Read this: Inked: Sexy Tales of Tattoo Erotica

Every since I got my first tattoo, I've wanted to write a tattoo erotica story, and have not quite managed to yet. So I was thrilled to see new publisher Sexy Little Pages put out a call for stories about tattoos and loved the final result, Inked: Sexy Tales of Tattoo Erotica.



Here's my review:

As someone who sports three tattoos, I loved everything about this collection, which captures the rush of giving and getting tattoos, as well as the allure of the tattooed bad boy, executed exquisitely in "Uncovering Heather" by Victoria Blisse. What I really appreciated was that each story took such a different angle, and the stories featuring tattoo artists truly valued the artistic work involved. The writing is gorgeous as well; I especially liked the line in "Venomous Ink" by Alain Bell about a woman being tattooed going into "that happy place where pain becomes a sensuous caress." I also loved the misunderstanding inherent in "Scissoring" by Annabeth Leong, a first-time lesbian sex story that has twists and turns and is hot as can be. Whether or not you have tattoos or think they're sexy, this book is worth checking out for the hotness factor and creative, often tender, moments between characters. They bring the tattoos to life without making them fetishes or their wearers caricatures.

And here's the official blurb:

This superb collection of erotic stories will have you squirming in your seat! Inked contains first tattoos in Company Ink and first times in Scissoring. An intrepid ink artist crosses galaxies to save mankind in The Voron-Kali Emperor’s New Clothes whilst closer to home, a sub make a lifetime promise to her Master in Commitment.

In Venomous Ink, a vibrant tattoo shows there’s much more than meets the eye whilst an art student longs to ink the object of her desire with her permanent markers, in Sign Your Name. An uptight commuter finds herself attracted to her polar opposite in Uncovering Heather, while the ultimate Dom looks to get what he deserves in Her Midnight Roses.

And in Nine Lives, a top tattoo artist has never forgotten one particular customer and when they reconnect, she discovers he has new ink for each new life.

Edited by Anna Sky, Inked contains nine sexy and provocative stories from Gregory L. Norris, Annabeth Leong, Victoria Blisse, Zak Jane Keir, Harley Easton, Jillian Boyd, Alain Bell, Lilya Loring and Katya Harris.

Check it out!

When you write the thing you need to read, or my heart tattoo essay at HelloGiggles

You may have read my essay "Wearing My Tattooed Heart on My Sleeve" in my ebook Sex & Cupcakes, but whether you have or not, I have a new essay, "My heart tattoo is my romantic compass," up at HelloGiggles. The first essay is more about the backstory of my tattoo, while this one is about what it's taught me since I've gotten it.


I believe this was taken right after getting inked at Sanctuary Tattoo in Portland, Maine

What amazes me is that I wrote this a few weeks ago and it went up today, a day when I've been facing some major questions about whether to follow my heart or do what's "practical." As I get closer to 40, I've been trying very hard to turn my life around from my previously wasteful, impulsive ways and be more of an adult, as befitting someone almost in their forties. But sometimes what stand between you and the only thing you think you need to complete your life is, in many ways, impractical. So I've been wrestling with that today, and when I saw this went up, I had my answer. I'm gonna follow my heart, even if it disrupts a few things along the way. Because otherwise it's just some random letters on my arm, right?

My heart tattoo, almost three years later

I got this tattoo almost three years ago, in November 2011, two months before the fateful first date that brought me to my current boyfriend.



I tell the story behind the tattoo in my Thought Catalog Books ebook Sex & Cupcakes in the essay "Wearing My Tattooed Heart On My Sleeve," the bulk of which I wrote soon afterward. Here's a snippet:

I don't hate my heart for failing me, for leading me down so many dead ends, for being too impulsive when she should be cautious, patient, watchful. Well, that's not entirely true; today, while I'm in a good mood, I don't blame my heart. I can forgive her her fanciful whims, her childlike earnestness, her belief that next time will be better. I've spent so long hating my heart's lack of reason, wanting to slice her up, banish her back to a simple biological role and let my head make the big decisions, but I can't. That's not who I am, not deep down, and now, not on the surface either.

That too was rejected from Modern Love in The New York Times (I can be stubborn and persistent, but I've given up on that hallowed section for now), but was a major turning point for me. I didn't know who I was looking for exactly, when I sat in that chair, I just knew I was going about love the wrong way. I knew it wasn't supposed to be something where you gave 100% and never felt secure. I knew it was supposed to improve my life, not make me feel so off balance and uncertain.

I started 2012 adamantly not looking for love, or at least, that kind of love. I want to fix my stumbling career, I wanted to explore. I booked a trip to Hawaii for a week by myself, on my piddling budget, using frequent flyer miles and a very cheap AirBNB rental, amazed that I, who was struggling on the personal and professional fronts, could do that. But that first date happened just before my trip, so I wound up in a romantic, beautiful setting alone, but not single. There's been so much that's happened since then, paths that my wayward and sometimes impulsive heart has led me, that I didn't know were possible. This weekend we went to a wedding and as we were sitting at the bar talking to a fellow friend of the bride, she said, "How long have you two been married?" I immediately said, "Oh, we're not married," because it just seemed like such a foreign thing to say, and yet it wasn't, not really. That happened once in our first year of dating, checking into a hotel for a staycation, and I laughed about it. Then I wasn't sure exactly where our relationship was heading.

