Closet Desire: An Anthology of Hidden Erotica

Closet Desire

An Anthology of Hidden Erotica

Stephen Van Scoyoc

Susan Van Scoyoc

Illustrated by Ray Leaning Foreword by Dr. Jason Charles

Authors Choice Press

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Closet Desire An Anthology of Hidden Erotica

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Stephen Van Scoyoc & Susan Van Scoyoc

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Authors Choice Press an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse.com, Inc. 5220 S 16th, Ste. 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-15682-7

ISBN: 978-1-4697-9775-5 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

Rue du 8 Mai 1945

The Green Futon

A Work of Art

Ellie—Her Diary

Ellie—Saturday Night

Ellie—Shared Love

A Cottage in York

White Linen

Anna

Woman Flesh

Black Collars and Silver Chains

Tears of Passion–A Letter

Awakenings

Penis Envy

Extreme Orgasms—A Letter

Shahrazad’s Playground

A Lover’s Gift

The Wedding

Mischievous Sisters

Puppy Love

I Want You So–A Letter

London Erotica 1999

Emily

Kate

The Ultimate Submission

Afterword

About the Authors

Appendix

Dedication

As the unofficial editor of this anthology my final touch is to thank all those who supported us and helped us put this book together. Our gratitude goes out first to a long list of friends, both in the UK and the US, who read stories, made comments, and offered suggestions. Their feedback helped to decide which stories should be included and which ones should wait for another book. Tentatively offering a story like White Linen to a friend, watching her read it, and then hearing her break into riotous laughter at the surprising twist was convincing evidence to us that as carefully as we keep our secrets guarded, we all have erotic thoughts and responses.

We are especially thankful to Ray Leaning, whose erotic art we have admired for ages. Introduced to his work at a London show, it inspired one of the stories included in this anthology. My first meeting with him was to enquire about including one of his works to illustrate the story. His response was far more encouraging than I expected and in the end he contributed several delightful illustrations for the book, including the cover. The cover is a story in itself as I discovered the image while browsing Ray’s web site. Susan and I thought that it was perfect as the cover and, upon learning that it was titled Closet Desire; we quickly decided to title the book to match the art.

I am grateful to Mistress Caroline who appears as MC³ in one of the illustrations and was the initial inspiration for London Erotica 1999. She is as charming in person as she was at the show although I cannot testify about her professional abilities as a Mistress!

Thanks also go to Jo who bared all to demonstrate nipple rings at the London Erotica 1999 exhibition. We finally met up with Jo again just before publishing this book at the Skin Two exhibition in London. This time we couldn’t resist her sales technique and Jo made the sale to Susan. Jo is just one of the erotic personalities you may sit beside on the train or pass on the sidewalk without a second thought of the Closet Desires that hide within.

Finally I have to thank my partner, Susan, who has taught me more about sensuality and the passions of a woman in our few years together than I had learned in a lifetime. We have stayed side-by-side in business, in life, and in play. I look forward to sharing the closet with her for many years to come.

Stephen Van Scoyoc

Epigraph

The Stranger

"…we all have a face that we hide away forever and we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone. Some are satin some are steel; some are silk and some are leather; they’re the faces of the stranger, but we love to try them on…Why were you so surprised that you never saw the stranger? Did you ever let your lover see the stranger in yourself?"

Billy Joel, The Stranger

Foreword

The use of sexual imagery is endemic throughout society. We are all bombarded with the erotic every day, in many different aspects of our life. Whether it be the shape of the bottle of our favourite soft-drink or the supermodel trying to persuade us to buy the latest model of sports car, the idea that sex sells is so universally accepted as to be a cliché. We have been trained to look, watch and observe and whilst our heartbeat accelerates we cannot avert our gaze. Sex is both transmitted and received. The commuter on the Circle Line looks up from The Times’ crossword to silently follow the line of the elegantly crossed legs directly opposite him, whilst at the same time the sunbather stares from behind the safety of her sunglasses at the bronzed lifeguard walking the beach.

