It’s been waaaaaaay too long since I updated this site, but I couldn’t resist sharing the splendid news that my story, “My German,” was recently published in this juicy volume of erotic stories by women writers. I’ll include a delicious excerpt, but scoot on over to Amazon and get the full treatment in e-volume or print copy, darlings.
One of the poses he liked best, in fact, was when I arched my back and touched the wooden vessel he’d shellacked to a mahogany sheen. I always got the impression—topless, facing the harbor by the gray-green light of the tiny window, tipping my head to gaze over my left shoulder—that I was myself for him but not the self I’d known. I liked that about him. He understood layers—in paint, in people— very well.
Florian’s grandparents had experienced the war years, the Cold War after. There was always the whiff of something about the camps—were they complicit or had they hidden neighbors, perhaps? We were complicit in understanding not to ask too much, that it was good for the creator and the sitter to rest in easy mystery.
“Your breast, the way the nipple ees ees like a shell—what ees it you call zem? The curved one,” he made a folded fist with the hand not holding the wet-dipped brush, “catches light puhfect,” he’d complimented that final Wednesday.
“A conch,” I said. “C-o-n-c-h.”
I’d just come from the figure study class. The whole time, my left leg bent over my right leg until a cramp set in. Recently, I’d realized that I looked forward to him getting out the green-bottle ointment. With the spongy applicator tip, he’d rub where I said I was aching. He could be no more than eight or ten years older—few gray strands shot through his sandy brown beard. Always kempt, but something of the barely-contained curled silent inside him.
“But said like c-o-n-k, ja?”
Florian’s green eyes had a murky depth that was also clean. His breath scented like silky strands of early-summer garlic my cousin and I had liked to pull from our grandparents’ lawn and slip under our tongues.
“Exactly,” I said.