Wired Hard 4
Erotica for a Gay Universe
Edited by Lauren P. Burka and Cecilia Tan
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
Wired Hard 4
edited by Lauren P. Burka and Cecilia Tan
Copyright © 2009 by Circlet Press, Inc.
"Balance of Power" was previously published by Fishnet on April 12, 2006.
"When Angels Fall" was previously published in Coming Together: With Pride, from Phaze Books, 2008.
"Royal Catamite" will appear in the short story collection, Pumpkin Teeth, forthcoming in October 2009 from Lethe Press.
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Table of Contents
Hold Your Breath: Introduction by Xan West
When the Angels Fall by Helen E. H. Madden
Slavery By Degree by Gavin Atlas
Parts by Kal Cobalt
Balance of Power by Jamie Maguire
Nectar by Diane Kepler
Royal Catamite by Tom Cardamone
Beneath Sea and Sky by Shanna Germain
The Succession of Knoorikios Khnum by Zachary Jernigan
Hold Your Breath
When it's good, I hold my breath, feeling it reverberate through me, wanting to hold onto every sensation, not wanting it to end. When it's good, I feel connected, embodied, and every moment is surrounded by a bubble, luminescent, whole. When it's good, I listen to my instincts, give myself over to the journey, and tap into possibility, even those that scare me, knowing I may emerge changed.
Fucking can be that good, when it ramps you up, grabs your breath, leaves you shaky, different. For me, and the leatherfolks close to my heart, BDSM can be that good; we can go into it open to change, and find ourselves profoundly impacted, by a scene, a role, a relationship...more than we imagined might be possible. When I teach gender play workshops, I warn that what might seem like a fun Saturday night may become a key part of who you are--it's happened to me, and to several people I have done that kind of play with. This is one of the most important things I know about sex and kink: they may invoke surprising changes.
These stories know what I know; when it's good, sex can be transformative. One of the threads that runs through this collection is precisely that--hot sex that creates change. Sex that ripples out, shifting the lives and worlds of the characters, whether it gives them the power to rule or venomous fangs, heals internalized homophobia or changes their wiring forever.
Writing erotica can be that good, too. When I'm pushing my own edges, sometimes my chest will ache after a while, and I will discover how little I've been breathing, it's that good. When I come face to face with the very thing I've been hiding from myself. When I am certain that the story is writing me. When it's that good, we exchange something--the text and I--the energy moves in two directions. We create a circuit, building between us, watching it ramp up, trembling to hold onto the connection. We are touchably close and vulnerable with each other.
I work towards this goal when I write: to create an exchange with the reader, invoke the kind of transformation that good sex brings, hoping to come close to what Patrick Califia does in his work. In the essay, "An Insistent and Indelicate Muse," published in the brilliant collection, The Burning Pen, edited by M. Christian, he says "I like to use the cover of eroticism to entice the reader and make them emotionally and psychologically vulnerable to new ideas or discomfiting information. I hold out the reward of dirty talking in exchange for the reader stretching their political muscles." With science fiction/fantasy erotica, we want to feel stretched and challenged; we want the eroticism and the worldbuilding without sacrificing either--we want the story to blow our minds and our dicks too.
These stories do that on a number of levels: they describe it, they create that exchange with the reader, and the collection itself shifts the genre. The women are out of the closet in this book; no pseudonyms needed--this collection insists that women can write about hot gay sex too. I am particularly excited about that; as a transgender smut writer who pens erotica from multiple queer perspectives, I have a particular stake in widening the range of genders that authors can bring to erotic fiction collections.
When reading is that good, I know I am exactly where I want to be. When erotic reading wraps round my breath as well as my cock, I close my eyes and savor that for a moment, and can feel myself start to tremble. When science fiction/fantasy sends jolts of electricity into me, my lip caught between my teeth, I can feel the shifts begin to happen. When science fiction/fantasy grabs me, it's because the writer has found a metaphor, a vision, a universe that casts light and shadows through the water of my life and my world, shifts the way I see myself. When it's good like that, I am what changes.
"Parts" got to me that way. The transformation of Raz and the connection that he created with Monkey, the circuit they create together, where Raz taps into and rides Monkey's sensations felt like a perfect metaphor to me. It illuminated something I have been thinking and writing about for years--the way that I can connect so intimately with someone I can ride their sensations, from pain to orgasm. Kal Cobalt's piece showed me a new way of thinking about it, gave me new language to talk about it. He's not the only one exploring that kind of exchange. Zachary Jernigan's "Succession" imagines an intense level of intimacy bridged by shared encasement in a magic glove, enabling a transfer of power from one to the other, while Jamie Maguire's "Balance of Power" offers an ancient exchange of power from one ruler to another, through blood and sex.