This weekend, hearing it felt like a compliment. My thoughts on marriage have changed and grown as I've learned from those around me, though I still think its benefits are too often wielded like an evil weapon that can boomerang back to hurt people whose only crime is love, but that's another story. I used to tease my cousins that they were an "old married couple" and now I've become part of one. We each have seats on the couch, we have little rituals and nicknames not just for us but for aspects of our house. We say hi to the squirrels and groundhogs and occasional cat that wander into our backyard. I'm sad I won't get to give out Halloween candy to the umpteen little kids in our neighborhood. When I sat down at Sanctuary Tattoo in Portland, Maine, I wanted that physical pain to take away my emotional pain. I wanted to give myself a way of reclaiming my heart and not trying to shut it off. But I wasn't sure at all what that would look like.

The farther I get from that moment, the more I realize how clueless I was. This, the real life everyday silly mixed with serious, opposites attracting kind of love, wasn't something I could plan for. It sometimes still stops me in my tracks. My life is very different from what it was that day I sat down in the chair. My routine is different, my location is different, my work is different and my job is different. I joke sometimes that I write so much about my boyfriend because most days he's the only one I see or talk to. Except when I'm in New York or traveling, I'm not usually meeting up with friends. It's a quieter life, a homey, cozy one. And I love all those little things, that together add up to something far greater than the sum of its parts. My heart isn't immune to getting hurt, to emotional ups and downs, but I also know I can weather them better than I knew in 2011. I'm more sure of myself, more certain that the kind of unconditional love I was looking for actually exists, no matter what flaws or obstacles or issues I have.

I joke when I visit that Portland, Maine is my home away from home, and it feels that way. I feel very me when I'm there. I feel welcomed and peaceful, and who knows? Maybe someday it will be my actual home. I like carrying a little bit of it around with me, where everyone can see it.

Liked this post? Check out my new essay collection ebook Sex & Cupcakes, available now on Kindle for just $4.99.

My essay collection Sex and Cupcakes will be out next week!

I'll post the cover as soon as I get it, but I wanted to tell you that my first book written all by me, my ebook essay collection Sex and Cupcakes, will be published by Thought Catalog Books next week and I'm on the cover! I'm bursting with excitement to share it with you. I'll come back to this post to share the cover and buying links very soon but I really hope you'll spread the word; this is a big deal for me, both because it's mine mine mine, and because the royalty payments are higher.

Here's a sentence from the tattoo essay I especially loved: "The skin where the pink word lives is raised and itchy, a constant reminder of what I've done to it, what I'm asking it to do for me. My tattoo heart is on its way to healing, just like my real heart is."

Here's what's in it, a mix of older and brand new essays all about sex, cupcakes, politics, dating, tattoos, love, body image, monogamy, a career in sexuality, technology and more:

Sex and Cupcakes by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Introduction: Writing What You Know When You Write About Sex

I Have Trouble With Orgasms
I’m Pro-Choice and I Fuck
What Kind of Submissive Are You?
Wearing My Tattooed Heart On My Sleeve
My Boyfriend’s Fat
I Don’t Want or Need an App to Measure My Sex Life
Sex and Cupcakes
Champagne Sex
Monogamishmash

A year later my heart tattoo essay still suits me to a T

My heart is a lot stronger than it was when I wrote this essay a year ago. I'd forgotten about it because I'd submitted it to xoJane and never heard back, and as often happens with me, I simply let things go and assume they suck if I don't hear back from an editor and don't try to shop them around. Freelancing can be kindof like dating, and if you let someone else's rejection of you form your sense of self-worth, you're in for a very hard road. So I will let this speak for itself, without giving in to my temptation to go in and tinker with it, posting it here flaws and craziness and all. My heart it still very much like a little girl, as am I, but 37 is so much better than the start of 36 was, and I hope 36's worst, most heartwrenching moments stay where they belong. I still look at my tattoo every day, and I'm still incredibly grateful for all the luck and opportunity and love that's come my way this year. Now I just have to keep being worthy of it. Today I'm thinking about that phrase home is where the heart is, and also its converse. I decided to skip New York this week, after our lovely getaway in New Haven this weekend, and stay at my future home, with my guy, where we tease each other and play on the Wii and cook together and are silly and stubborn and still getting to know each other. My heart, and I, still have a lot of growing up to do. A lifetime, really. Never would I have imagined what the year after my tattoo would bring, because how could I? And maybe that's the real lesson.

