blouse and she fed them to him and he dove in, baptizing himself in the milk of the flesh of Mary, so bursting in his hungry mouth, the rhythm raw and rocksteady. And there was no God and there was no Devil.  There was only Mary.  And Mary threw her head back in ecstatic rapture her tongue peeked out of her mouth, her eyes half shut in Biblical delight, the delicious quivering in her belly twitching all the way inside her, beating the drums fanning the fire.  “Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” she whispered.  And she took him in her hand scalding her flesh so hard and she disappeared into the black cauldron under his robe. And she kissed the tip of his stiff cross and he jumped and panted – “O God O God O God” – springing from his lips as she ran her tongue and cupped him in her hand gently massaging his world and swallowing him whole, slowly inch by inch into her Mary mouth and she moaned soulful and vibrated and he quaked, intoxicated by the dark depths of Mary.

James gasped.

Mary emerged, her lips swollen and turkey cock red, cheeks blazing cherries, eyes black fire, and she moved in and kissed him, let him sip his own saltiness sex on her lips.  And then he was sitting on the floor and she was hovering over him, floating in the confessional like an angel of life, a devil of death.  And she spread herself with her fingers.  And she grabbed his gaze and would not let go.  And James had never wanted anything so much as he wanted her.  Mary.  And she lowered herself, opening slowly, all over him.  And she sucked on the very tip of the soul of him with her Mary, relishing the anticipation, feeling the frenzy until he could no longer stand it, and thrust uncontrollable and unconscious into this Mary.  As if this was his sacred mission in life.  As if this was his true calling.  To be inside Mary.

James grasped.

And Mary pushed herself down onto Father James and slid her velvet tremor down, jamming, swallowing him whole, body and soul all the way with everything she had, squeezing him to the root, to the core, to the bone, to the moan, her foundation shaking, rocking his steeple, shattering her madness, rattling his stained glass windows, banging on the pearly gates, knock knock knocking on heaven’s door.  And Mary grasped him, so tight and swelling and wet and delirious with him.  And James found himself levitating, lovecrazy, heartcrazy, poemcrazy.  This was bigger than him.  More powerful.  This wanting.  This Mary.

James stopped.

Eye to eye, two windows into two souls.  And there was a new incense filling the booth.  The sweet scent of James and Mary.  And she nailed him to her cross, took his crown of thorns, as she pounded down him, beads of holy water pooling into drops and raining down his face and chest and back, soaking his robe.  And she rocked, insane, out of body, out of mind, in her body, his heart exploding as they climbed the stairway to heaven.  And the animal in her eyes sprang at him, leapt into him, and he was possessed by the passion of her possession.

James loved.

And he grabbed her hips hard now and pressed up against her as she slid sliding wet gripping grabbing and slamming, filling the confessional with their fury frenzy yes, “O God!” she cried in whisper, and “O sweet Jesus!” he whispered with a cry, and “O Mary!” he cried, and “O Father!” and “O Christ!” transported, transcendental, the ethereal house of the Father and the blessed Mary, the throne of God’s bliss, angels and devils dancing on the head of a pin prick, on the tip of their sin, skin drenched as Mary soaked him with her wet divinity, the holy of holies, until he could hold back no more, and his manna was shooting into her, from the balls of his feet through the thicket of his heart and into the river of his brain, and let their be light and together they entered the tender garden of the kingdom of paradise.

James collapsed.
And then she wept.  And he wept.  Drenching each other in joy and sin.  Crying in great gulps of love and shame.  And James held her tight in his arms.  And Mary held him tight in her arms.  And they held onto each other in that confessional like they were the last people on Earth.  The last people in heaven.  The last people in hell.  Then James thanked God.  His God.  For giving him Mary.

Rev Jen, America’s Sexiest Elf, on Learning How to Squirt

Hysterical story by East Village legend Rev Jen, the sexiest elf on the planet & author of Live Nude Elf, tells how she learned to squirt.

All-American Erotica: The New Coach Is Coming over & Gwen Is Wet

You know how you can feel someone staring at you?  That’s what Gwen was feeling.  It was the first day of soccer practice, and there’s someone staring at me, Gwen thought.  Then she turned around and caught him.  And he didn’t look away.  Neither did she.  Deep blue.  I’ve never seen eyes that deep and blue, Gwen thought.  She dove into them and swam around.  He was almost smiling.  Not quite.  And the way he looked at her.  Like he wanted something from her.  Something important.  And when Gwen closed her eyes to go to sleep that night she saw that look.  Hungry.  Blue.