Whole careers have been based upon the sex appeal of the individual. Actors and actresses have secured the best roles, singers have shot up the charts and athletes have won lucrative sponsorship deals all based on their sex appeal. It is talent that insures your place in history in the future but it is sex appeal that always wins the moment. Despite how we might feel about this fault line in our perceived meritocratic society we know, if only through our own attempts to curry favour in those we come into contact with, that it is undeniably true.

When we use the imagery for ourselves and combine our experience with our fantasies we enter the realm of the erotic. The images that I have already put to you on a crowded train or sun-drenched beach are easily recognisable as we have all banked a currency of erotic material in our own imaginations. We become the brokers of this erotic currency as we take the role of director, actor and scriptwriter in the fantasies that we create. The individual seizes control of this sanctioned erotic currency and it is at this moment, as pen is put to paper, that society’s foundation begins to shake.

When the AIDS virus began to impact upon heterosexual behaviour and add its weight to the arguments of the politically correct, the figure of the erotic artist was dismissed out of hand. Terms like exploitation and irresponsible were brandished in an attempt to devalue the erotic currency, but the effect was the exact opposite. When the bimbo flutters her eyelashes and the himbo flexes his biceps we are aware that these images have been deconstructed countless times. We can interpret our own behaviour in response to these provocative images but guess what, the potency does not decrease. The bimbo does not flutter her eyelashes because she really is unable to do anything else; she does it because that is what she wants you to think.

Of course, such an interpretation is beyond those quick to use the terminology of the repressed. It is for this reason, amongst many others, that erotica will always be the black sheep of the family of literary genres. Then again that is where its power lies. The feeling that you are partaking in something that is not fully accepted in respectable circles is exhilarating, it may be the American kitsch of a Russ Meyer movie, or the dark European gothic sexuality of Jess Franco. The many letters published by Nancy Friday give the reader a sense of the erotic under belly of society. These are people with outrageous sexual fantasies and yet this outrageousness is counterbalanced by the ordinariness of the people writing the letters. We soon learn that for every Eric Stanton illustration there is a Klimt painting, for every Terry Southern sex comedy there is a literary Philip Roth novel. There are always those who in their embarrassment at their own libido look to squash everyone else’s by seeking to pour scorn and ridicule on any erotic venture, or just those that are just a little too daring. The criticism aimed at erotica for its sometimes unrealistic rendering of sexual activities is as puerile as going to the cinema to watch a James Bond film and declaring it garbage because, as we all know, cars cannot really go under water.

Maybe the biggest moment in the last ten years for erotica was the Madonna book entitled SEX. In many ways a groundbreaking move for a popular commercial artist. It took the female sexual fantasy out of the hands of the academic, the professional or even the avant-garde and framed it for mass consumption. It was a brave but successful move for an artist who was established enough to have nothing to gain and everything to lose, but in the end what she did enhanced her standing to all kindred spirits.

It is now up to you. I urge you to join the chase and pick up your pens, reach for your sketchpad, load the camera with film, dust off the typewriter and focus the camcorder lens. Whatever it is that you need, go and get it and do not forget to express yourself.

Dr. Jason Charles

Preface

Whispers. Whispers in the dark. Secret longings. Explicit passions. Hushed giggles as the hinges on the closet door slowly creak open. Beyond the door, in the darkness, carefully hidden away is the passage to a place more magical yet every bit as innocent and childish as Narnia. When we pass through its portal what is fantasy becomes reality and what is reality becomes fantasy. It is the place of our hidden desires, a place where lovers’ passions are safeguarded and shared in the deepest moments of intimacy.

