As I mentioned in my earlier post, last night I attended In The Flesh–the erotic reading series hosted by Rachel Kramer Bussel* at Happy Endings for their 4th anniversary.
Lately, I’ve been going to a number of readings, and I’m always surprised by how different they all are. There’s the elegant intellectualism of Center for Fiction, the humorous Lady Jane’s Salon, and the college-student hipster vibe of Michael Mejia’s Writers House. I prefer readings at bars and centers because they seem to really be about the writing and celebrating the author. On the other end of the spectrum is the bookstores who still have a diverse feel–the sterile teeny-bopper fandom of Barnes & Noble versus the die-hard fans sitting in cozy backrooms (or basement if you are at Word) of their independent shops.
In the Flesh, after one visit, might have just become my favorite of the reading series I’ve attended so far in New York. Rachel and I emailed a few times after I mentioned on Twitter that there seems to be an abundance of general and genre specific book blogs out there, but none focusing on erotica. It’s got a similar problem with the reverse stigma that comics have in the literary world–for some reason, it doesn’t really count.
Back in college, I somehow was branded the “Samantha” of my group of friends. New episodes of Sex and the City were still premiering on HBO and while I was the one not getting laid, I was the one not afraid to talk about sex or to visit the sex shop for Christmas grab-bag gifts. While I didn’t know what to expect of the event, it certainly wasn’t the giggling awkwardness that came from my naive yet slutty sorority sisters of the south–remember, you’re still a virgin if you only do anal. Some things I’ll never understand.
What I wasn’t expecting was something a little more akin to the burlesque shows I’ve been frequenting. The after work crowd of 30 and 40-something out for the entertainment of a reading. Maybe it comes with the territory of unabashed sharing that is erotica, but these women can perform. Abiola Abrams shouting out her joy and confusion at the whore/not-a-whore conundrum that was inevitable a few generations after the sexual revolution where double standards still prevail or Desiree up there in her pearls fantasizing, and getting off, to the hot flight attendant, to Tess Danesi flipping on a vibrating something-or-other as she began.
There was nothing sleazy as the reputation of erotica and porn tends to connotate. These women offered writings about women strong and proud of the sexuality–enjoyers and participants of sex. Where there was submission it was about learning and enjoying a fetish, quite different from the acceptable “if she’s moaning it’s okay” rapes that happen all too often in romance novels, the setting a place where sex and sexuality are dangerous.
Although most of the audience mingled exclusively with friends during the breaks, there was a feeling of comradery that is absent from other readings. At Writers House this past Wednesday, I felt out of place amongst the little groups of hipsters while at In the Flesh my arriving alone didn’t exclude me from the laughter and cheering of the giveaways (particularly the 24-karat gold vibrator that everyone insisted go to the virgin).
My favorite of the readings for the work itself came from Lily Burana–a former stripper now married to an Army officer. Her account of bringing her husband to a strip club sounded familiar to a friend’s going-away party where the men were apathetic–just there to be out of the house–and the dancers despondent. Our little party of swing dancers spent the evening discussing which of the dancers on the bar had the best rhythm before calling it quits and heading out to a jazz club for our own, peppier, dancing.
*V. jealous of Rachel. How can you not love a reading series that provides you with cupcakes decorated with a Molly Crabapple illustration of the hostess?
No related posts.
Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.