I end this essay with a quote from Gabrielle Bernstein, and I'm now reading her new book, May Cause Miracles, because I want to be like her, be someone who believes in and creates miracles. She nails me, or the old me, to a T when she writes: "Special love is based on dependency and lack. The ego convinces us that we're alone, which leads us to desperately seek completion in others. The experience of lack grows out of our profound sense of separation from our real spiritual identity. Believing this state of lack to be our reality, we seek special relationships to help us feel whole." I got the tattoo in part to make me feel whole. I sat in that chair in that city in that state and I cried for so many reasons and yes, it fucking hurt. My skin, my heart. But I got through it, and I think it made me stronger. I figured out that I don't need anyone else, certainly not anyone I thought I needed. I figured out a lot of things, including that I'm still the same raw, stubborn, impulsive, wistful girl I was. Even though my boyfriend does add happiness to my life, a hell of a lot of it, I never want to see love as anything other than what comes from inside me. I spent far too long feeling so lost because I thought I didn't matter, and only when I finally believed that I did did the person I'm with now step into my life. Even then, on our second date I had to tell him something that made me feel like my life was utterly out of control, because it was. That was this wakeup call moment where I realized I was either going to let myself spin completely out of control or pick up the pieces and only focus on the things I can control, to truly live the Serenity Prayer, rather than just aspire to. I'm glad I had all those rock bottom moments this past year, because they taught me exactly the lessons they were supposed to. They told me what and who to value, taught me that I have so much more power than I think I do in my lowest moments. And every day I try to remember that. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I don't get what I want. Sometimes I don't even know what I want. But as Gabrielle Bernstein writes, "...living with an open heart and embracing love as our true purpose is essential to living a miraculous life." And no, she's not talking about any kind of fake, Hollywood-ized version of romantic love, or the idea of some knight in shining armor to save you love. She's talking about the real thing. I'm so glad I have the wisdom to know the difference.



Last year, I deliberately chose to get my first tattoo, the word "open" in purple cursive script, on a part of my body I wouldn't be confronted with every day: my back. I can easily see it if I'm naked and look in the mirror, but most days I'm too busy going about my routine to focus on those four purple letters. I know they're there, and right after I got the tattoo last year, I used to reach behind me and touch them, letting their spirit press its way into my fingers.

Which brings me to my brand new tattoo. After the first one, I was pretty sure I wouldn't get another. I didn't want to be the cliché of someone who "just can't stop getting tattoos," which many friends told I would become. "It's addictive," they said, and since I have an addictive personality, I resisted. I'm the type of person who, if you tell me that I'm going to or should do something, I immediately want to prove you wrong and not do the thing in question, because I'm stubborn and contrary like that. More so, I don't want to feel like what I'm doing is somehow preordained, conformist, not thought out.

But the longer I've lived with my "open" tattoo, the more I've realized that the job I wanted it to do—to open my heart and mind—wasn't happening in part because, like everything good for us that we want to forget about because it's annoying or inconvenient or frustrating or slow or difficult, I was tuning out my tattoo. I liked the idea of being marked "open" but in reality, when anything went awry in my life, I shrank bank into the same old negative thought patterns; I had trouble adapting to change, whether a breakup or a layoff. When things fell apart for the last time with the man I was crushed out on, to put it mildly, instead of trying to make my peace with that, I went into jealousy mode. His wife (it's an open relationship) suddenly embodied everything I'm not, and never will be. In my head she was not just younger, but smarter, prettier, thinner, more successful. Yes, talk about another cliché—the jealous woman—but that was me, and, if I'm honest, still is me on some days. I couldn't figure out how to acknowledge that jealousy without letting it overwhelm me. I interpreted "open" as being allowed to revel in any and all emotions that passed through me, as if they were all equal and thereby deserving of my attention and devotion.

The hard part of being truly open isn't recognizing my contradictory and often unhelpful feelings, but using my vision for the kind of life I want to sort through them and only tap into the ones that are healthy and furthering me on my path. I found that instead of trusting my heart, I was starting to berate myself for making foolish relationship mistakes. Every setback seemed like a blaring sign that there was something deeply wrong with me I'd never be able to fix (public service announcement: don't ever tell someone during a breakup talk that they "deserve" better, that's basically an extremely twisted passive aggressive version of "fuck you"). I let myself return to dating people who'd already told me explicitly they didn't want the same things I want. I was stuck and, well, a tattoo seemed like a start on the path toward getting unstuck.

So, "heart." I wanted this word bold and bright and in my face, because I tend to scorn my heart more often than I should. I blame following my heart any time doing so doesn't lead to mad passionate long-term romance. But closing off my heart can't be the answer; I don't want to freeze out my heart to the point that I don't have room to welcome love—not just romantic—of all kinds into my life. A lot of my heart's travails have related to dating, but I also want to use my heart to be a better daughter, granddaughter, cousin, friend. I don't want to get so mired in my own head and problems that I can't use my empathy and compassion when I need to, while also taking care of myself.

Once I decided to get the tattoo, I did a little Googling and found Sanctuary Tattoo in Portland, Maine, where I was taking a birthday vacation, and chose them mainly because I liked the look of their website. I may agonize over what to order off a menu, but with bigger decisions, I usually make them more quickly. I made an appointment, sending a photo of my other tattoo and explaining what I wanted, and then I didn't let myself think too much more about it, lest I second-guess myself.

The design Ryan had picked out was taller than I'd expected, curving over my inner arm, its swirls visible when my arm is facedown. That was a surprise, but I liked it; I knew I wasn't just making the transition into a person with multiple tattoos, but into someone with a publicly visible tattoo. It hurt, a lot, more than I remember my other one hurting, but what made me cry—not huge wracking sobs, but a few good tears—wasn't the physical pain. It was thinking about the fact that there is still a part of me that wants to impress that same person I spent a long time infatuated with, who taught me so much, good and bad, about what it means to love someone. There will probably always be a part of me that wants his respect, and I couldn't help wondering what he'd think about my tattoo. I let myself go with it, feeling the pain on both levels. When the scraping of my skin with the tattoo needle seemed to much to bear, I reminded myself that it was the visceral equivalent of the times when I felt this extremely profound, painful ache of wanting the love and attention of someone who didn't have those things to give me. And less than an hour (and costing only $125!), it was over.