Some might label this book pornographic and suggest its leaves are more appropriate for kindling a fire than a night—or day—of passion between lovers. The explicit ideas shared in this book are nothing new and can be followed backward through history beyond the veiled literature of the Victorians, the erotica of the French, the libraries of erotica at the Vatican in Rome, the seductive art of the 15th century Germans, the Chinese poetry in the year 500 AD, Sappho in Greece 612 BC, the Sumerians in 4000 BC, and right into the shadows of the cave dwellers who first painted the animals they hunted and second painted the throes of sex upon their rock walls. Expressions of passion and longings between lovers are not founded in the modern day discovery of the printing press or movie film or video. It is founded solely in the erotic imagination and experiences of lovers. Despite the cries of the moralists and critics, erotica remains the most sought after of the art forms. Pornography and erotica are the most popular topics on the Internet. Millions upon millions of books are currently in print yet books of erotica consistently occupy the top numbers in the ranking game. The Beauty trilogy by Anne Rice was written many years ago yet its brutal, almost barbaric tale of domination, submission, punishment, and raw sex keeps it among the top 5,000 most popular books. Quite simply, many readers find the idea of unabashed, uninhibited sexuality exciting. Erotica anthologies by Susie Bright, including Herotica, occupy slots in the top 1,000 most popular books. Anaïs Nin’s diaries remain in print even half a century after they were written. While these books may not blast off to the top ten they do quietly endure and hold their place long after books about Monica Lewinsky or Princess Diana have reached the bargain bins. Books of erotica will seldom be found on the shelves of second-hand bookstores or in garage sales. It is a compelling awareness about what is truly in our hearts.

A judge once commented that he couldn’t define pornography, but he knew it when he saw it. Pornography and erotica are both about sex. Make no mistake about that. Pornography is only about sex. Erotica puts sex into context with the human element. Sex becomes many things when it is erotic. It can be amusing, disappointing, thrilling, reminiscent, and outrageous. Sex becomes erotic when it is between real people instead of actors going through the motions. In erotica the people are real. They are old and young, beautiful and ordinary, fat and slender, men and women, and everything else that makes humanity a tapestry of life. They have personalities, jobs, families, and friends. This book is erotic for many reasons. First and foremost it is about consensual experiences and fantasies between lovers, no matter how extreme or bizarre those experiences and fantasies may be. It is unlikely that the topics of these stories are new to most lovers. Most lovers have thought about, fantasized about, and even tried things they would never publicly admit—or try again. Erotica is as much about the suggestion of what might or could happen as it is about what has actually happened. It can be mysterious, adventurous, haunting, and even disturbing. It is an exploration about all the possibilities the imagination is capable of rather than the narrow definition about how things should be. It is an experience in trust and acceptance that brings lovers closer together and excludes the outside world for a few minutes, a few hours, or even a few days. It is the euphoria that eclipses those shallow imitations brought on by drugs or drink.

The erotic can be thought of as food for the primitive soul with a vast range of choices on offer. Some dishes are a palatable staple to many while other flavours may be an acquired taste to some and outright repulsion to others. A relative few may even choose to starve and allow their passions to wither and die. It is an individual choice to be respected.

We have tried to offer you a veritable smorgasbord of shared fantasies and experiences. Some of the dishes may be too strong while others may be too bland. The erotic stories range from the subtle to the extreme, and explicit, even shocking, but they are all the product of two lovers. We have shared the face of the strangers with each other and with you. Now, do you dare show the face of the stranger to your lover?

Introduction

Women’s Rights…and Wrongs

So why would a psychologist who writes on women’s issues contribute to an anthology of erotica? The answer is simple—it is about choice. A modern, independent adult, man or woman, recognises that animalistic part of ourselves which prowls our unconscious mind. When we are faced with the pressures of daily life—work, parenthood, study and more—we escape into a fantasy world of our own where sexuality and sensuality have no bounds. Whilst men have been described as thinking about sex every few seconds good women have been seen over recent centuries as asexual.

In recent decades women too have been recognised as sexual beings. The Hite Report shocked many with its descriptions of the female sexual experience. For many years the feminists of this world rightly criticised the use of female bodies for public display. These displays were often humiliating. The emphasis in the feminist mind seemed always to protest and protect women from degradation and humiliation. But what happens if it is the woman’s choice and that in this choice it is not humiliation she is seeking but pleasure? In seeking equality and female liberation have we condemned our sexual fantasies to the censure of political correctness?

Fantasies are just that—fantasies. It is in our fantasy life that we explore things as yet untried. It is in our fantasy life that we explore things we would never in our real world try or want to try because of the risk of pain and humiliation. Yet in our fantasy life we may try anything, be anyone. In our fantasy life we are often a very different person from who we are in reality. The strong businessman, company director who in his free time likes to dress in a maid’s outfit and serve a dominant woman has long been the source of much comedy but only because we know it holds a kernel of truth. Now, more commonly we hear strong, powerful women expressing their freedom to choose erotica that explores their inner worlds. As women explore these choices in this new century they are expressing with a new voice their fantasies. There are no taboos in this fantasy world.