He was the New Coach.  He was about her brother’s age.  22-ish.  He was a serious soccer guy.  Legs thick.  Brown.  Even when he was standing still, the muscles in his thighs looked alive and pumping.  Gwen found herself staring at them.  His legs.  Gwen found herself.  He wore paper thin t-shirts from Brazil, Ireland, Germany, Mozambique, and Mazatlan.  Where he’d been.  Playing soccer.  Kissing beautiful exotic women.  At least that’s what Gwen found herself imagining as she stared at his lips.  Pink.  Always just about to smile.  Gwen had only had one boyfriend, and when he kissed her, he jammed his mouth onto hers hard, and it hurt.  So she broke up with him.  But she found herself staring at New Coach’s lips and imagining putting her lips on them sweet and soft.  Hungry.  He had curly brown hair and a crooked nose from when he broken it.  A scar over one of his blue eyes.  Where did that scar come from?  Gwen wondered.

Gwen stared at her naked body in the mirror in her girly room surrounded by all her girly things, and she couldn’t quite figure it out.  Six months ago she was skinny.  Her dad called her beanpole.  It was like someone had pushed a button and her beanpole had sprouted into a woman’s body.  She couldn’t quite believe her breasts looked.  Two woman’s breasts.  Brown buttons and a round, crazy, curvy, handful.  Gwen kept looking at those breasts, trying to figure them out.  Whose breasts are those?  They looked beautiful to her, like a painting in a museum.  But they didn’t seem like hers.  Someone would be by to claim them any minute.  That strange new fullness between her legs.  What was that all about, Gwen found herself wondering.  Everything felt so full.  And so empty.  Gwen just couldn’t put it all together.  It puzzled her, and it scared her, and it made her very curious.  She felt like she had a new Christmas present, but someone had forgotten to put the batteries in. She kept staring at it all, head slightly tilted, confused, wandering aimlessly in her eyes.

He looked at her like he knew exactly what to do. The first time, before she even knew he was the New Coach.  A couple of times every practice.  That almost smile.  Those hungry blue eyes.  He knew.

And now he was coming over.  He would be there any minute.  Gwen still couldn’t believe she’d gotten up the nerve to ask him.  She hadn’t told any of her friends.  Which was very odd, because Gwen told her friends everything.  She didn’t even tell Tara.  And that made Gwen very nervous.  She had decided to wear her new jeans and her favorite Clyde Frazier t-shirt to show him how much she didn’t care that he was coming over when her parents were gone for the weekend.  Oh, yes, gone for the weekend.  Gone, gone, gone.

Gwen had waited and waited for the right moment to ask him, and finally after practice on Thursday, he had run some extra sprints, and she had run with him, straining to keep up with those thick brown legs, her muscles burning, shirt soaking, panting, burning, blood boiling in her head, wet, legs on fire, his almost translusent thin t-shirt from Italy sticking to the ripples of his skin.  When they were finally done she collapsed and he stood over her, looking down at her, almost smiling, breathing deep and blue, and she could not get her breath back.  Couldn’t catch it.  Her breath.  And those strange new breasts were heaving.  My God, thought Gwen, I have breasts, and they’re heaving.  “How ya doin’, Gwen?” he asked, and the way he said it was like he knew.  Did he know?  How could he know?  How could he not know?  And her whole inviting him over speech that she had rehearsed so meticulously had just flown out of her head like mallards flying south for the winter, and she lost the power of speach.  “Uh… well,” she sputtered like a backfiring engine, “I’m… you know… uh… good… and I was wondering…” Gwen was picking up steam now, getting her land legs under her, “Yeah, I was wondering if you’d like to come over Saturday and watch this soccer video I got for my birthday.  It’s really cool.  It’s the hundred greatest goals of ’98.”  And he had looked at her for the longest time.  Just looked at her.  My God he’s looking at me, Gwen thought.  He’s gonna tell my parents.  Or no, even worse, he’s just gonna laugh at me, I mean why the hell would the New Coach wanna come over to my dorky house.  Oh Jesus, what a moron I am, Gwen found herself thinking.  And then he said, “Sure, how about fivish?”  And then she said, “Yes”.  And her mind was screaming, “Yes, yes, yes, my God, yeeeeeeeeeeees!”

