Sexy Saturdays: Things I’ve Learned From Writing Clit Lit

I have a special treat for you this fine Sexy Saturday, a repeat guest poster, because I love this girl THAT much. Ali from Made of Words has graciously agreed to post a second time during this busy, manic month and I'm so glad she did. I am truly in love with this lady's writing, her clit lit (which you'll hear more about), her stories of her life with her love Jae, and her take on gender and queer life (which, you guys, she's so damn smart!).

Ali has truly become a great friend to me and I treasure that so much. She's generous and warm and kind and open-minded in a way only a queer clit-lit writer can be. Okay, I won't blather on anymore. Here is what you came for. Enjoy!

While it is most certainly not the only thing I do, a good portion of my website is dedicated to the one-handed read.  That’s right, possums-from-another-mother (aka, followers of Crazy With A Side of Awesomesauce.)  I write porn.  Literary porn, but porn nonetheless.  Stories or poems that are meant to get you wet and make you touch yourself.  And a good deal of it is based on my sex life with my girlfriend.  Oh yes, darlings.  I not only write porn.  But I write queer porn.  I’m the blackest of black sheep.

As you might imagine, outside of that world it’s not really a marketable skill.  Imagine your resumé full of stories about fisting, anal sex, going down on women.  Not exactly going to get you very many gigs.  And it’s certainly not something I generally get paid for (I got a sex toy, once.  I’ll gladly take additions to my toy chest as payment.)  A couple of times I’ve asked myself why I do it.  There are lofty answers, like that people need to demystify lesbian sex, to know it’s okay for women to pleasure themselves and other women (man or no man!  Burn your bras!)  But there are other things.  Better things.

I’ve learned a lot about sex while trying to write it down.

I’ve learned that my girlfriend is a buffet of tastes to be savored and appreciated.  (Especially when we eat lunch at Jamba Juice.)  And I’ve gained the vocabulary to be able to fully treasure that fact.  On any given day, Jae could burst in my mouth with the flavor of sun-warmed blackberries, shower me with snowflakes and rain, roll in with waves of beach, and be a fistful of pennies.  She can taste salty, sweet, bitter, like things I have never tasted before that I’d be hard put to name.  Did you know a person can taste like pure desire?  Sweaty passion?  Like new skin that never sees the sun?  (Still gotta say, my favorite day is still Jamba Juice Day.  It was like eating a fruit salad that comes when you lick it.)

The lesson that I’ve taken from all that?  Girls taste great.  You need not interfere with them.  They smell great too.  So whenever I see a product to clean you up, make you smell better, I mentally tell the company to go fuck themselves.  And you should not worry, ladies and gents with vaginas, about eating the right foods in order to taste better for your lover.  Everything tastes wonderful when you’re going down on someone.  Pennies or fruit, it’s all amazing.  And if every day were Jamba Juice Day I’d get bored.  Sex is beautiful with the complex tapestry of flavors and perfumes she gives me to experience.

I’ve learned to recall sounds:  the crack of a well-placed slap on a well-fed thigh; the steady drum of clenching fists on a headboard; the groan of kitchen cabinets holding my  weight as I’m bent over the counter; the airy sighs, chuckles, gasps that turn my queer-boy girlfriend into a (very sexual) pixie; my screams, the obscenities ripped from my throat; whispered dirty talk.

Never be too worried that you’re making too much noise.  My neighbors have never complained that I’m fucking too loudly.  So what if they can hear you?  Sex is a sacred space where everything instantly becomes soundproof.  As long as you are the privacy of your own territory and doing nothing illegal, no one will ever tell you they can hear you flogging your partner.  Take advantage of this: flog your partner.  Curse.  Moan. Tell her you want your pretty ass in the air while she fucks you.  Scream it, go ahead.

I’ve written the ridiculous.  About landing in the hospital, burning myself, breaking glass.  Accidentally getting dick-whipped by the largest dildo in all the land.  Cold lube.  Lube I’m allergic to.  Over-lube.  Kicking, punching, bruising (intentional or not, but all resulting in disaster.)  Cocks that won’t stay put.  Diarrhea.  Magically appearing roommates.  Magically appearing parents.  Magically appearing dogs.  Magically disappearing libidos.  Cats that bite my ass.  Near-drownings.

Shit is not always going to go how you plan.  Just accept it right now.  James Bond is the only person that can fuck with a 100-percent success rate and be suave while doing so.  You are not James Bond.  He doesn’t exist.  But that’s the beauty of it.  The lesson I’ve learned here is have a sense of humor.  Unless you are a fictional character, develop the ability to laugh and keep screwing.  Do not let hiccups ruin your night (or morning or afternoon.)

Perhaps writing the naughty moments is more valuable than the ability to sell your stories.  Recording how you perceive sex teaches you not only to write with five senses but to enjoy those moments for the reality that they are.  The truer the experience, the sweeter the memory and the deeper the understanding you have for yourself.