I described the tattoo before I got it as being an "anti-cynicism tattoo," and that still sounds pretty accurate. When I feel hurt, my first reaction is to retreat, to pull far back from anything and anyone who might ever hurt me again. The problem with that is that self-protection very quickly turns into a misguided sense of self-sufficiency and cutting myself off from the world. I start to think I should cocoon myself away until I'm somehow a better, smarter, prettier, more moral person—basically, until I'm perfect—rather than doing the only thing any of us can do: work through our issues, each and every day.

My heart is like a little girl, imperious, impulsive, and impossible. And while little girls are adorable, especially my friend's 2-year-old daughter who I love to pieces, my heart reminds me of the time I walked into my friend's bedroom and her daughter was tucked under the covers, looking like she was sick, but was instead just cozy and watching TV. She wanted me to leave so she just pointed to the door (a movement translated by her mom), while I tried not to laugh at being bossed around by someone so tiny. She's two, so she's entitled to do whatever she wants whenever she wants. My 36-year-old heart, though, not so much; it gets in trouble when it simply wanders down a path without considering any of the potential pitfalls.

Lest that sound too much like I'm just some girl who's not quite over a guy (which is accurate, in its way), I want "heart" to mean all the best things about me, and about life. At a time when 10-year-olds are committing suicide, elderly people are getting pepper sprayed, and a friend of a friend was randomly shot three times on his block, I know that my problems are quintessential White Girl Problems, but they are still very real to me. I want to wake up genuinely happy and grateful to greet each new day, rather than facing the morning with dread and fear of what it might bring. I want the tattoo to be a reminder that I shouldn't forget my heart, but I shouldn't be ruled by it either.

"Heart" in a way is a substitute for faith—faith in love, in other people, in the future, in myself. I've been reading Gabrielle Bernstein's excellent book Spirit Junkie, and she writes of the clash between fear and love, "We've saved our faith for fear. But deep inside each of us lives a soft voice reminding us that love is real." I believe her, but the loud self-hating voices in my head often run roughshod over the softer-spoken ones, so I hope my loud tattoo helps me keep that lesson real, and, most of all, keep me in touch with my heart, with all her wayward demands, demons, and desires.

My master

It seems like much longer ago than November 1st that I sent an email saying "I want the word 'heart' on my left inner arm, I guess as tall as possible and going maybe from an inch or two in from my elbow toward my wrist but not actually on my wrist." Last November feels like a lifetime ago. As we inch toward November and a birthday that's kindof freaking me out, I know for sure that this is one of the best things I've ever done. When I feel like I'm losing my path, I look down, and remember. Thanks, Sanctuary Tattoo.

My new tiger lily tattoo and free cupcakes at tonight's Powell's reading

I'm in Portland, Oregon, lying in my cozy hotel bed, armed with to do lists but enjoying the quiet at 5:41 am. Yesterday I went to New Rose Tattoo and my friend Mikal inked these gorgeous tiger lilies on my shoulder:



Tonight I'm reading at legendary bookstore Powell's at 7:30 with Best Sex Writing 2012 contributors and legendary writers Tim Elhajj ("An Unfortunate Discharge Early in My Naval Career"), Kevin Sampsell ("Pottymouth") and Lidia Yuknavitch ("Love Grenade"). Join us for these compelling true sex stories and a Q&A and booksigning and, of course, free cupcakes! Here's the Facebook invite if you want to pass it along (no RSVP required). All have written memoirs of their own I recommend: Dopefiend by Tim Elhajj, A Common Pornography by Kevin Sampsell and The Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch. Tomorrow night at 7 Kevin, Lidia and I are reading at Elliott Bay Book Company in Seattle (Capitol Hill), also with free mini cupcakes (by Cupcake Royale). If you know anyone in Portland or Seattle, please please please let them know about these readings! And yes, I know it's Passover...now. I didn't realize that when I booked these readings, and my apologies for those who will be at seders.

April 6, 7:30 pm
Best Sex Writing 2012 reading
Powell's, 1005 W. Burnside, Portland, Oregon
Free and free cupcakes! Reading and discussion featuring editor Rachel Kramer Bussel and contributors Tim Elhajj (author of Dopefiend, contributor to Guernica), Kevin Sampsell (author of A Common Pornography) and Lidia Yuknavitch (author of The Chronology of Water). 503-228-4651.



And as seen on the wall at New Rose Tattoo:

Dorkily stalking the newsstands for the February 2012 sex issue of Inked

I'm such a dork but I don't care. I love writing for new venues and it's rare these days that those are print venues. I've been wanting to write for Inked for a while and I haven't seen it yet, but a short interview I did with Tristan Taormino about her work and her tattoos should be in their February 2012 sex issue, on newsstands soon. I've known Tristan for over a decade and have interviewed her multiple times but I learned things from this interview, as I should! If you missed it, I wrote about my first tattoo, "Why I Got The Word 'Open' Tattooed on My Back" for Lemondrop, and think good thoughts about an essay about my second tattoo that is out on submission that I hope to share with you, let's just say sometime in 2012. I have a vague inkling (ha!) that I want to get another one when I'm in Portland, Oregon. Partly because it'd be cool to have one from Portland, Maine and Portland, Oregon, partly because my friend there is a tattoo artist, and partly because the right side of my body is feeling art neglected.

