Sex Writer Symposium: 03byPenningFreer©
Despite the usual collage of the beautiful fucking bodies slow-motioning to sensuous music on the warm huge screens above the dining hall and the open bar compliments of the Friday night Sex Writers' Symposium, I distractedly thumb through my still-stained notes, looking back through the last week's entries, trying to jumpstart my script thoughts.
When I read back over my day 1 and day 2 notes (you can read them in chapters 1 and 2 of Sex and The Writer's Symposium if you like) I realize it sounds so fucking absurd! So...so fucking porn, so fucking guy porn. Like fuck, fuck, suck, fuck, suck, yada, yada, yada, fuck, suck, cum, yum.
I wrote those notes myself, and it still reads to me like all we do at this symposium is sit around and fuck. Oh that it were so! But calling this a symposium is a misnomer par excellence.
First, be clear that my notes read like porn because that's what we do for a living -- or this is what we have done for a living up to this watershed point in our collective lives -- and that's what we are paid to write -- not because fucking is all we get to do here.
Wait. I should write this while I'm thinking about it. There, I just did.
Our lucky, lucky play evenings -- technically, erotic immersion evenings, of which this is one -- come at a huge price to our bodies and our psyches.
If you can bear with me for one chapter without me describing our grand sex in detail, if you'll be a little patient with me please, I'll explain. After all, I'm just sharing with you my journal, and this is what it says. Just me venting for one chapter.
It's just not as easy as it seems to get it up and keep it up day after day, even when you have willing hot fucking partners all around you, and that's your fucking job!
Think about it. You're at the grocery store one day on a Saturday and choosing the freshest carton of milk from the back of the rack -- you all know you do it -- and you get this call from some woman named Zhay (cool as that sounds).
Now, you love writing porn and posting it on a website as a way to spice up your life and his or her life, and you're pretty much standard-issue normal values Jane or John Doe. And this Zhay person that calls you knows all of the above. Plus your credit score, your last and next doctor's appointment, and your involvement in team sports in high school and college, and your security clearance in any federal work you ever did. Think about it.
Then come to Zhay's Symposium. By Friday you are fucking a strange guy one evening, a girl the next, a couple or a group of folks the next, and handling sex toys like silverware the next.
We Suck, swallow, swap cum. We eat pussy, we eat cock, we take it in the mouth, we take it in the pussy, we take it in the ass.
Next it's bondage (how much can you take, Heidi?). How low can you go? How scared can you be and continue to function?
What are your boundaries? What are my boundaries exactly?
And, then, just as I find myself really bonding with my new fuck stud, Jack, gravitating to fuck him regularly both in our erotic immersion evenings and, well, let me just say, at other times during the week as well, we are asked to branch out.
That's easier on paper than it is in the real world. Trust me when I say this.
Yet, astonishingly, we have really enjoyed all of it. And we have much, much more to enjoy -- starting in a very few moments. We have started really enjoying even those things we were not initially comfortable with.
Taking it in the ass? Please! Loving it? Never saw that coming.
So we know we can do some things we never thought possible before.
But it hasn't been as easy as we thought. Sure, the sheer heat and passion of the first week or so, fucking wildly, fucking strangers, doing new and different things started a buzz we still have not recovered from -- nor will we ever fully recover from it. We are far more appreciative sexual beings than we were before Zhay.
But now more of the reality sets in.
Zhay never fucking backs off. Zhay never takes a break. Zhay never gives us a break from her constant loving, sensual immersion in understanding and sucking up good old-fashioned human fucking. Nor do we get a break from her passion for helping vulnerable folks hurt by other folks.
And then, and my point in this journal entry, there is Zhay's other side.
We earn or orgasms here buddy. Yes. We have some rockin' grand weekend libido levitations. But we earn them.
* * *
During the week days, Zhay, usually through her team of G.I Joe and G.I. Jane hard-body pain czars, but most often she her own self, stirs it up for us in a veritable panoply of unpredictable activities, many (though not all) of which, start with a surreptitious early-morning airplane or chopper, or motorcycle, or horseback ride, a long slow endurance run, tools and weapons in tow, through some grueling, but magnificent desert terrain -- complete with iguanas, cactus, multi-colored rocks and sand layers, and more than one river crossing -- and always three to five sessions a week in a very, very, very (did I say very?) nice open wall gym with tons of heavy shit in it which we pick up. Enough said on that for now.