Susan Van Scoyoc

A Good Deal of Courage

That’s what it took to publish this most unusual anthology. Unusual because when I buy an anthology I expect to get a hefty book with stories from many authors. Our bookshelves are filled with erotic anthologies ranging from The Mammoth Book of Erotica, which is a cornucopia of sensual delights, to Sex Macabre, a devilish blend of horror and erotica. Some tales are softly sensual like an evening cuddle before the fire while others, like Anne Rice’s Beauty series, are eerily erotic and yet so brutal one expects to hear screams from some hidden dungeon. There seems to be no limit to the realms of sensual fantasy. I like an anthology because no matter what mood I’m in there always seems to be something in my flavor and I find, over time, that I eventually read every story and enjoy it.

All of the stories in this anthology have been written by two authors alone. Will you find enough variety in its pages to interest and entice you? I think you will. Although the two authors are lovers and partners in life, their experiences—like yours—and their fantasies—like yours—have been allowed to run wild with passion and variety. These stories are not just about what we share in our relationship with one another, but about other lovers in other lifetimes as well as both personal and shared fantasies all written out in full living color for you to enjoy.

Have you ever fantasized about travelling to an exotic land with your lover and inviting a third lover into your bed? You can read about it in Rue du 8 Mai 1948. Are you a powerful yet playful woman who secretly longs to be dominated? In Black Leather and Silver Chains you can feel what it is like to surrender your body and abandon yourself to pure pleasure. Do you wonder about women who have it all yet still seem bored with life? In A Work of Art, Justine finally learns what other women know about keeping life exciting. Ever hear the expression "if it’s sounds too good to be true—it probably is?" Then you’ll appreciate the one-night stand that didn’t in White Linen. So it goes with story after story of fumbling teenage experiments, bisexuality, lustful one night stands, bondage, domination, masturbation, and even, dare I say it, adultery. Perhaps you will be inspired to remember your own past loves and fantasies. What is real? What is fantasy? Does it even matter?

Finally, back to my first words—courage. It took a great deal of courage to assemble these stories, put our names proudly to them, and publish them. What will our friends think? What will our families think? What will our colleagues think? Real or fantasy these are some of our most intimate secrets we have chosen to share. We are comforted, perhaps, by the realization that you are just like us. You have picked this book up because you already like erotica, because you are already curious, because you are already thinking of sharing these stories. You may be old or young, man or woman, straight, gay, or in between, but there is a passion within you, a sensuality, that seeks to explore, experience, and expand. Life is short—too short. So our books of erotica sit openly on the shelves in our formal living room. Graceful, sensual art adorns the walls. And our children know that we read and write erotica.

We do still keep the closet locked.

Stephen Van Scoyoc

Rue du 8 Mai 1945

Sensuality in its highest form is an all but complete merging of lovers, body and soul, into one blissful being. This experience was noticed by the French centuries ago and given a name, la petit mort, or the little death. A French philosopher named Battaille once wrote that no matter how we try we will always be separate beings from our fellow men and women with two exceptions only…birth and death. It is a longing to touch another human intimately that drives us to the savage little death so that in dying together we will be together if only for a split second of our lives. Of course, if we’re lucky, we don’t actually die, but it was D.H. Lawrence who noted that sensual intimacy is the closest we will ever come death without stopping our heart. This story is told simultaneously from three different perspectives and as it unfolds, as the sensual intimacy deepens, you will notice a merging of the story, of the experience, and of passions. You will be there when the stories intersect and our lovers die a sensual death, together, on Rue du 8 Mai 1945, Paris.

