Sigh.

My stint as guest artist at the convention on "Writing About Sex"
has not gone well.

I conducted a seminar today on "Lying and Laying" that didn't go
well.  A writer from New Jersey named Hot Annie insisted that
even Bob Dylan (in "Tangled Up In Blue") says a couple was
"laying in bed."

True, I told Hot Annie.  But Bob Dylan is Bob Dylan.

"I," said Hot Annie proudly, "am Hot Annie."

Hot Annie is an old guy who weighs maybe two hundred and fifty in
his sneakers.  I let it drop.

Then after lunch we did a workshop on "settings."  Each
participant was asked to sketch a one paragraph sex scene
featuring a unique setting.

We had four hot-tubs, two churches, and three each of
locker-rooms, limousines, and (in a cultural consensus I can't
quite grasp) truck-stops.

I resolved to delete my own two stories at ASSTR that involve
churches.

I want a drink.

No, that's not entirely true.

I want a drink with you.

It occurs to me how unlike art life can be.

In my fiction you keep seducing me as you once did, your
glittering brown eyes constantly unveiling new worlds as your
talk kept pouring from your lips.

I always felt beautiful with you, impaled on your cock most of
all, a woman free and bound at the same time.

You're never really not in me, you know.

You'll always be The Lay.

No lie.



  
A Letter - Lay and Lie