Wednesday, March 23, 2011
"I had a little cry today," she says. "A boy I met on the internet saw a picture of me and told me I was too fat."
My heart clenches. I remember.
"The internet is a cruel place." I say.
"I don't know how else to meet men."
There is only a bunch of years between me and her. I feel my skin becoming thinner. Her flesh is mine. I identify too closely. If I think about it too hard I become her. The horror of each new interaction. The opening up to the same taunts and terrors that made the school yard into a war zone.
"Fuck him." I say.
She says "Sure. That's what I thought, but I still had to have a little cry."
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Read the first chapter of the novel HERE and if you make your own book trailer for The Ottoman Motel and email a link to email@example.com you could win a prize.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
I grew up with a Labrador who would sleep on my bed. Her name was Lady and I had a game I used to play where I would pretend she was my mother. I loved her cleanly. She would snuggle in next to me when I was sad. I would whisper all my problems and then pretend that she was telling me that it would be okay. She never failed to know when I was sad and come to sit with me. You are all the family I need I would tell her. This dog was my first best friend, my parent and my greatest love.
And so I understand you may find my youtube habits quite disturbing. I do however need to know just how a dog's penis is made. I need to try to feel desire when I am writing it. Some people feel desire for their puppy. I do not.
I was more into the idea of the octopus I told them in the car and we all laughed but it was true. The pure alien connection. The lack of need, desire or judgment - is this, then what I love the most?
Friday, March 11, 2011
I have spent two weeks sexualising dogs. A kelpie starred in one particular scene. I stared at the dogs and tried to feel the potential for play, the excited little chase, the energetic copulation, the scratch of a rough tongue. I suppose I could enjoy the act for pure sensation if I tried and yet I felt no sexual pull at all.
The video of octopuses mating however never fails to stir me. I suppose, despite my fondness for them, I'm just not a dog person at all.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Leda watched her friend rubbing herself, pushed forward onto her elbow, the furious slapping of the muscular grey thighs against her own. From this angle she could not see the act, the point of entry, and she shifted onto the ground, staring up at the coupling, trying not to stroke herself too vigorously, wanting to save her climax for this new sensation. She watched the dog approach it’s moment, the shifting of its rhythm, the little grunting noises it made deep in its throat. She could see the point of entry and she craned her neck towards it, setting her tongue against the girl’s clitoris, licking as Paul would lick her, remembering all the times the animal had pleasured her in this way. One final thrust and the creature was done. From this angle Leda could watch Sampson hop off Rachel’s back, the tug of the penis momentarily stuck.She knew how this would feel, that thick knot of gristle tugging against that sensitive place inside. She sucked the little protrusion of her friend’s flesh into her mouth, watched the hound finally pull free, the little drops of white fluid spilling out across Rachel’s red raw flesh. She saw the spasms begin and touched the slick vagina with one finger, slipped it inside. The clenching of flesh.
Me and Mr Booker
I picked up this book because it was written by a regular Avid Reader customer and a good friend of the shop. I expected to like it perhaps as much as any other debut novel, but I was completely floored by the quality of the prose and admittedly jealous of how assured the book is. As a fellow writer, I wish I had written Me and Mr Booker myself. It has fast become one of my favourite books of all time, easily holding it’s head up next to my absolute favourite, Nabrokov’s Lolita.
This delicate coming of age story follows 16 year old Martha who’s own family is falling apart when the worldly, debonair and delightful Mr Booker walks into her life. The teenaged Martha and Mr Booker soon begin an affair, problematic for the girl, the man and also his wife who is desperate to have a child. Rather than condemning the affair outright, Taylor carefully, and with humour, paints a portrait of a relationship that is full of love, desire, joy, heartbreak and complications. Nothing is simple in this tale but everything is superbly human. The world is described so beautifully that it transports any reader back to this very tangible time and place in 70’s small town Australia.
Cory Taylor's Me and Mr Booker has the heart of Lolita and the soul of Catcher In The Rye, this is one of the most assured debut novels I have ever read. These characters feel so real that they become almost family. Refreshing, surprising, sexy and ultimately very moving.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
She took a handful of the water and spilled it on the little crop of fine hair that had so recently sprouted between her legs. The water chilled her, stung sharply, but she felt it drip over the folds of her skin and a delicious warmth continued to spread out from her vagina across the inside of her thighs. The skin between her legs was swollen. She noticed a tear in the flesh, a surface wound, nothing that could be internal damage. She noticed a swollen nub of flesh at the top of her little fissure. She poured more water onto it and the heat of her blood pushed out further into this tight thumb till the throbbing pressure inside was almost too much to bear. She touched it gently, tenderly with her ocean-chilled finger, rubbed at it, and was overcome by a rush of sleepy pleasure like the moments before sleep.
Leda stretched back on the rocks and felt the heat of the day soaking up into her shoulders. She stroked the little nub of skin and let her thighs fall languidly apart. The dog’s rough tongue startled her out of her stupor for a moment. Paul lapped at her and Leda lifted her hand away to let his tongue do it’s work. She remembered her cut feet and how his tongue had heeled her.
