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  November 2013
Columns
volume 10 number 2
 
  home   (archived)
 
  columns
  editor at large
Carol Smallwood
Foster Neill, Editor/Founder of The Michigan Poet
  essayist
Deborah L Warner
Perspectives Across a Dinner Table
  reviewer
Jack G. Bowman
Review of the Short Film RAPE (directed by Bob Bryan)
  reviewer
Marie Lecrivain
Shaindel Beers' The Children's War
  reviewer
Marvin R Hiemstra
Drawn and Quartered Moon by klipschutz
 
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Deborah L Warner November 2013
   

 

Perspectives Across a Dinner Table

    I give you two offerings for your entertainment pleasure.

    When Ava told Ethan that he looked absolutely delicious in a tuxedo, he did not think she meant that literally. Yet there he was clutching the edge of his granite counter for dear life as his elegantly dressed companion knelt before him. Typically, Ethan enjoyed wrecking a woman's hair while she sucked his erection to bursting. However, Ava knelt with such grace then so carefully unzipped only his fly to expose his rigid erection without disturbing the 'elegant line of his tuxedo pants,' how could he dare muss even one hair that comprised that sleek French twist? It was also easier to look down and see Ava in pleasure without his hands in the way. Her expression was serenely joyful as her tongue swirled the head before she took in the shaft until her perfectly lipsticked mouth met her elegantly gloved hand. The louder he moaned, the more blissful her expression became. The suction was so powerful that it was nearly painful. Ethan erupted with a deep, throaty cry. He was left sagging against the counter while Ava gently put his flaccid member back in his pants, then zipped him up.
    Ava offered her gloved right hand up for Ethan to grasp and guide her to stand. She smiled at him before licking one errant, glistening drop of his completion from her plump lower lip.
    “As I said, delicious,” Ava laughed prettily. She picked up her neglected glass of champagne, then, had a swig. “And almost as good as this fine vintage. You were saying something about omelets?”
    Ethan had indeed. There was even a beautiful table setting with a linen table cloth nearby for their apres theatre repast. However, he was far too much of a gentleman to accept such a gift without reciprocating. Besides, Ava wore formal attire in a way that stirred a man's hunger. He wanted to kiss her in a way that smeared her lipstick and allowed him to taste himself mingled with the champagne on her pink tongue. Perhaps, he would be permitted that indulgence if she decided to stay and allow him to unpin her hair.
    Instead, Ethan firmly gasped her where the long satin corset met the floor length skirt and lifted her onto the table where he usually set up the chafing dish.
    “Ethan!” Ava laughed.
    “I find I'm a bit peckish for an appetizer, dear lady,” Ethan murmured. “And you look delicious as well.”
    The skirt had a slit way up the thigh. That made exposing Ava's delights a simple matter. It was a simpler matter than Ethan imagined.
    “No panties, Ava? Naughty...”
    Ava giggled then sighed as Ethan flicked and sucked at the sweet nub nestled amidst soft hair. Ava was sensitive on any given day and she had been primed by a couple of glasses of fine bubbly. Still, she was a connoisseur with high standards. Fortunately, he enjoyed how she tasted and felt and responded. He had a rhythm for flicking and sucking and licking and swirling that made her slender back arch in pleasure. She even spread her thighs and lifted her hips at his tongue's entreaty to move further to the savory delights in the crease below. He jabbed his tongue there until she cried out almost harshly, demanding that he finish her. He happily obliged, adding the nip of teeth and more tugging from his lips.
    “Ethan!” She cried out. Then, she sighed. Her thighs quivered and he could feel the tender, engorged nub and the wet folds beyond throbbing.
    Ever the sensitive host, Ethan quickly but gently used a warm damp cloth to freshen Ava up then dabbed her dry before helping her onto her chair. After quickly washing up, Ethan poured more champagne before setting about omelet making.
    “Ethan, after you dish those, would you help me unpin my hair?”
    “Of course, my dear,” he replied with a smile, thinking again of smearing that lipstick.