Now he was coming.  She slipped on her favorite Clyde Frazier t-shirt without a bra over her brand new breasts with the nipples that she had no idea what to do with.  And just the thought that he was on his way and she was wearing her favorite Clyde Frazier t-shirt with no bra made them come to attention.  And for some reason, she now reached not for her new jeans, but for the plaid skirt.  Not her jeans.  The plaid skirt.  And she put it on.  And she looked at herself in it.  Looked at her legs.  Tanned.  Freshly shaved.  And she slipped on her thin white underpants.  And then, as if it were perfectly choreographed, just as the white cotton nestled into place, the doorbell rang.

The New Coach was here.

Gwen opened the front door, and sure enough, there he was.  The New Coach.  Almost smiling.  At her.  Hungry.  Blue.  Just like she remembered him.  In a paper-thin faded t-shirt from Monte Carlo with red shorts over his large brown legs.  And then she was inviting him in, and getting him orange juice, and they were talking, and they were sitting on the couch.  Gwen was sure they were talking, because she could hear the words, and she recognized her voice.  Talking.  And then he asked, “So, where are your parents?” and Gwen heard herself saying, “Oh, they’re away for the weekend,” with an air of casual off-handedness that didn’t fool anyone.  The information sat there for a long time, and Gwen thought New Coach was finally going to give her that smile he had been almost smiling since the first time she caught him looking at her.  “Really…” he said, and he stared at her.  And he didn’t smile.  Almost smiled.  But didn’t.  But my God those eyes are blue, Gwen found herself thinking.  Gwen found herself.  Thinking about how blue and hungry those eyes were.

“So, where do you wanna watch the video?” Gwen asked.  “Anywhere,” said the New Coach.  “How about up in my room?” slipped out of her mouth, and once it was out there was no taking it back.  Gwen was doing everything she could not to hyperventilate and grab him and say, “Don’t you know what’s going on here?  Don’t you know I invited you over here?  Why are you just sitting there?!”  But she didn’t.  “Sure,” he almost smiled, “let’s go up to your room and watch the video.”  And something inside Gwen clenched.  She didn’t know what it was, but it stole her breath, and it brought the blood to her big new nipples under her favorite Clyde Frazier t-shirt, and they felt like a pair of electric buzzers ringing the doorbell in her furnace.

He is sitting next to me on her girly bed in her girly room, on this Saturday afternoon, with her parents gone, gone, gone.  Here we are, Gwen thought.  In my room.  On my bed.  The video is on.  Goal after goal crashing into the net.  Hugging.  Screaming.  Kissing.  Crowd going crazy.  And his thick brown leg was so close to hers she could feel the heat coming off it.  And then Gwen suddenly became aware of his hands.  My God, she thought, they’re huge.  His hands are huge.  He has huge hands.  His huge hands are so close to me, Gwen found was thinking.  And the longer Gwen sat there not watching goal after goal being rammed home, with him not touching her with those huge hands of his, the more confused Gwen became.  Why is he just sitting there?  Staring.  Like he was staring the first time she caught him staring.  Before she even knew he was the New Coach.

And the longer Gwen sat there, the more she realized that she was the one who wanted something from him.  She was the one who wanted something.  Really important.  It wasn’t him, it was me, she thought.  I’m the one that’s hungry.  Maybe he’s hungry, too.  Is he hungry?  He’s not watching the goals anymore.

“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!” came erupting every thirty seconds on the soundtrack.  He’s almost smiling, Gwen thought.  He’s not going to do anything.  He can’t.  It would be creepy if he did.  It’s my move, Gwen, thought.  Oh my God, it’s my move.

“Uh, I’ve… well, the thing is, I’ve been having  some, uh… problems with my lower back, and I was wondering…” The sentence just seemed to perish there.  It just seemed so cheesy and stupid.  “What were you wondering?” he almost smiled.  And now she was sure he knew.  He had to know.  He knew.  But if he knew, why was he making her go through all this.  Asking him.  Oh, God, I am just so bad at this, Gwen thought.  And the longer he sat there not doing anything with  those huge hands and those thick brown legs and those pink lips and those blue eyes, the tighter she got.  Wanting.  Goal after goal.  The crowd going wild.  “Well, uh… I was wondering if you  could… stretch me?” she asked.