Saturday, 1 August

The rain blackened street is awash in the colours of flickering neon

signs, street lights, and car headlamps. Francine listens to the gentle but

steady strumming of rain upon the roof of her loft flat. She presses her face lightly against the cool glass of the window, her short hair clinging to the moistness, as she sips her steaming coffee. She softly brushes away the gathering fog from the pane and watches the Paris residents stream like dark shadows in their glistening overcoats from their trains at Gare de l’Est. They flow along the pavement to waiting buses and dark flats in the neighborhood. One-by-one lights flicker on behind shuttered windows and drawn drapes. The tourists straggle along behind them looking bewildered and awkward with their out of place clothes and ill-chosen luggage. Unlike the residents who stream out of the stations like trains on a schedule, the tourists wander about aimlessly and consult with their maps and itineraries before finally stumbling toward their hotels. Francine inhales the rich aroma of her coffee and sips.

(Claire)

I am here in Paris with my lover! It is hard to believe—so hard I feel like a child who must try to do everything before it all disappears. This is the trip I have wanted for as long as I can remember. Occasionally I have heard of others, women who have been whisked off to Paris for a weekend by lovers, rarely by husbands—usually to celebrate some anniversary or other. Never, ever, did I actually think this would be me. Always the bridesmaid never the bride? But in the last few years my life has been turned upside down by the man walking by my side. We have travelled together now over many miles, over different continents and now here I am, finally, in Paris.

The rain gently falls over us, cooling my skin after the long train ride and sea crossing. The rain falls heavily enough to cool me finally, refreshing to my soul. Why is it that the rain drops here feel different than the oppressive dampness of home?

We look as we walk along the street, looking for the Hotel Francais. Will it be tucked away or will we see it easily? I am so excited by all I see as we walk unhurriedly along the pavement. The sidewalk cafes, the patisserie, the restaurants all glitter like exotic jewels in the dark, rain swept street. The passersby are either in a hurry, tense and aggravated with everyone and everything, pushing overflowing luggage trolleys or relaxed and comfortable, meeting friends for coffee, wine and food. The tourists stand out so clearly to me. I become acutely conscious of how differently we travel. One small case, well travelled, between us, and camera bags, one each slung over our shoulders.

Lane and I hardly exchange words. There is no need as we both spend all our awareness on our new surroundings, our home for the next four days…and nights. We see the sign for the hotel, we cannot miss it as it is the main hotel in the street. I gasp with pleasure—this is more than I had hoped. The hotel is lit up, showing the dark masonry of the front, the shutters, the balconies. I immediately hope we will have a room with a balcony. Please don’t let us be tucked away at the back of the hotel, looking out over someone’s laundry!

As we turn toward the entrance to the hotel I see the brasserie on the corner of the street opposite. The welcoming lights, the red canopies, tables on the pavement, the gentle chatter of friends at the end of a day. Perhaps we will join them on another night. But for now all I want is a room, with a bed—and that balcony.

Quickly we check in. It is easy—the rooms are prebooked, the money already paid so we are soon on our way to room 406, on the fourth floor, use the lift. It takes longer to open the door to our room—some kind of deadlock system which means turning the key three or four times.

We tumble into our room. Lane steps straight over to turn on the low lighting in the room and open the windows. This is his habit, his routine whenever we travel. All over the world and the first thing is to open the windows, throw them open to sounds and smells as well as the cool air. I rush around, aware as always that I am the small child, the exuberant one, the one who cannot keep still. A bathroom with shower, a mobile bidet—all hoses and wheels—I announce to no one, as I discover Lane is no longer in the bedroom at all but standing…yes! on the balcony.

I step out through the French windows (how delicious) and join him. I step into another world. I nuzzle up to Lane, feeling his body warmth, his quiet steadying presence, take a deep breath of the cool wet air, stop my racing mind and look, really look. Down below, four floors below, are the shining, shimmering streets. Our street (already ours for the next few days) runs from the Gare d’Est to our right to the junction just a few hundred yards to our left. Beyond is the movement of cars flowing to and from the station but our street is surprisingly quiet. The pools of rainwater are tranquil and reflect the light like mirrors, showing off proudly the frontage of the cafes.

The building opposite is a brighter reflection of our hotel. It is lighter, strewn with shadows and shutters, balconies and a few open windows. Just opposite our own window is the loft—larger windows, no shutters and topped with large grey tiles. I wonder what it would be like to live there, in one of those lofts, here in Paris? How