    Or you could read this:

    Dr. Lecter took off Krendler's runner's headband as you would remove the rubber band from a tin of caviar.
    “All we ask is that you keep an open mind.” Carefully, using both hands, Dr. Lecter lifted off the top of Krendler's head, put it on the salver and removed it to the sideboard. Hardly a drop of blood fell from the clean incision, the major blood vessels having been tied and the others neatly sealed under a local anesthetic, and the skull sawn around in the kitchen a half-hour before the meal.
    Dr. Lecter's method in removing the top of Krendler's skull was as old as Egyptian medicine, except that he had the advantage of an autopsy saw with a cranial blade, a skull key and better anesthetics. The brain itself feels no pain.
    The pinky-gray dome of Krendler's brain was visible above the truncated skull.
    Standing above Krendler with an instrument resembling a tonsil spoon, Dr. Lecter removed a slice of Krendler's prefrontal lobe, then another until he had four. Krendler's eyes looked up as though he were following what was going on. Dr. Lecter placed the slices in the bowl of ice water, the water aciduated with the juice of a lemon, in order to firm them.
    “Would you like to swing on a star,” Krendler sang abruptly. “Carry moonbeams home in a jar.”
    In classic cuisine, brains are soaked and then pressed and chilled overnight to firm them. In dealing with the item absolutely fresh, the challenge is to prevent the material from simply disintegrating into a handful of lumpy gelatin.
    With splendid dexterity, the doctor brought the firmed slices to a plate, dredged them lightly in seasoned flour, and then in fresh brioche crumbs.
    He grated a fresh black truffle into his sauce and finished it with a squeeze of lemon juice.
    Quickly he sauteed the slices until they were just brown on each side.
    “Smells great!” Krendler said.
    Dr. Lecter placed the browned brains on broad croutons on the warmed plates, and dressed them with the sauces and the truffle slices. A garnish of parsley and whole caper berries with their stems, and a single nasturtium blossom on watercress to achieve a little height, completed his presentation.
    “How is it?” Krendler asked, once again behind the flowers and speaking immoderately loud as people with lobotomies are prone to do.
    “Really excellent,” Starling said. “I've never had caper berries before.
    Dr. Lecter found the sheen of better sauce on her lip intensely moving.

    Hannibal
– Thomas Harris Dell Publishing 2000

    Only one of these offerings is suitable for public discourse around a water cooler.
    In the 1979 preface of Little Birds - Erotica by Anais Nin, she wrote of erotica as something that was done by respectable writers only when in need of money. Erotica was something written on an empty stomach. Nin herself said that she was 'putting aside her real writing,' to pursue erotica as a genre. In 2013, when all manner of genres are considered fodder for the general public and even available at big box mega-marts, writings that are overtly sexual purely for the sake of being and reveling in sexuality are still considered something unseemly that is not done by serious writers. Erotica cannot ever be literature.
    I have a degree that grants me the credentials to both write and teach literature, but most of my family and few of my friends from my life back east – my formative years – talk about my writing or my accomplishments. I write primarily erotica in all manner of strange genres. Most of it has something to do with the bdsm lifestyle. I might as well be writing cookbooks on how to butcher and roast children.
    And that brings me to another point. If I were writing something like that elegantly horrific scene from Hannibal or any of the successful torture porn films like Saw, I have no doubt that even my most church going family and friends would proudly talk about my accomplishments no matter how many young nubile women or occasional man I might dismember along the way. So long as I am not having them eat each other in an erotic way, my writings would be most welcome around a water cooler or at a church potluck.
    Though Anais Nin may not have felt erotica was serious writing, she inspired me to write what I am most serious about. Erotica for me is more than putting Tab A into Slot B. It's not about exploring a weakness. Erotica is about who characters are at the most basic, human level. How they express that side of themselves chronicles how they change from the beginning of a story to the end. Despite the challenges this genre brings or how it is viewed, Anais Nin taught me that erotica is something that is important to study and understand, because it can never be completely repressed.

(previously published in From the Four-Chambered Heart: In Tribute to Anais Nin, edited by Marie Lecrivain, copyright 2013 Sybaritic Press)

copyright 2013 Deborah L Warner

   


Deborah L Warner


author's bio

    D.L. Warner is a writer and filmmaker working in Los Angeles, California. Her fiction specializes in genre erotica. To date, she has published two fantasy and four yaoi novels and released one feature film. When not slaving away at a keyboard, she's in the kitchen cooking for friends and family and dreaming of becoming a TV chef. Links to her titles and blogs can be found at
D.L. Warner