“Sure,” he almost smiled.

She was on her back.  On her puffy rug in her girly room.  And he was standing over her.  He’s standing over me, Gwen thought.  He bent down and his legs were so close.  Huge hands were touching her legs, freshly shaved, and he was staring into her so blue, his voice soft and hypnotic and hungry.

“Breathe,” he said.  And she breathed.  “Deep,” he said.  And she breathed deep.  “Let it go, Gwen.  Let it go.”  She didn’t know exactly what he meant by that.  What was she supposed  to let go?  How am I supposed to let it go, Gwen thought, when I don’t even know what it is.

On her back he pulled her right knee up into her chest, then turned her so her right knee went across her body, stretching her torso, pushing her right knee down on the rug by her left hip, his huge hand spreading strong across the outside of her thigh, the other above her right chest.

“Breathe…” he said, “Deep… let it go, Gwen.  Let it go.”  And she breathed.  Deep.  Gwen found herself letting it go.  She found herself. I’m breathing, Gwen thought, and I’m letting it go.  He stretched her, deep into the big muscles in her back all the way into the inside of her, whoosh, a deep spinal relief.  Then he stretched her left leg the other way, and the tight unloosening with every breath.  He grabbed under her calves with those huge hands, and he pushed her knees into her chest, so she rocked on her spine. Totally exposed.  Gently he pushed while she breathed, his weight pushing into her, one huge hard on her lower back just above her white underpants.  Hard.  Pressing.

“Breathe Gwen,” he said.  “Deep.”  And she breathed deep and he pushed against her a little harder.  Pushed.  Against her.  She could feel it really letting go.  Gwen felt warm.  A wet.  She wanted to give him something important.  She wanted to give it to him. And she wanted to take it.

I’m breathing.  Deep.  The breath eased out.  He lifted her lower back up ever so slightly.  She flexed, opening.  Gwen looked and she saw it outlined against his thin red shorts.  Hard.  She breathed and the breath eased out of her.  He moved his enormous thumb so that is was pressing firm gentle and hungry against her white cotton panties, fitting perfectly against her, the tip of his thumb on the tip of her and Gwen felt herself stick to her white underpants, hotly and wetly, she couldn’t help herself, didn’t want to help herself, she pressed into his thumb, and she sighed hard and she shivered and she shook, and her muscles contracted around his thumb, like she was trying to suck on it.

She smelled him.  Smelled sex.  It was filling up the room.  The smell of wanting.

And now she spread her legs apart.  Reached for his skin and felt it through his thin t-shirt.  Moved him a little so now instead of his thumb pressing against her she felt something pressing against her, sliding along her wet with the rhythm of their breath.

“Breathe Gwen,” he said, only this time it was a whisper in her ear, as he leaned onto her, laid his chest on her chest, bodies melting into each other.  Where does he end and where do I begin? Gwen found herself wondering.  And she breathed.  Deep.

His tongue landed on her lips.  It surprised her.  Took her breath.  Sucked on her lip like a hungry calf his breath warm sweet.  She pushed into him.  Wrapping around him.  Hard.  Sliding up and down.

Gwen shivered a shudder she shook.  Deep inside her belly somewhere.  His huge hands slipped under her, pulling her into him, slowly and slowly.  Then she felt his hungry.  How hard and deep it was.  She put her hands on his back, rippling with heated muscles, sweet to the touch.  And she wanted something in her mouth, so Gwen reached out with her mouth and felt his neck on her lips, slightly moist and so hot.  She sucked.  His skin.  In her mouth.  He moaned a shudder he shook.  She pushed against him.  Pushed.

Gwen wanted to be full.  Of him.  Her new body wanted.  She was hungry.  For his hunger.  That thing she saw in his blue eyes the first time she caught him staring at her.  Before she even knew he was the New Coach.  She couldn’t help herself.  Didn’t want to help herself.  She pushed into him with all her strength.

Suddenly her shirt was off and his shirt was off.  And now it was skin on skin.  She thought they might might burst into flames.  Wet now.  With sweat sweet warm.  His breath on her strange new breasts, only they don’t seem quite so strange now, they’re hot wires, wired with heat, right into her wet, in her belly somewhere, deep as he sucked on her, licked her moan to the bone.  That was me, Gwen found herself thinking.  I was moaning.  That was me.  She pushed the outside of her wet against him again, sliding up his hardness, and then slowly back down.  And he pushed against her, squeezing with his hands under her, pulling her slowly up and slowly back down, muscular, undulating with hunger.  Gwen was swept away into that blue.  She wanted to be filled with his blue.

