Free Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology by Carol Queen Page A

last night, Jack. I had to go to this horrible dinner event and all the damn Guggenheims were there. You think we aren’t always that fond of Peggy, well, the rest of them are real barbarians. They know all about oil and silver, but are positively stupid about everything else. They don’t even know what good booze is. I have a headache that screams Courvoisier.
    All is well, no worries. I did my duty as the good art-wife. I put a face to where Peggy sends a trickle of their riches. I was “interesting” for them. I even held my tongue when one of the uncles started going on about splashes of paint that a monkey could make.
    I wanted to ask him if he knew where I could find a monkey that fucks like an angel and pours gin over my tits. I wanted to know if he could really train a monkey to beg for my cunt so sweetly that I can’t resist. I didn’t ask any of these things. I had another drink and smiled something stupid about how everyone has differing taste in art.
    After dinner, the bunch of us staying at Peggy’s place went back there to continue the party. Peggy went on and on about how she has never been with a woman but the prospect seems so in-ter-es-ting. She kept looking at me when she said these things. She is such a hideous bore. I don’t think any amount of money could make it worth her bourgeois obsession with the daring and in-ter-es-ting. I thought one was supposed to be jaded by as much wealth as she has. Didn’t she get this bit of exploration done with at Radcliffe or Sarah Lawrence or wherever it was that she went? You know that I have nothing against women, but she is so horrible!
    I ran into David Smith yesterday. He is planning to come visit you in a day or two. I put two cases of gin in the back of his truck for you. It’s the good stuff. I charged it on Peggy’s account. Make sure you get both cases. You know how David can be.
    This is important—I told David that your black eye and broken nose are from a bar fight. It might spoil your reputation as a tough old drunk for everyone to know that your injuries are from me.
    Would David be able to look either of us in the face if you had to explain that I broke your nose grinding my cunt into it? Let them think you are belligerent. Let them think you rail against the world. I know that all I have to do is lift my skirt and the great fucking genius of the twentieth century begs on his knees to do whatever I want. If you are a genius, Jackson, it is as my toilet.
    I can’t wait to be home. It’s the only place I don’t have to hear about Jackson Fucking Pollock, the Greatest Fucking American Painter. I can’t wait to be in my own studio. I’m tired of everything always being about you. If there wasn’t a little hate, I suppose the love wouldn’t be so sweet.
    I wish I was waiting for you in the kitchen, by the big wood stove. I’ll be there for drunken sex and lunch soon enough. Just ten more days, my sweet grumpy. We’ll be in each other’s arms soon. I’ll be as rough or as sweet as you want, old man. I’ll give you whatever you want, as long as I can be with you. I touch myself thinking of you when I go to bed. I wonder if Peggy hears me moaning your name in the dark. I hope she doesn’t hear the other names for you I whisper at the ceiling: Worm, Fool, Bastard.
    I miss your rough hands on my skin, even though I always tell you to try the new soap to make them softer. I miss that bump on your nose, too. I miss you in my mouth and in my cunt and in my ass.
    I’ll be on the late train next Friday. Jack, will you fuck me in the car in the train station parking lot?
    Answer me when I am there with you.
     
    Love L.K.
     
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Christine Solano

    Bio
    Christine Solano is the pen name of a poet, writer and photographer who lives in San Francisco. Among her previously published erotica is the story “Walls of Fire,” which appeared in Herotica 5 .
    Mini-Interview
    How did you start writing about sex? How does it differ from non