Why I Turned Down $3,000 To Be on a Reality TV Show

In August, I wrote about hoarding in a personal essay for Salon's Mortifying Disclosures section. I'd been debating between cyberstalking and hoarding as my most mortifying disclosures, and went with what I considered the mosre unusual and the more treacherous for me. I received mostly positive feedback to the piece, including some from people I greatly admire (no, I did not read the comments, but a friend read a few aloud to me, including the ones about, sadly and predictably, people who wanted to spank me).

I wound up going on a radio show based on that article and then I was contacted by a reality show, expressing interest in having me on as a guest. I was honored, and intrigued by the fact that I could've made a significant amount more than I was commissioned for the essay, not to mention received organizing services (something I've been paying for piecemeal when I can afford it) something that I think signifies a lot about our media consumption. I eagerly answered their questions, rounded up a friend who might appear to give an assessment, and started to think about what it might really be like to have my every stray pair of underwear, towering stack of books, sex toys, dust bunnies and whatever other detritus I own beamed into conceivably millions of homes.

I don't own a TV and watch very few shows. The ones I do watch are mainly via Netflix rentals, hotel visits, airplane rides and visits to friends. For me, being published at an esteemed site like Salon, which I've been reading for a very long time, was a huge honor. Being on TV would be exciting but also felt a little removed; since I don't watch TV, I have little sense of how many people do watch. It seemed to me like something that happens in some tucked-away corner of the world, even though that equation is actually hugely distorted. Sad as it is to admit, I know it's us readers who are in the minority.

Last year, I flew on my own dime to Los Angeles to appear as a judge on a cooking show. It was a little nervewracking but mostly excited, and it was over almost before it started. I didn't have to worry as much about "being myself" because all I was doing was smiling at the camera and tasting some mini cupcakes (although I did get one of my favorite pieces of hate mail ever calling me "piggish" for licking my fingers after I ate).

The irony of turning down this show about hoarding was that a little while later I found myself without the cushion of a full-time job. Would I have made a different decision if I'd known how that would turn out? I'm not sure. It's very tempting, because turning down money, wherever its source, feels like telling the universe I don't care about paying off my gigantic debts or any kind of financial security. It feels like hubris of the highest order; who am I to be picky, to write for a very small fraction of that fee, or, ahem, blog here for free, but turn down something lucrative?

Many friends and advisers had strong, anti-reality TV reactions. "You won't have any control," the said. "It's exploitative." "They can make you seem any way they want." All true, but those were not reasons that seemed convincing to me. Of course reality TV has an angle; don't we all? Yes, it's edited, but don't we all edit ourselves, presenting our best, or sometimes our worst, selves, or some part of a persona to person X, another part to person Y? That seems to me part of being human. I get that the difference is that when we do it, we are in control of what side of ourselves to show, while an editor can manipulate even the parts of you that you've chosen to present and twist the context. I still think that the risks would have been worth it, for me. Some people are extremely private about most aspects of their lives, but I'm not one of them. For me the catharsis of admitting my biggest flaws and then connecting with others who either share them, as happened with my hoarding essay, or have something useful to offer, outweighs the specter of judgment.

Ultimately, my reasoning was about a much more basic level of self-preservation. I didn't want to have to ask my landlord to sign a legal release that, despite seeming innocuous, was still something I'd have been hesitant to sign myself., and thereby reveal something that might jeopardize my housing. I don't have a Plan B about where to live, and because of my possessions, it would take a few months to even get everything boxed up, unless I were to toss it all in a dumpster.

But back to the legal form…There's something about saying "I promise not to ____" that makes even the least skeptical person, who had never even suspected ____ was possible, read a phrase like that and immediately think "I wonder if they will actually do ____ and if they do, what will happen." Despite having attended three years of law school, contracts make me nervous. The formality of their language is by its nature intimidating. It's not the way we naturally speak, and sometimes seems deliberately designed to obfuscate the truth, requiring a translation. Don't get me wrong; I sign contracts all the time, but I am aware of their limitations.

I'm not a fan of flowery, academic or overly wordy language. I've started reading books and put them down in part because they were over my head, and in part because I felt like they were trying to reach a limited audience simply by their highfalutin language. Me? My dream is to write a novel that is sold in airport bookstores. While much of what I write is also not going to appeal to the masses (bondage and spanking erotica, anyone?), the language itself is not trying to hide anything.

I don’t know what would have happened if I'd agreed to take part in the show, aside from having two months' worth of rent in my pocket and a cleaner home. Would I have gotten recognized on the street as "that girl with the messy apartment?" Would I have somehow placed myself out of another opportunity waiting in the wings? Would it have led to a memoir about being a (former) hoarder?