“Are you sure?” he whispered. Gwen was never more sure of anything in her life.  She pushed against him harder, trying to will him inside.  She grabbed his, hard the soft hot rock flesh, pulling him in with a strength she didn’t know she had.  Thinking yes.  He slid off her underpants.  She lifted herself up to help him and clenched and she could feel the wet coming on, and the feel of his hands on her skin sliding down her, over her calf off the end of her big toe. And then suddenly he didn’t have any clothes on.  She didn’t know exactly how he did that, but suddenly he was so incredibly naked.

As she pushed up and sucked down, grabbing at him with her wet, she felt herself climbing waves washing over her, through her, a rope ladder that went from her wet through her belly, shooting through her heart, growling through her throat, springing from her mouth, out her eyes, his blue right at her tip, his hard, hot so big so he looked at Gwen, he’s looking at me, Gwen thought, all that blue hunger.

“Are you sure?” his pink lips asked. Gwen felt the wet welling and breathing, she let it go, the hard of him, his huge hands, her new breasts pressed to his chest, his mouth, his blue she knew the first time she caught him before she knew how much he wanted she wanted, breathing.  Mouth to mouth Gwen pushed with all her might into him with all her might, Gwen pushed into him deep as the deep blue sea and the clear blue skies, swallowed him and grabbed him and pulled him into her and squeezed him as his hard so large and hot filling her she holds him there inside her wet she squeezes shivers shakes, lava flowing through her core to the root to the stem, a melt, giving it to him, taking it from him, letting it go.  She made a sound she never heard before as she pressed him into her, a growlhowlgroanmoan to the pagan a tremble a rock steady, a rolls a thrust.  He’s trying to hold back but he can’t, she doesn’t want him to, I don’t want you to hold back, Gwen thought, I want all of you, and she’s deep, deeper, deepest, riding, and he’s trembling trying to hold back but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, and she’s sucking him into her, squeezing and riding a love goddess letting it go bathing in his blue swimming in his blue.  He tries to pull back but she grabs him and wraps her legs around his hard his thick brown legs grabbing his skin with him deep deep inside into his blue inside her hungry from the very first time when she first caught him staring before she even knew he was the New Coach wanting something very important from her, the huge of his hands the pink of his lips, the soft of his blue as he explodes shouting screaming into her letting it go, shiver shake shudder into each other into into into each other’s breath.  She understood her new body, her wet hunger.
Gwen smiled into his blue.

 

Finally he smiled.

 

“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!”

Shawna Kenney On Domination, Love & Farts @ Sex Worker Literati

One of my favorite people, Shawna Kenney, author of I Was a Teenage Dominatrix, tells a hysterical story.

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Ivy League Pornographer Dreams of Creating Utopian Hippy Porn

Sam Benjamin, the ivy League pornographer and author of “American Gangbang”, on trying to change the world by making a new kind of smut: Hippie Porn. From Johns Marks Tricks & Chickenhawks. To buy the book click here.

Johns Marks Tricks & Chickehawks: Professionals & Clients Writing About Each Other

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Purchase the Book

Paperback : Amazon.com | Barnes & Nobles | Indiebound | Softskull | Powells
Ebook : Kindle | Nook | iBookStore | Kobo
Signed Book : Contact me

