Last night’s In the Flesh reading was really a good time. As always I was impressed with the hospitality of Freddy & Eddy’s Venice store and the groovy group of people it attracts, and the readers were an eclectic and entertaining group, including Seth Greenland, Nina Hartley, Jeff Miller, and Colleen Wainwright.
Pictured above are Hartley, me, and Freddy and Eddy themselves, Ian and Alicia Denchasy (photo credit Abraham Zapruder, Bigfoot Labs).
Greenland, the writer of the group who most looked the part, read from his book “Shining City” a passage about redemption via a singing vibrating vaginal egg. Thrillist‘s Jeff Miller told a story about his mother catching him masturbating to his father’s porn stash (1988’s Hitler Sucks starring Mike Horner and Alicia Monet), and Communicatrix.com’s Colleen Wainwright sang a ditty about her website’s most frequent search terms accompanied by L.A. theatre icon David Bickford, whose name is now on a porn site.
Host Carly Milne began the night with her account of posing nude in Calgary. Had it been Banff, it would have been dirtier. Everything’s dirtier in BanffTM.
But it was Hartley for whom the most audience members traveled, to whom people listened with jaws agape, and who could have read a soup can and done just fine. Instead she told a story of how fisting a woman, after a point, becomes less about your pushing than her sucking you in.
From there Hartley turned the story, as she often will, into a gentle reminder that we should all love each other. Nina Hartley: National Treasure, Goddamn Hippie.
I read two stories, one of which I’ve reprinted (with permission from the author) below.
What We Know About Cheyenne
There was once a man who maintained a small household by a northern shore. He had a long, sturdy stick to steady him as he roamed the hills by the coast. His food was the animals of the sparse forest and whatever vegetables were in season from the little garden behind his home. He never thought about whether or not he loved his life, so you could say he was happy. He had a dog who visited him daily, meeting him as part of its own wanderings, and the man missed the animal on the days it didn’t arrive. Whatever you might say about him, the man certainly appeared contented.
One day, the man went to town to barter some rabbit pelts for sugar, salt, and matches. He had quite a collection with him that day: there were voluminous white coats and jet-black silky ones, there were velvety calicoes and even some leathery brown pelts, taken from older jackrabbits. While the shopkeeper was assessing the man’s trades, the man walked through the bustling Saturday morning in search of conversation. Approaching the post office, he saw the sheriff and the telegraph operator engaged in a friendly argument.
“I tell you it’s round, like a watermelon round,” the sheriff was saying.
“It’s flat as the gallows’ board, Old Tommy,” replied the telegraph operator.
(At this point I could feel the tension in the audience. “This isn’t sexy at all,” they were thinking. Fools! It was about to get horrifyingly sexy.)
On the other side of the street, women were drawing water from the well, turning to maneuver back up the street with sloshing buckets. The man saw an opportunity to get close to the widow Becky, so he eased beside her and took one of the water pails.
“Much obliged,” she said.
“Anything I can do for such a nice lady.”
The man found himself blushing, much to his surprise. The month before he had given a peppermint stick to the widow’s son Caleb, and he saw the boy now, smiling at him from behind his mother’s skirts.
“How do you do, Caleb?” the man asked, tousling the boy’s hair.
“I sure am fine, mister, and I thank you for the sweets last month,”
“Well,” the man said, fishing through his pockets for some trinket to give the boy, “I just might have another stick of peppermint for after your Saturday chores.”
The man saw the look of delight on Caleb’s face. How many times had he rode his uncle Jack’s coattails to get a fireball or a handful of licorice when he was the boy’s age? The widow Becky smiled at him warmly, peering up at him with dancing brown eyes. Maybe she would invite him over to supper on the pretext of teaching the boy to box or how to build a treehouse? He smiled back.
His heart thumped warmly – he liked the boy. He probably could teach him a thing or two, like how to trap a raccoon, or how to get a horse to cross deep water. But the boy was screaming. The man jumped out of his reverie. The widow Becky was now staring at him with an appalled expression, her cheeks pink with what looked like indignation.
Instead of licorice or a peppermint stick, the man had pulled from his pocket a 21-inch black reflective rubber dildo. In his sudden embarrassment he tried to stick it back in his pocket but mistakenly shoved it up the ass of the pastor’s Irish Setter as both walked by.
The dog reared up and mounted the pastor as if the latter were a 3-D vagina exhibit at a museum for the blind, and soon the pastor’s plaintive if furtively exultant bleats brought the men of the local volunteer fire department, who in their zeal hosed down the gingham aprons of the local maids, already writhing in the dust like pungent jackhammers.
The man stepped back in frank amazement at the size of his gaffe and fell into the horse trough. The widow Becky was on him immediately, leading with her teeth, soon pulling every shred of his clothing away in her long-gestating want of a man. “I hear them grinding together in the barnyard,” she kept moaning, her mouth filled with him.
Caleb stood by the hitching post and wept until the sheriff, his face glazed with the spendings of Miss Nellie the bar wench, neatly put a bullet into each of the boy’s eyeballs, then shot himself, his final seed arcing in a languid volley over the brow of Mr. Barney, the postmaster, whose fists were filled with the tender, willing flesh of the sapphic orphanage girls.
“More holes,” the blacksmith said, driving what the National Park Service would years hence call his “Manvil” into the roly, pliant piano teacher. “Got to bang more holes into you.”
Everybody laughed when the man got up from the horse trough, brushing himself off. He leaned over, picked his duster off the ground, and took some rock candy from the pockets. He’d bought a whole package on a whim, visiting his schoolmaster brother in Cheyenne. He looked around for Caleb. He bet the boy had never even seen rock candy.
Women could trust a man who had seen the world. Clearly, the man had been around.
The stories got a good response, I think, because a woman later gave me this drawing on a napkin. It is a self-portrait of her masturbating on a ladder.
Am I the ladder?
Previously: Nina Hartley’s Great Sex During Pregnancy; Carly Milne’s Naked Ambition
See also: Freddy & Eddy, In the Flesh LA
Leave a Reply