Point is, we are so ready to fuck by the time Friday afternoon rolls around that we barely dare lose our soggy survival gear duds off our astonishingly tightening tits and asses, and our lusting cocks and cunts, out of fear we'll break off these cocks and cunts with guy-jerking and girl-frigging before we get our smelly bods in the shower, to nap a few moments, then to dinner, then to the lodge where the games unfold into weekend decadence. Testosterone prevails. Yes. In both girls and guys.
Ah, yes. I can't even say lodge any more without pooling my panties.
Jesus, listen to me.
I talk like a guy-porn slut now without even trying. But it's true. Okay, pen to paper - I'm writing that.
Kevin and Richard show up together tonight. The best of both worlds. Happily gay but more than happy to help me out when I want -- or so Rich told me today when he fished me out of my tumble down the river rapids onto the jagged rocks using what looked like a rubber hula hoop while Kevin braced himself a rock layer higher, between two rocks, gripping the line connected to the hula hoop thing for support.
Well, there I was soaking wet, looking every bit the drowned rat, quivering on my knees, between Rich's mighty legs -- either of which was bigger than my torso.
The irony is rich: Here we are in the fucking wilderness. My face is nestled, separated by only the thinnest amount of fabric possible, from possibly the finest dick I've ever wanted to see in my life -- through his wet government-issued rescue diver's shorts no less. And Rich's said fantastic cock is hanging from the loins of a very, very, very gay guy.
Gay or not gay, I don't dare miss the opportunity to lay my cheek against this gargantuan cock and bring my water-shriveled fingers up under his crotch and feign that grabbing-the-guy-by-the-balls look, opening my mouth like I'm going to try to swallow that beast for Kevin and Zhay and all the creepy crawly desert beasties to see.
Zhay, further up the rocks on the embankment watches my rescue exercise and my follow-up antics through camouflaged binoculars. She shakes her head and grins at my drama.
Richard blushes and chuckles, glancing over and up at Kevin on his rock-perch above, and who is laughing as well.
So deliriously happy to be alive and out of the fucking white water, I whoop and shout at Kevin, "So fucking SHARE already!" Richard, true to Zhay's openness encouragement, says, "Be happy to, just say when!" and then I feel myself lifted like a rag doll from my knees and deposited on the rocks above, where Kevin grabs me by both wrists and swings me up and over the bank, like I'm a toddler, back into the safer grassy area, next to Zhay.
Zhay steadies me with one hand, the other still holding the binoculars.
"Rich (pant) said I can have his (pant) cock, Zhay. And Kevin just laughed. Does that mean he's not so gay anymore and he wants my body? And can I have him (pant)?"
Still smiling and shaking her head, Zhay, always the hard-ass during these sessions says, "So you're good with today's stuff, Heidi? You think you can do this, maybe in the dark, pretty scared, very cold...armed with live ammo, swimming for your life on your own?"
There it was.
I breathed hard a couple times.
I felt for my game face.
"Yeah, Zhay. I can do this. I prefer the boat -- the cruise ship actually -- but I look so fucking good soaked to the bone in this body armor shit and helmet and all, I'd say bring it on."
"Yeah?" She said, eyes piercing me deep for my real gut-feelings.
"Yeah, Zhay. I'm good. Good. Really. Ready. Ready now."
I kid around but I know when to kid and when to show her my real face. Now it was time to use my game face. Zhay deserves the truth about whether we are in this game. Her life as well as ours will definitely depend on it.
* * *
I snap back to when I feel familiar fingers fucking my ear lobe. I arch my tanned neck into Jack's feather light guitarist's fingers and shut my somewhat swollen eyes, letting my lips curve into a smile. "Lower, Jack baby. Lower. Lower."
Jack drops his fuck touch from my ear to my neck.
"No, lower, much, much, lower." I grind my hungry ass into his other hand hovering at my waist.
He dips inside my Navajo blouse and his fingers hover right at my -- what are those dark ring things circling my nipples, my areola mammae? -- yeah, those dark circle thing around my nipples, when Zhay comes in the symposium site door with a real fucking hunk in tow.
Zhay never calls us to order. She never facilitates anything as a meeting. She is not a group leader or a team leader. She is just a...leader. She goes. We follow.