In kink community, we talk a lot about power exchange, and how that kind of dynamic feeds us, wakes up our skin, gets us hard, grabs our breath. One of the most common archetypes of power exchange is sexual service; being there for the pleasure of another, a hole to be fucked, your utility in your surrender. Sexual service was one of the first kinky fantasies to grab hold of my cock, and I found the stories in this collection ample fodder for further fantasy. Both "Nectar" and "Royal Catamite" offer sexual servants groomed since childhood, breaking the rules and struggling with their role as servant, while still getting joy from giving service. "Slavery By Degree" imagines a sex slave that you can have teleported into your home, showing you why he would choose that life (and illustrating the difference between exchange that is exploitative, and consensual sexual service that is deeply affirming to self).
When it's good like that, it's cathartic; I'm riding that edge of minute control and deep helplessness wrapped together, feeling the energy course through me, soaring on the wave of it, not knowing where I will end up... whether it's below the blue door in "Beneath Sea and Sky," caught by song, found by the magic someone else was searching for; or in the muck of shame and doubt, aching desperately to heal my relationship with self, "When the Angels Fall."
These stories may tease, but they deliver on their promise. This collection tops the previous volumes in this series. Watch out; it may leave you changed in ways that surprise you.
When the Angels Fall
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
On the other end of the vid line I heard a small sigh. The view screen showed nothing but the grille pattern signifying the confidentiality of the confessional call-in line. Even so, I knew who waited on the other end. Father Raphe.
Of course, Father Raphe knew who he was talking to as well. "Hello Daniel. How long has it been since your last confession? Two whole days, perhaps?"
"Not quite," I answered sheepishly. I settled back in my chair, relaxing as the older man's words floated to me through the speakers of the vid phone. The tone of his voice promised much needed admonition, and my cock twitched in anticipation. I clenched the arms of my chair tight, trying to keep from touching myself for a little while longer. I was already half undressed, my shirt unbuttoned and exposing my bare chest to the cool breeze blowing through the bedroom window. My pants and briefs lay in a rumpled heap around my ankles.
"I thought we'd agreed that you would only call me for confession once a week," Father Raphe went on. "During the day." His voice was mild, smooth with age, with only a hint of irritation to it.
"We did," I answered. "But this is sort of an emergency."
Another sigh from the vid phone speakers. I imagined Father Raphe sitting in his syntha-leather arm chair, rubbing at his temples. A real fire blazed in a brick hearth behind him, casting golden glints onto his wavy silvered hair. He would be wearing a nightgown, I surmised, something long and light that draped over his lean figure in fluid folds, with a robe over that to protect him from the chill spring night. Personally, I liked the cold. It made me feel even more naked as long icy fingers of night air plucked my nipples into hard little knots.
"What's the emergency this time?" Father Raphe finally asked.
I squirmed. This was the hard part of confessional, actually owning up to the crime. "It's my mother. She's dying."
"And?"
"And when her lawyer called to tell me she wanted to see me one last time, I told him to go fuck himself."
"Oh Daniel."
I writhed beneath the gentle disappointment in his voice. It was both sweet and painful as hell.
"I couldn't help it," I went on. "I hate her. That bitch made my life miserable. You know what she did to me!"
"Yes I do, but I also know that you make yourself even more miserable by hating her and by acting in such a poisonous fashion. Daniel, your mother was a cruel woman, but at some point you have to let go of your hate in order to heal."
Like that's going to happen any time soon, I thought. Out loud I asked, "Will you pray for me, Father?"
"That depends. Where are your hands?"
I blushed. Even though he couldn't see it through the confessional screen, I knew he could sense it. "They're on the arms of my chair."
"And your clothing?"
"I'm dressed!" I protested. "I swear. Would I lie to you?"
"Not lie, no. But you have been known to bend the truth. Really Daniel, the purpose of confession is to relieve the burdens of the soul, not the genitals. Your propensity to masturbate while we pray is... distracting."
I grinned, though still embarrassed. "I'm wearing a shirt, pants, underwear and socks. I promise."
"All right then. As long as you don't remove any clothing, we'll pray, and then I'll give you your penance. But will you please promise me something Daniel?"
"What?"
"Promise me the next time you feel the urge to call me in the middle of the night, you'll forgo the charade of confession. It's not a sin to care for another person, you know. You've come so far these past few years. If only you could just take that last step...."