Discuss the Book

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Johns, Marks, Tricks & Chickenhawks: Professionals & Their Clients Writing about Each Other is the follow-up to Hos, Hookers, Call Girls and Rent Boys, the groundbreaking anthology that appeared on the cover of the New York Times Book Review. “Eye-opening, astonishing, brutally honest and frequently funny… unpretentious and riveting — graphic, politically incorrect and mostly unquotable in this newspaper.” It is a unique sociological document , a collection of mini-memoirs, rants, confessions, dreams, and nightmares by people who buy sex, and people who sell. And because it was compiled by two former sex industry workers, the collection is, like its predecessor, unprecedented in its inclusiveness. $10 crack hos and $5,000 call girls, online escorts and webcam girls, peep show harlots and soccer mom hookers, bent rent boys and wannabe thugs. Then there’s the clients. Captains of industry and little old Hasidic men, lunatics masquerading as cops and bratty frat boys, bereaved widows and widowers. This book will shine a light on both sides of these illegal, illicit, forbidden, and often shockingly intimate relationships, which have been demonized, mythologized, trivialized and grotesquely misunderstood by countless Pretty Woman-style books, movies and media. This is hysterical, intense, unexpected, and an ultimately inspiring collection.Publishers Weekly: This collection of personal essays by sex workers and their clients vacillates    wildly from hilarious to depressing but never strays from being utterly captivating. Among the more amusing stories are a client with a “sweater fetish”, a woman who paid for her family’s Christmas presents by stepping on a man’s testicles in a pornographic film, and the dominatrix who got fired because she could not remove a client’s tooth. The phone sex operator asked to do cartoon animal voices for a caller is also not to be missed. Candid essays cover everything from the anonymous “captain of industry” with an appreciation for transsexual prostitutes, to the human misery of a pimp who turned out his own girlfriend. Some pieces are more meditative: Fiona Helmsey recalls meeting a kind client at a bachelor party who later died on 9/11, while Dr. Annie Sprinkle discusses her 40 years in the sex industry and her wish for “a more compassionate sex-positive society” in which “prostitutes and johns would be government-subsidized”. Though obviously not for the faint of heart, this book contains some courageous, raw, and intelligent writing that breaks taboos and smashes misconceptions. (Apr.)To see on Publishers Weekly, click here.Book trailer:  Who Really Buys & Sells Sex

Excerpts

Resources

  • Great conversation w/ Jon Pressick on Sex Radio: Selling it, buying it, sex books $ love on Sex Talk Radio 4 Johns Marks Tricks & Chickenhawks
  • Interview with David Henry Sterry for Johns Marks Ticks & Chickenhawks in San Francisco Weekly by Chris Hall
  • Sexpert genius Veronica Monet on Rumpus.
  • Master graphic novelist & sexual revolutionary Chester Brown on Rumpus.
  • David Henry Sterry on Rumpus: Admit You’ve Paid for It.
  • Sam Benjamin on Creating Utopian Porn on  Rumpus.

Featured Books by David Henry Sterry

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DANGEROUS DOLLS, BAD MEN & SMOKING GUNS: NIGHT OF NOIR & BURLESQUE AT THE STRAND

One of my favorite shows: Hitmen, dirty divas, tasseled ta-tas, and murder most foul! Master of ceremony David Henry Sterry, ex-Hollywood teenage rentboy and best-selling author of Chicken; Hos, Hookers, Call Girls and Rent Boys; and Confessions of a Sex Maniac, will ride herd over a night of literary darkness featuring the brightest lights writing about the blackest deeds, and fierce femme fatale’s flashing fairest flesh. Joining him are two burlesque legends. Jo “Boobs” Weldon is one of the great burlesque dancers of this or any time, Headmistress of the New York School of Burlesque, and author of The Burlesque Handbook. Jonny Porkpie is the Burlesque Mayor of New York, has performed all around the world, creator of Pinchbottom Burlesque, the “Best Burlesque” in NY (New York Magazine, The Village Voice), and author of The Corpse Wore Pasties. They will be joined by an All-Star cavalcade of bad men and dangerous dolls.

DAVID HENRY STERRY, JO “BOOBS” WELDON, JONNY PORKPIE, MISS MARY CYN, CHARLES ARDAI, GARY CAHILL, ROSIE CHEEKS

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Johns Marks Tricks & Chickenhawks Beautiful Review from Publishers Weekly

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johns coverThis collection of personal essays by sex workers and their clients vacillates    wildly from hilarious to depressing but never strays from being utterly captivating. Among the more amusing stories are a client with a “sweater fetish”, a woman who paid for her family’s Christmas presents by stepping on a man’s testicles in a pornographic film, and the dominatrix who got fired because she could not remove a client’s tooth. The phone sex operator asked to do cartoon animal voices for a caller is also not to be missed. Candid essays cover everything from the anonymous “captain of industry” with an appreciation for transsexual prostitutes, to the human misery of a pimp who turned out his own girlfriend. Some pieces are more meditative: Fiona Helmsey recalls meeting a kind client at a bachelor party who later died on 9/11, while Dr. Annie Sprinkle discusses her 40 years in the sex industry and her wish for “a more compassionate sex-positive society” in which “prostitutes and johns would be government-subsidized”. Though obviously not for the faint of heart, this book contains some courageous, raw, and intelligent writing that breaks taboos and smashes misconceptions. (Apr.)

