Love / Romance

Cherry Blossom

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Cherry Blossom

This was published in Rachel Kramer Bussell’s Women in Lust anthology. This erotic story of lesbian love was inspired by a recent trip to Japan. *  *  * I bumped into her in my ryokan in Kyoto. I smelled her exotic scent just milliseconds before my sleep-fogged brain registered the ledge I was supposed to step over in order to leave my suite, too late, of course. I fell to my knees like a penitent worshiper, one hand clutching the hem of her kimono, the other pressing down onto her foot. “Gomen nasai. Daijoubu desu ka?” I stammered. I’m sorry. Are you alright? My boyfriend had taught me that phrase early on in the trip, after he tired of apologizing on my behalf to all the people I bumped into. And I bumped into a lot of people as I was constantly staring upwards in astonishment at the cherry blossoms…

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The sensual is spiritual is sexual

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The sensual is spiritual is sexual

There are important links between the spiritual and the sensual and the sexual. I have almost always used the sensual as the entrance to the spiritual: for there are ways that the sensual and the erotic experiences can be transcendent, just as spiritual experiences can be erotic. I know this: the Tibetan Buddhist model for the awakened mind is — orgasm. Ideally, the sexual is an expression of the sacred, it is an act of worship of the divine spark in my partner. There are those out there who remain unconvinced of the spiritual dimensions of sexual pleasure, who are in doubt that the heights of which I have spoken are actually possible. Indeed, most advocate a temperate, low-key “it feels good bodily function” status for sex — I know and understand this perspective because much of my own sexual expression has been a rational exercise in the mechanics of…

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Silken on Sex #83: Saturday Afternoon

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Silken on Sex #83: Saturday Afternoon

In this episode, Silken tells her lover that she wants to tie him to her bed when they get home. This spurs them to tease each other throughout the afternoon, and she finds herself so hot and bothered that she masturbates in the car on the drive home. (This is a re-release of episode #32 from July, 9, 2009)

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Pathos, Eros and Aramis

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Pathos, Eros and Aramis

The weather is California cliche: the sun is bright, the sky is a cloudless blue. The scent of California bay and eucalyptus waft by on a sea breeze. Children splash in the pool. Laughter bounces around the courtyard. From my chair on the balcony I try to extend my senses, to feel something, anything, but what I’m feeling now. Pathos. I am doing my best to be present with my body, to understand how this pathos feels, not just emotionally, but physically. Right now, pathos feels under-oxygenated. My breath is shorter, faster. It no longer fills my center. My muscles are tight. Twitchy. Restless. My shoulders ride higher, up near my ears.  I feel it in my gut, too, the tightness. An ache has settled in my chest, my eyes. It is a long list. This is what anxiety and anguish feels like in the flesh. In my head, it…

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Summer Reads: The Bitch in the House & The Bastard on the Couch

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Summer Reads: The Bitch in the House & The Bastard on the Couch

I’ve been reading “The Bitch in the House” edited by Cathi Hanauer. The subtitle of the book is: 26 Women Tell the Truth about Sex, Solitude, Work, Motherhood, and Marriage. The premise is women writing a response to the question “Why are women angry?” Cathy woke up one day and realized that she had everything she could possibly want: a house in the country, two children, a good husband, a great career…and despite all that, she was mad as hell. She talked to her women friends, who were also primarily writers, and they were all angry, too. So she asked them to write about their rage, and the book came about. Some of the essays I relate to, some of them I don’t. I mean, women writing about how they miss the boys their husbands once were, or how their children’s demands cut into their “me time” doesn’t really affect…

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Got Toys? Top 5 toys for women, men & couples

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Collection of Silkenvoice's set toys

Silken on Sex #78: It is fair to say that I’m an enthusiastic masturbator and sex toy aficionado. My primary partner calls me his pervy dirty girl, and fortunately is not threatened by my self-pleasuring practices. He knows that my libido is off-the-charts and that it takes a herculean effort on anyone’s part (including my own) to keep me feeling satisfied for more than a few hours at a time. But he does try, and between his efforts and mine, we keep things very interesting. Which is where my chest full of sex toys comes in. I am grateful to be a woman, and grateful that so many people have put so much ingenuity and effort into accessorizing women’s pleasures.  Toys to fulfill our every pleasure, fantasy, and sexual need line the shelves of thousands of adult stores all over the world. And fortunately for men, I’ve noticed that the…

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Dirty Girl: The Preacher’s Kid

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Dirty Girl: The Preacher’s Kid

(This is the complete text of the erotic story Dirty Girl: The Preacher’s Kid. If you haven’t listened to my podcasts of this story, Part One is here and Part Two is here.) Songs of Solomon 5:15 His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold; his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. She was a preacher’s kid, and like most preacher’s kids, she had a naughty streak, Rebecca did, only her parents didn’t know it. Most people didn’t. To all appearances she was a good Christian girl who did all the right things and never caused her parents a lick of trouble. But underneath the long tresses and proper dresses was the mind and body of a Dirty Girl. “I’m a Dirty Girl,” she’d sing to herself as she walked down Main Street toward the parsonage, nodding and smiling to all the ladies…

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Dirty Girl: The Preacher’s Kid (pt 2)

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Silken on Sex - From my lips to your ears

Silken On Sex #75 I received several emails requesting a continuation of the “Dirty Girl” story from April  (Episode #62), so here it is: “…Her eyes fluttered open, hazel green eyes that reminded him of leaves in dappled sunlight, and her drowsy smile was loving. Open. Trusting. She was an innocent, he knew, a very carnal innocent. She took such childlike joy in her body, in the pleasures of the flesh. She knew no shame, no guilt, and she gave of herself with such abandon that it transcended all he’d ever imagined the original Eve to be, before she’d learned the concept of Sin. He took the charcoal between his fingers and drew upon her living flesh. Long sweeps of charcoal for the twining vines and smaller flourishes for leaves and flowers. Symbols, too, from Egypt, from Briton, from Japan, symbols of fertility, of life, of rebirth. Her arms, her…

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