Her skin was torn. There was some blood and yet this tongue and the slipperiness of it’s saliva made it right again. She let the sleepiness overtake her, the sun on her naked skin, the sand and the smooth warm stones against her back. All this and everything coalescing in that one place, the swollen lips between her thighs and the rough but gentle tongue lapping there.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Whatever you think about the dogs or the horses or the goats, there is always the swan. My favourite version is by Peter Paul Rubens. There is something so sensual about the way the swan dips his beak into the mouth of Leda. Leda herself is all flesh. She seems to be half asleep. That drug that is sex, arousal like a sleeping draft, relaxing the muscles, readying the body for sex.
The penis of a swan is shaped like a piece of spiral pasta. The male bird takes the female on the water, holds her head under, a kind of aquatic rape. There have been stories of female swans who drown in the act. Our Leda is more robust than a swan, but still I imagine the bird's spiral penis inching out between her legs, it's beak in her mouth, it's cork screw penetration. All this and heavy-lidded Leda falling backwards into that poppy-sleep of lust, her thick thighs tipping open, her small breasts listing sideways, the nipples erect and brushing against the sinewy neck of the bird. A fantasy, surely, because in real life there would be the tearing of webbed, clawed feet, the water and a kind of drowning. But this is my fantasy dragged from an image by Peter Paul Rubens and in this fantasy I am overwhelmed by my lust and the feel of the snow white feathers soft against my aroused skin.
Friday, March 4, 2011
She knew it would be this way when they married. His hand clutching hers so firmly when she lead him around the yard. The dogs, the miniature pony, the stable and the mares.
"I'm Zoo." This admission right at the beginning of things, an email exchange, one zoophile to another. It wasn't a lie at the time. There was the dog and the miniature pony. It isn't a lie now, and yet she stands inside the barn and he is here again, up on the ladder and sweating over her flank, the shuddering of his hips as he thrusts. He never shudders quite like that with her.
I am Zoo, she tells herself, I am Zoo. And yet she would give it all away to make him clutch her thighs with the same intense arousal, his hands shaking, that uncontrollable twitch of the hip.
He sees her and he comes. These two things converge a single moment. He sees her and he gives that final thrust, his fingers clutching at the mare's rump, the twitching spasms of his hips.
She knew this about him when they met. She watches him pump his love into the warm furred flanks. He watches as her heart pumps it's poison through her veins.
I am Zoo. I am Zoo. And yet in this moment she is nothing but the icy creep of jealousy and if she had a gun her love of animals would not be enough to save the mare at all.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
But what if the sexual partner is an animal? I have seen videos on youtube that show a dog mounting a girl who is in bed, trying to hide herself from his thrusting hips under the blanket. Her partner films and laughs. The girl is not consenting to this act but the dog's consent seems clear. Surely there can be no question when the animal is a virile male and the human is a female or submissive male.
A man leans over. This in black and white. The footage depicts this act for only a second, but the image hovers in memory like a camera flare. The horse has mounted him, not as it would mount a mare. The horse in the image is tall enough to stand above the man. It's penis is huge and another man is there to hold the horse back, to insert his arm between the horses cock and the man's anus. Without this second man it seems obvious that the horse would call the first man injury. It is as we imagine, the power of the flanks rippling with sweat, the terrifying length of the cock, the grunting sound perhaps from the horse but some of it, pained and determined from the man. And yes, when I rewind, play, rewind, play, the rhythm and the sound of it and the image of that huge animal meat sliding in and out, all of this is arousing.
I am easily aroused.
Perhaps for others their repulsion would cause them to recoil. Certainly the idea seems painful, the thought of the semen, alien, smelling of fur and barn, would be unpleasant if it were on my skin let alone inside me. The reality would perhaps repel me. The idea arouses.
I recently visited my sister and although I am fond of dogs, the sheer number and size of her animals, the exclusion of a dividing line between animals and humans, the smell of them, the weight of them the scent of my clothing after days of being with them, the shit smeared into my shoes, the dogfood in the air, all of this I found difficult to live with. I am unused to such powerful smell of beast in my skin and hair. Although I liked her dogs, they seemed welcoming and friendly, I felt suffocated by a lack of human space. I am not a zoophile. Despite my own arousal at the sight of a horse entering a man's anus, despite this, I am certain that, in real life I would be less than happy to trade places with the man in the footage that I pore over.
If I can find myself aroused by this act that is so complicated, this ethical minefield of consent, then I can make a reader share this arousal. I can make a reader enter the barn with me, crouch in the corner and watch the act taking place. The reader and I will emerge into the light with the same uneasy questions. Is it wrong to feel sexually aroused by an animal? How do you define consent? Is it wrong to lick your dog or suckle on his penis? Is it wrong to let your stallion mount you? Is it wrong to enjoy the feeling of a mare's vagina pulsing out her orgasm around your cock? Are you giving her pleasure? Is it pleasurable? Where are the lines and have you crossed them?
Welcome to the first day of my research. A re-birth of my Furiousvaginas. A barrage of questions. So it seems we will start with Zoo.