http://v2.publishersweekly.com/978-1-59376-507-1

to buy the book: http://amzn.to/Yg0Lp8

book trailer: Who Really Buys & Sells Sex

 

Sex Worker Literati: Toni Bentley Gets Paid for Sex

Sex Worker Literati: Abiola Abrams & the Power of Big Thick Lust

Sex Worker Literati Princess Paulina, Absolutely Fabulous Tranny, Dances Dirty & Dishes Dirt

One of my favorite trannies in the world, funny, fierce & fabulous Princess Paulina.

Sex Worker Literati: Big Mike & Puma Perl Lap Dance

Sex Worker Literati: Matthew Lawrence Comes Face-to-Face w/ a Mighty Mighty Cock

Sex Worker Literati: The Preacher & the Barker

Jesus, Big Dick, the Virgin Mary, & the Garden of Eden David Henry Sterry does a Preacher & a strip club barker battling for your soul & flesh.

 

Jodi Sh. Doff @ Sex Worker Literati on Hustling, Drugs & Death

Zoe Hansen Gets Fucked by a Trick @ Sex Worker Literati

X-madame Zoe Hansen makes love connection w/ trick who fucks her royally

Jessica Rabbit Dirty Dances for Santa @ Sex Worker Literati

Sam Benjamin, Ivy League Pornographer, on Porn, Sex, Love & Failure

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Painful Sex @ My First Orgy from Chicken @ Sex Worker Literati

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“My Favorite Book: Chicken”

I’m an avid reader, but when trying to figure out something suitable for my favorite book entry, I had to think of something that I can read over and over again. My book shelf is overflowing with books that I love, and some of them I’ve read more than once. But most books, I read once, love, and then never read again. Other books I read, and then re-read some years later. But this book I’ve probably read a dozen times. This is the book I generally re-read when I run out of things to read.

It’s called (long title) Chicken: Self-Portrait of a Young Man for Rent, by David Henry Sterry. I don’t even remember how I came across this book. I don’t know if I bought it or it was given to me, but I know that I’ve never loaned it to anyone or sold it, because I just can’t part with it. Around the time I came across it, I was probably 19 or 20, and I only wanted to read edgy things, whatever that means.

It’s about a guy that moves to Hollywood to go to college and gets caught up in the world of male escort services. It’s not as bad as it sounds, really. It’s hilarious. The sarcasm written into the pages is unparalleled to anything I’ve ever read. Every single chapter makes me laugh out loud. The characters are unique, and each one of them has their own quirk.

The best part? It’s non-fiction. I highly recommend it for a good laugh, and just a good read.

Find Chicken at your local independent bookstore:  Indiebound chicken 10 year anniversary coverAmazon

http://www.luuux.com/entertainment/day-4-my-favorite-book

 

Time Out NY: The Perfect Sunday, Nov 28: Whitney, Blue Note & Sex Worker LIterati

Time Out NY

Give a nice shout-out: The Perfect Sunday Nove 28: go to the park, the Whitney, a Broadway show, the Blue Note, & Sex Worker Literati, @ Bowery Poetry Club, 7pm.

Aimee DeLong: The Girls

Aimee DeLong loves the girls at Sex Worker Literati
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Rose the Sex Worker, Steven, & His Shit-stained Tighty Whities

Rose, a sarcastic sex worker, gives some money back after Steven, in his shit-stained tighty whities, buys 2 1/2 Masturbation shows, read by writer poet Aimee De Long at Sex Worker Literati.

Aimee DeLong: Fantasy Booth Chick & Military Dude w Glowstick Up His Ass

A sarcastic fantasy booth sex worker chick services a military dude who puts a glowstick up his ass, and when he’s done, tells her: “You’re the real heroes.” By writer Aimee DeLong at Sex Worker Literati.

Essence Revealed Rocks Burlesque Sex Worker Literati

World Cup Hotties & Notties: Sterry on Huffington Post

The Glorious World Cup makes the front page of the Huffington Post

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/david-henry-sterry/world-cup-hotties-notties_b_642244.html

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