Right now, she walks toward the middle of our newest weekend sex room and her new hunk follows.
"Everyone. I want each of you to meet Denys before you go your ways tonight. I want you to look Denys in the eyes. His eyes may one day be the most welcome sight you will ever see in your life.
"Denys is a friend. Denys works with our sister group on the east coast. Denys and his associate, very close associate I should say," Zhay smiled and touched Denys's hand lightly, "that is, his associate Sheri, operate our film component. You may have heard of it, I hope you have not only heard of it, but have jerked off to it. If not, we're not doing our job right. It's called Porn Next Door."
Zhay and Denys smile at our collective shock.
Denys speaks in a deep, gentle voice that partly exemplifies, but partly belies his tall, stalwart frame, long flowing whitening hair, and piercing dark -- dark something -- eyes.
"Actually, if Porn Next Door, we call it PND, isn't getting you off, guess what? It's your problem now. Because, if Zhay hasn't let you in on the secret yet, you are the new group of writers and producers for Porn Next Door, International."
Denys waits for that to settle in a little.
"In addition, of course," he adds, "to all your other duties, err, I should say interests.
"In case you haven't figured it out, we at PND need to film and photograph, and stream the hottest fucking scenes on the planet using the hottest women and men on the planet and we need it in every conceivable genre of fucking that you, or I, or anyone we know -- or don't know -- can imagine. If we can't morally bring ourselves to produce it, we must simulate it. Not for distribution, rest assured, but -- if you will -- for BAIT. Never to be disseminated beyond the targets. To be destroyed without record as soon as use is finished."
"This is tough, but there's no other way to say it, and there's no better time to say it. We believe in two things completely and equally: we believe that enlightened mutually-consenting adult sex at all levels embodies the ultimate human life condition. And, we believe that enslaving or otherwise abusing or torturing other people to pervert fucking into sickness and simply for money is the ultimate human insult and harm. We simply intend to create the best of sex, and to use our place in the erotica industry to take very, very firm issue with those that pervert good honest fucking to hurt other people using sex as an excuse."
He looks at Zhay and she nods.
"That's the heaviest and most blatantly boring sentence you'll ever hear from my lips," Denys says, blushing a little at his own pontification.
"And we want the best of what we do with genuine sexual enlightenment to be completely believable and completely genuine, and...," Zhay turns and meets Denys's glance, the turns back to us. "We need it sooner rather than later."
Hell, Heidi. Wow.
I, Heidi the writer, Heidi the burgeoning slut, Heidi the evolving adventure race queen who outscored everyone, including Jack and all the other guys except Richard and Kevin (of fucking course), and the other girls in shooting the eyes out of the frowny-faced character targets on the 9 millimeter pistol range, Heidi the small-town girl now very comfortable taking it in the ass, parachuting, swimming white water rapids, eating pussy, and writing about it, that Heidi...well, she's going to be a writer and producer for the most elite adult erotica firm on the globe -- and the one erotica agency whose business model no one seems to really understand.
But a girl can only take so much brain buzz during a week before her attention wonders to the bodies nearby, and her fingers gravitate to her crotch. So mine do.
Zhay is talking again, "Denys and I are flying to the East Coast for the weekend to interview a potential new friend who you girls are going to want to meet -- sorry about you guys, Kev and Rich, for now anyway. This guy is so fucking straight he makes an arrow look like a pretzel."
She smacks Richard's too-close ass and laughs.
"But," Zhay goes on, "This same guy -- our east coast talent guru Jill has named him Jax, Jax with an 'x' -- short for Jackson, is the guy who took it upon himself to remove from public concern the primary North American-based middle east child sex slave broker, Jerry somebody or other, in the middle of his dinner on his yacht wearing pink panties and a bra, preparing to sample his new shipment of Tibetan children."
I, Heidi, bolt straight up and let my notebook flop on the floor, all thoughts of my pussy gone for now.
"You mean that guy in the CNN story that did his thing to this perv and his goons, handed the yacht full of kids off to the officials, and then jumped overboard and swam fifteen miles from the yacht to shore somewhere near Phuket and caught a cargo ship home? And that nobody knows how he got there, or where he went when he got off in Honolulu?" I ask dumbfounded. "That guy?!"