I sank back into my chair, really ashamed now. "I'd like to, Father Raphe. I really would. But I'm just not ready yet."
There was a pause and then, "Now that sounds like a true confession. At least we're accomplishing something tonight. Let us pray."
I imagined Father Raphe on his side of the vid line, on his knees, head bowed, hands clasped in prayer, robe and night gown gracefully spread on the floor around him. Holy words flowed from his full lips, spilling through the vid line to pour their blessings onto me. My dick swelled beneath the benediction and I prayed right along with him, holding tight to the arms of my chair until I thought I'd die if I didn't touch myself. Through ten rounds of 'Merciful Mary' and one 'Lord Jesus Who Loves Us All,' I ran my hands over my cock, just barely stroking it at first, then squeezing my balls with one hand as I pumped my shaft into the fist of the other. I prayed hard and I came hard, well before the final 'Amen,' and then I grew hard again, just in time for Father Raphe to give me my penance.
* * * *
"God damn that priest anyway!"
My rented hydro-car sailed along the highway at a good hundred fifty clicks. I was going a little fast, but it wasn't like anyone was going to pull me for speeding way out here. I was out in the middle of fucking nowhere, in Bible Land for Christ's sake. The place was nothing but an isolated stretch of rolling hills, dotted with only the occasional farm or fuel-cell station. Most of the hydro-cars I saw were at least fifty years old and they sat abandoned in weed-choked yards attached to run-down houses I could barely see through the dust kicked up by my speeding. The fine grit coated the hydro-car's plaz windows and turned everything outside a lifeless yellow-gray. It reminded me of corpses. It reminded me of my mother. I shuddered.
"God damn Father Raphe and his god damn penance," I muttered as the car droned along the empty road. The blasphemous words sent a wicked thrill that ran down my spine and straight into my cock. Still, it didn't help me shake the feeling of dread that had hung on me since the night before.
"I want you to go back to Bible Land," Father Raphe had instructed me after we were done praying. "I want you to see your mother."
I remember gaping at the vid screen with its impenetrable grille pattern. My hands and cock were still sticky with come. "You're kidding me!"
"No, I'm not. You need to see your mother."
"Why? So I can forgive her?"
"No," Father Raphe had replied. "I doubt she wants forgiveness, just as I doubt you're ready to give it, so what would be the point? But I think it's high time you realized that she no longer has any power over you, and the best way to do that is to go see her."
"I already know she doesn't have power over me anymore," I argued hotly. "That's why I'm not going. To prove that she can't force me to do something I don't want to do."
"No, the reason you're not going is because you're frightened." I could see him shaking his finger at me behind the darkened screen. "Even after all these years, you're afraid that the moment you see her, you'll become a helpless child again and be right back under her control. But that won't happen, Daniel. Oh, I expect she will say some things that will hurt you. Being rejected by one's parents is always hurtful because our parents are the people who should love us no matter what. But you're a grown man now. She can no longer control you unless you let her. It's time you realized that. It's time you faced her and took the reins of your life into your own hands."
Easier said than done, I thought. But penance was set, and Father Raphe refused to listen to any further arguments. I had asked for it, he said, and he was right. But I still wasn't happy about it.
"God damn it," I whispered, watching the yellow-gray world slip by.
My mother's house was set deep in the heart of Bible Land, at the top of an artificially built mountain. At one time, the place had been a church, the now infamous Sermon On The Mount, where the late great Reverend Robert Thorpe had tried unsuccessfully to convince two thousand people to leave behind a world of sin by ingesting cyanide pills. Poor Reverend Thorpe. He had been an old time Bible thumper, a former tent preacher wildly popular among the small but rabid Moral Minority, that exclusive club whose members believed that they and they alone would enter into God's Kingdom. Unfortunately for him, there was a limit to how far people would follow. Being a martyr was all well and good, but if they all died, who would be left to carry on the fight?
In the end, Reverend Thorpe bit the big one all by his lonesome while his congregation bravely stayed on to continue his work. My mother was a card carrying member of the Minority, said card having been handed down to her from her father, who had gotten it from his father. My great-grandfather had been the chief financial officer of Sermon On The Mount during Thorpe's reign and had prudently decided that since the good Reverend no longer needed his church, there was no reason why it should go to waste. So the old man set up house in the place and kept it running until the day he died, at which point it passed to his son and so on down the line. Thus Sermon On The Mount, along with all the hate-filled religious psycho-babble of the Minority, became my mother's birthright, and she had planned to pass it all on to me, except that I had turned out to be queer, which really fucked up her plans.