Soon after, I was approached by another show, this one a tattoo reality show. I had already decided to get a second tattoo sometime in November to celebrate my birthday, so I expressed interest. However, on this show, there not only isn't any payment, participants pay for their own tattoos, in effect coughing up cash for the chance to be on television and be inked by a famous, and presumably more expensive than average, tattoo artist. No thank you.

Don't get me wrong, reality TV producers of America: I'd love to be on TV, partly because I am, after all, an attention whore, and partly because I think that the very process of giving up control would be a major lesson for someone who's as much of a control freak as it's possible to be in this world. There are moments in my life when I can step back from being my typically vain, self-conscious self and think, That would be funny, like when I struggle to get on the subway with four gargantuan bags and have to either maneuver sideways to get my backpack in or slip some of them under the turnstile. Other moments are darker but no less dramatic, like looking up at a subway marquee and seeing the name of the one person I'm trying to get over, as if to remind me that they are forever and always ubiquitous and my efforts in moving on will always be futile.

I'm not above laughing at myself—at least, I don't think I am. Being on a reality show would be a great chance to find out if that's really true, or just one of the lies I tell myself, the persona I put on to face the girl in the mirror. I don't see that huge of a difference between opening my life up for cameras and the deliberate acts of self-disclosure about everything from my trouble having orgasms to my declaring bankruptcy to being a daughter of an alcoholic. To parse that seems like those who want to endlessly argue the difference between porn and erotica. I don't have issues with revealing my weaknesses and faults; I'm trying to get to a place where I don't have so much trouble celebrating my successes either and not think that's the path to instant overinflated hubris.

Lastly, and maybe my snobbery is showing here, but the fact is, if I were to go on a reality show and people were to judge me for what they saw on their screens to the exclusion of everything else about me, more pity them for not being able to acknowledge how not only media works, but how life works. We can never present every single aspect of ourselves to the world, even if we are on a 24-hour webcam. Humans are more complex than that. At least, I hope so.

To conclude: I’m ready for my closeup. You know where to find me.

Want to read: Break the Skin by Lee Martin

I have this book and plan to read it soon. I was very impressed by Lee Martin's interview at Amazon and other postings I've read on his blog about writing, aside from regarding this specific book, like this post on whether writing can be taught:

Can we teach someone how to write? That question comes up quite often within the community of folks who do exactly that for their livelihood, and I’m always a little puzzled when the answer is sometimes no.

Of course, we can teach someone how to write. We do it each year in our workshops, our literature seminars, our thesis directing, our informal conversations in this place or that, and in writing of our own. We teach technique, we teach the habits of the process and the work ethic that they require. I happen to believe that we can also teach students how to adjust their vision so that they more readily note the contradictions and complexities of the world around them. I believe we can encourage them to think in terms of opposites so they see the plurality of any one character or situation. We do it by talking about published work that does exactly that and by pointing out what a writer has done to make the vision of that story, poem, essay, novel more deeply felt and more multi-layered with different levels of emotion and intellect, often contradictory in nature.

So yes, this tattooed lady, who is just about done with the excellent tattoo mystery I don't want to end, Ink Flamingos, is looking forward to reading Break The Skin.

From the interview with Lee Martin at Amazon by Dani Shapiro that so intrigued me:

Shapiro: Miss Baby works as a tattoo artist, a profession which I imagine you didn’t know much about at the outset. Did you know you were going to write about a tattoo artist when you were first beginning the book? How did you go about your research? (Any tattoos?) Why did it seem important that Miss Baby be in this line of work?

Martin: Well now, what makes you think that I didn’t at some point work as a tattoo artist? In between the years when I cooked crystal meth, robbed banks, and worked as a hit man, maybe I was pounding ink. (Nah, that sentence was just a feeble attempt to establish my street cred.) After all, as one review of the novel says, I’m “crackling with dark deeds and bad intentions...” I love that line! I want it to be part of my introduction at future readings and events: “Here he is, crackling with dark deeds and bad intentions, Lee Martin.” Ha! I told my students that and they laughed so hard you could see how far from the truth of me such a description actually is...or is it? Hmmm...I’ll never tell, nor will I reveal my tattoos, not even the ones that glow in the dark.

My research involved a conversation here, a visit there, some things read, some things watched--just the usual methods of immersing oneself in an unfamiliar world. I’m always fascinated with the details and the lingo of someone else’s job, and as soon as Miss Baby stepped onto the corner of Fry and Oak Street in Denton, Texas, I knew she had to be coming from a tattoo parlor. Don’t ask me how I knew that. I just did. I like to think that my subconscious mind had already started to sense the rich possibilities with metaphor in this practice of drilling into the skin and leaving something to live in scar tissue.



Here's the book's official description, via Lee Martin's website:

Laney—a skinny, awkward teenager alone in the world--thinks she's found a kindred spirit in thirty-five-year old Delilah. "When I was with her," Laney says, "I felt closest to being the person I was meant to be...We could have been sisters, big and little, which some people thought we were." Then the police come to ask Laney questions and she finds herself reconstructing a story of suspense, deceit, and revenge, but also "a story of love, no matter how roughed up and ugly and stained." A story that will haunt her forever.

Seven hundred miles away, in Texas, Miss Baby has the hardened heart of a woman who has been used by men in every possible way, yet she is desperate for true love. When she meets a stranger, a man who claims he can't remember his real name or his past but who seems gentle and trusting, Miss Baby thinks she may have finally found someone to love, someone who will protect her from the abusive men who fill her past.