"Mmmm," Zhay shakes her head, "As I said, Denys and I are off to the East Coast to interview one impressive young man that Jill took upon herself to name Jackson - Jax with an 'x' of course -- you all should complement Jill on naming him that when you meet her in the next week or two."
Zhay adds as an afterthought, "Oh, and by the way, I forgot to mention. You all have the next week off. Be back next Tuesday for breakfast at 6:00 AM and I'll catch up with you and let you know our next week's fun and games. Please check the envelopes Bridgette handed you on the way in, and...enjoy. You've earned it."
I, Heidi the tired but still horny girl yawn and methodically rip into my envelope, joining the ripping sound of ten envelopes.
Yada yada one more piece of schedule calendar bullshit paperwork for the week then I, Heidi the secret agent porn writer pistol shooter lesbian straight whatever I am now -- I am SO getting off very soon.
Ten gasps sibilance the room simultaneously -- nine besides me.
I pull out a passport with a picture of me-slash-not-me but somehow still me with a brand new name, and a whole packet of matching driver's licenses for, let's see, many of the United States and several countries.
I pull out a card with a cell number to call (on my nifty cell phone that seems to have its own network system) to book a plane ticket to wherever I want to go in the world, anytime, including tomorrow. Including tonight if we choose. And a license to carry a concealed weapon, ten of them apparently if I so desire, with an eerily official looking stamp affixed.
Who'd have thunk porn could be this exciting.
And the gasp-getter: a neatly stacked and banded roll of part Euros, part dollars, one million and one U.S. dollars value worth of mixed currency to be exact.
"This is not your salary, guys," Zhay says quietly. "As I told you on day one, your salaries and bonuses go into your Swiss accounts and you do what you will with them. This is different. This is weekend money. Fun money. This sort of envelope money is, I am afraid, for all of you at one time or another, going to be your get out of jail money, your reset your life money, your stay alive money. You will see it when the time is right. For now, it is your fun money for being among the most talented, most open, most evolved sexual writers on the planet who can also rise to tougher occasions. Enjoy. See you Tuesday."
Excuse me, but the rest of this night at the end of our own version of hell week blurs.
Beth is crying, sobbing into Zhay's shoulder, Ellen stands near Beth eyes tearing up, her lips trembling. I am certain that suddenly finding themselves facing a week in Paris after the near fatal rock crash they had in their afternoon whitewater escape must be overwhelming.
I drift over to hug them and extend my hand to Denys, and look deep in his eyes until he smiles and nods, but I say nothing, nor does he. I shiver a little but know a deeper level of peace than I really hope to ever need to depend on.
Richard and Kevin stand close, flushed, deeply touched even though they have seen things such as this several times in their close association with the Zhay enterprises.
I, however, am just simple writer Heidi. No Paris for me this week. Hell, a glass of wine, that new television show, and...I suddenly look around desperately in what feels just like a goddamn full-blown tidal wave of panic for Jack, for my Jack.
And he is standing right behind me.
I, Heidi the Hunn, break down sobbing like a baby, soaking Jack's chest. For the first time since we started this I am feeling my bruises, feeling the burning of missing skin scraped off my legs and arms, feeling the intense exhaustion in all my muscles, feeling my shattered mind and my no-shit vulnerability in this crazy, insane, ludicrous crucible I find myself entering with the best people I have ever known -- of my own volition. I feel my loss of naivety and innocence as I feel all my sexual habits drift and stretch, and beautiful as I feel now, a part of me is exhausted from exploring these new ways to fuck.
So, right now I am Heidi the infant crying like Uma Thurman the morning after she finally kills Bill, nestled in Jack's arms like Scarlet O'Hara in her weakest moment.
You haven't fucked until you feel this.
Not tonight, not this week, but soon, Heidi the writer will begin writing and directing the hottest scripts and scenarios that anyone has ever witnessed for an enigmatic east coast erotica group called Porn Next Door. Who'd have thunk it?
Not I, not tonight.
Tonight, I rub my tear-swollen eyes, still sniffling, and I drag Jack by the hand into the desert moonlight and into the arid southwestern air, toward my safe, cozy, cottage with my special porch swing Jack helped me hang when he thought he was going to get lucky one day, and toward my warm, cozy bed.
Tired, cranky, not feeling sexy in the least, feeling overwhelmed, rushed, confused, out of control, a little angry, a little needy.