But Miss Baby and Laney are connected by a terrible crime and bit by bit, the complex web of deceptions and seemingly small misjudgments they've each helped to create starts to unravel. Action, speculation, and contradiction play off one another as the story is told through their first-person voices, which keep you nervously guessing all the way to the shocking, tragic climax. BREAK THE SKIN is a novel about "wanting to matter to someone, wanting it so badly that you did things you never could have imagined, and you swore they were right, all for the sake of love."

Want to read: Ink Flamingos by Karen E. Olson

Ink Flamingos is the fourth and final (boo) book in Karen E. Olsen's tattoo mystery series starring Las Vegas tattoo artist and amateur sleuth Brett Kavanaugh. I discovered the series at Bookpeople in Austin (before I'd gotten my tattoo) last year and have been hooked ever since. I'm six chapters in and totally hooked!

I love that there are elements of romance, family (her brother is her landlord), Brett running her own business, Las Vegas life, and, of course, tattoos and artwork and how selling your art when it's inked on someone's body becomes so personal, plus that tattoos always play an intimate role in the murders. These are fast-paced and wild and fun and I'm sad this is the last of the series but highly recommend them. I look forward to reading Olson's other mysteries as well.



Author Karen E. Olson writes on her blog:

I have a lot of people emailing me, telling me they love the series and would love to see it continue. There are two things going on here. First, the publisher has not extended my contract. Second, I'm done with the series. I think four books is perfectly fine for a cozy, amateur sleuth mystery series. Sometimes I have issues with those cozy series that go on and on and on, and I wonder why the amateur sleuth doesn't decide to move out of town, disappear for a while because once you've got dead bodies piling up in your life, I'd think you'd get a real complex about it. I know Brett does. That's why this has to be the last one. She's done. Done with solving crimes. She's onto bigger and better things in her life.

I hope you'll check out the book. It's a fun, fast read and Brett is dodging tattoo bloggers and stalkers. The plot is intensely personal for her.

3 June books (and 2 others) I cannot wait to read: Ink Flamingos, Uncommon Criminals, Fins are Forever

Here are three books I'm thrilled will be coming out in June and cannot wait to devour. Like, plan to buy on release day or stalk in case I can find them sooner.







2 more YA books I also want to read:

"Penis Size Doesn't Matter--or Does It?"

I think this is the first time I've explicitly revisited a topic I'd covered for The Village Voice in this column, so I tried to make it really different from that one from 2006, which touched more on race and penis size stereotypes. The result is "Penis Size Doesn't Matter--or Does It?" I didn’t even have room (ha!) for the penis size map in this column (actually kindof forgot and it’s a long column anyway). I do talk about Steve-O’s tattoo, small celebrity penises, porn as a culprit, sexual insecurity, penis enlargement, benefits of the small penis, small penis porn and more. Thanks for reading!

Why I Got The Word "Open" Tattooed On My Back

It's been a whirlwind week between my tattoo, running all over heat-waved LA and taking a 9-hour redeye flight home (we had to stop in Salt Lake City to refuel). I'm writing again for Lemondrop, with two very exciting interviews lined up, but this latest piece is about why I got my new tattoo. It's by Joy Rumore at Twelve 28 Tattoo, recommended to me by Audacia Ray, which, needless to say, I recommend.



I'd always thought that I wasn't a tattoo person. There wasn't a single image I felt I had to have on my body. But when my friend Sheela and a bunch of other cool ladies I know made plans to get tattoos while we were all in Chicago, I decided I wanted in on the action.

I still couldn't come up with an image that worked for me, until I realized that I'm not a visual person so much as a word person. As a writer, words are what matter most to me; I stay up late at night reading, not watching TV. I remember quotes and song lyrics more than I remember movie scenes.

Once I decided I wanted a word, the one that came to mind was "open." I tend to be extremely pessimistic, and when something goes wrong in my life, instead of trying to fix it or make it better, I assume there's something wrong with me and that's why the problem is occurring.

Read the full essay here. And if you like it, please repost, comment and/or Digg it (on my tech to do list is figuring out how to get an exact Digg link - working on it!).

A sushi girl, tattoos, spa sex & more in Smooth: Erotic Stories for Women

Smooth is shipping as we speak (coming up is Passion: Erotic Romance for Women next month, with the big reading from it for my 35th birthday 11/11, the reissue of Hide & Seek with a new foreword by The Burlesque Handbook author Jo Weldon and what I so so so so hope is the first of many, Best Bondage Erotica 2011! But first books first...

Smooth: Erotic Stories for Women; is an erotic anthology edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, to be published by Cleis Press.

Order Smooth: Erotic Stories for Women from:



Amazon.com



Kindle edition (TK)



Bn.com (Barnes & Noble)



Books-a-Million



Borders



Powell's



IndieBound (find your local independent bookstore)



Cleis Press

The caress of skin against skin, the warmth of another’s touch, relishing the sight that few others get to see — these are the reasons that disrobing before sex can be so gratifying. The stories in Smooth, collected by award-winning erotic editor Rachel Kramer Bussel, capture the heat of being stripped bare, of flaunting your body, and of reveling in pure sensuality. Read along as women get tattooed, become “the sushi girl” at a restaurant, strip on the subway, go commando, host tea parties, enjoy sploshing, and much more. Featuring stories by Donna George Storey, Heidi Champa, Angela Caperton, Charlotte Stein, Louisa Harte, Jacqueline Applebee, Susan St. Aubin and other leading erotica writers, these adventurous characters have more to reveal than just being naked.



Table of Contents

Smooth: Erotic Stories for Women
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Introduction: Naked Girls in All Their Glory

Löyly Angela Caperton
Her Brand New Skin Elizabeth Coldwell
Eden Molly Slate
Three Stops Away Heidi Champa
The Sushi Girl Anika Gupta
This Night Suzanna V. Slate
Ink Jennifer Peters
Adornment is Power Teresa Noelle Roberts
Muscle Bound K D Grace
Shower Fittings Giselle Renarde
Clean Slate Lisabet Sarai
Live Action Susan St. Aubin
Chilly Girl Rachel Kramer Bussel
Stripped Clancy Nacht
The Tea Party Charlotte Stein
Rapunzel Jacqueline Applebee
Getting the Message Kay Jaybee
Ivy League Associates Donna George Storey
True Colors Louisa Harte

Introduction: Naked Girls in All Their Glory

Smooth. Sleek. Naked. Bare. All of these words describe the women you’ll find in this book, women who let you peek beneath their skirt hems, unbutton their blouses, reach inside their panties and in so doing, reveal something essential about themselves. They aren’t content to simply let sex happen, but are compelled to explore the ways their bodies react to every tactile moment.

These are not stories about body image or learning to love your curves. These are sensual tales in which women and men celebrate the joy of being carnal, lusty, hungry and animalistic; stories in which the urge to get naked, in the literal and figurative senses, drives women to boldly go where they haven’t before.

In the opening story, the stunning sauna romp “Löyly,” by Angela Caperton, Sorrow Cove becomes a very happy place when our heroine, Andie, submits to a sensual beating in the intense heat. Caperton writes, “Blood pounded in my veins and pooled suspiciously in my belly. Anticipation added an edge of tension and vulnerability before the bright shock of the strike. It wasn’t hard, but the leaves laced my skin with firm control, a lush wetness and a shimmer of sting that slashed my back with an awakening charge of delight. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment, the fresh scent of the birch binding me in a cloud of awareness and newfound sensation.”

Food and sex are clearly twin appetites waiting to be released, and in “The Sushi Girl,” by Anika Gupta, they converge in a work setting for the narrator as she balances raw fish on her body. She doesn’t just lie there, though; she engages with her customers, lets them look and taste even as she makes sure her naked body, while still, speaks loudly.

Each of these women are stripped, whether literally, as in Clancy Nacht’s story of the same name, or in some other way that leaves them vulnerable, exposed, open to whoever they’ve let enter their most personal space. Even when they are acting as voyeurs, watching others strip down, as in “Live Action,” by Susan St. Aubin, they are being changed by what they see, by the skin that speaks to them and their fantasies.

For other characters, adorning their bodies—with tattoos in “Ink,” by Jennifer Peters, or the sensual strokes of a paintbrush in “True Colors,” by Louisa Harte—is a way to live a more vibrant, outspoken life, and their reward is a richer sex life than they’d had before. That makes sense, because when we bare all, we invite others to touch, to feel every curve, every bend, every inch of skin.

Ultimately, this is a book about getting to know your body from the outside in, about showing yourself off for a lover and knowing the power the naked body holds. At the gym, in the shower, on the subway, at a tea party, the women in Smooth leave behind their inhibitions and go where many women have only dreamed about. Sexy, playful, sensual and celebratory, these nineteen stories will be sure to entice you as they reveal so much skin.

Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City

My interview with New York Times-bestselling author Jillian Lauren about Some Girls: My Life in a Harem

I interviewed New York Times-bestselling author Jillian Lauren about her memoir Some Girls: My Life in a Harem, as well as tattoos, sex work, being on The View and more.



You write about your tattoos and tattoo culture in such a way that your life almost seems to start at that moment. What drew you to that world, and which is your favorite tattoo?

Thanks for mentioning the tattoos! People get so swept up in the exoticism of the harem story that no one ever mentions the fact that in the book I got a tattoo on my vagina for god’s sake.

I decided to get a tattoo when the tattoo gods announced themselves to me. That’s how Eddy Deutsche once described it to me and I thought—that’s exactly it. I have a mystical connection to tattooing. My favorite used to be the Tibetan Dakini I have on my shoulder, although I just got two coy with their tails intertwined in honor of my son, who is a Pisces, so I guess that tops all.

When you were on The View, Barbara Walters called you a “hooker” and some people took offense to that, calling it pejorative. Do you think we’ve evolved enough as a culture so that “hooker/prostitute/sex worker” are just descriptive words rather than slurs?

Well, It didn’t bother me half as much as it bothered all of my friends. That’s what the book is about after all. I don’t think Barbara Walters had some personal vendetta; I think she was just using strong words to create a captivating story. I’m a storyteller too, so I can appreciate that.

Click here to read the full interview.



You can catch Jillian free (and free cupcakes!) along with many superstar authors and performers at my In The Flesh Reading Series.