m a r i l y
n excerpt
and anthology reviews
. . . .
Through the hacienda
window she viewed bougainvillea climbing wrought iron. In a beige
silk
robe she sat at the desk in her bedroom. She'd pinned up her hair; she
wore horn-rimmed glasses. She yearningly opened a pictorial. The
captions
boasted of an American Camelot. The black and white photographs
displayed
images of a thin, elegant, loving mother; pampered, sun-kissed
children;
a wholesome, all-American man. Against backdrops of the Oval Office and
the Atlantic Ocean he commandeered a desk; a sailboat. She knew Jack .
. . the beach house was a box of light above sparkling sand, against
a night sky. Of stark design, its glass walls framed people dancing,
drinking
and eating. Its deck faced the ocean. Inside, energies of jazz and
laughter
exploded through open doors and mingled with the sounds of the surf.
The
scent of sea air wafted through the sparsely furnished great room.
"Oh, I absolutely
love negative
ionization. It makes me high!" Marilyn squealed. She wore a low-cut
black
silk dress and black heels. Her skin well took the sun. The tip of her
nose had been shortened and narrowed; concavity below her cheekbones
had
been enhanced by the extraction of a few back teeth. Short platinum
blonde
locks contrasted with tan skin, like vanilla frosting on a caramel
cake.
The mole on the left side of her face seemed an asymmetrical
accent
to her physical perfection.
"Marilyn,
darling, are you
sure it's not the margaritas?" Laughed her small blonde companion.
"Truman!"
"Would you
believe who's here
tonight? Am I hallucinating, or is that the president of the United
States
standing near the buffet table?"
"Perhaps
you are hallucinating."
She looked across
the room.
It was him. He was surrounded , but towered over most others.
Reddish-brown
hair. Tanned, freckled skin. Intense, friendly eyes that beamed
intelligence
and energy. Guests were practically standing in line to see him. To
touch
him.
"I'll be back in
a minute,
Truman. You stay here. I won't have you teasing me in front of the
president
of the United States!"
She wove through
gauntlets
of guests. Hopeful eyes surveyed her. Everyone wanted a part of her, it
seemed. She edged through the group of actresses, actors, writers, and
hangers-on. She fixed her eyes on him; eye beams connected them. He
watched
her walk toward him. Her pink lips were pursed; she looked from right
to
left. Her body had the lilt, the sway, of a woman wearing high heels.
From
sea to shining sea, her black silk-covered breasts glimmered under
overhead
light. Her body was a country, he thought, filled with cities and
states,
plains and vineyards, desert and farmland. Roads and highways. Thigh
ways.
"Miss Monroe . .
."
"Call me
Marilyn."
"Marilyn,
it's wonderful
to see you. . . er, meet you. I see all your movies."
"Hello Mr
President .
. . the feeling is mutual. I'm a happy constituent!"
He laughed.
"Call me
Jack."
"What brings you
to California,
Jack?"
"The fishing. The
sailing.
The parties." She smiled at his broad Boston A.
"Let's get some
fresh air,
shall we?" He smiled. A few minutes apart, they separately left the
room.
Truman stood on the
deck,
gazing the shoreline to his left. The man and woman leaned into one
another
as they walked. He was a head taller than her, and broad shouldered.
Their
voices lightly played against the slight roar of the surf. Their paths
diverged as he walked towards a back entrance to the house. She walked
the shore, then climbed the steps to the deck.
"Darling, you
have sand in
your hair. On your dress. Where are your shoes?"
"Shit! Those were
Feraud pumps.
Damn."
"And what's that
fragrance
you're wearing, dear?"
"Semen by the
Sea. Sperme par
la mer. New from Givenchy." . . . she put away the
photography
book. They sometimes met at Peter's beach house. Sometimes at her
house.
He'd given her a private phone number. She never knew when he might
actually
call her. Her film was on hiatus until October. The press had reported
in typically negative mode: Marilyn Fired From Film Set! She'd
never
gotten used to her life being publicly misrepresented. In any case she
could use the break from filming. Cukor often demanded seemingly
unnecessary
takes. The summer stretched before her; she could use the rest. And the
play.
She picked up a volume
of poetry,
went to the bed and lay down on her stomach, pillow under her breasts,
knees bent, calves up, ankles crossed, feet pointing. Reading in bed
centered
her; reading and eating in bed was even better. Few things she found
more
relaxing than quietly drifting through words and images.
The phone rang; she
jumped. She
lifted the receiver.
"Hello?"
"What do you have
on?" he asked.
"The radio."
"Very funny."
"That's it. That's
what I have
on, Jack."
"Look, Marilyn . . .
I don't have
much time. Get a wiggle on."
" ‘Get a wiggle on'?
Another one
of your New England colloquialisms, no doubt!" . . . .
©
a
f
waddell 2004
Reviews
@
Cleis
Press
Reviews
by
Author Ashley Lister
Wicked:
Sexy
Tales
of Legendary Lovers
The
Guild
of
Erotic Artists (Volume I)
When
I
first
saw the call for submissions for Mitzi Szereto’s anthology, I had to
admit
I was intrigued. History and sex should go together like bacon
and
jam. These are two subjects that are so totally different they
should
not naturally be combined. One is something that happened a long
time ago and a subject I have seldom understood: the other is history.
Admittedly,
bodice
rippers
and period romances are perennially popular, but this anthology
called for more than that. The CFS mentioned famous historical
characters
and demanded a speculative insight into their private lives. It
was
such a unique challenge I had to put pen to paper.
My
submission
is
on page 166 for those who are going to rush out and buy a
copy.
But I’ll share a secret about Mitzi’s editing before you go to the
shop:
she’s ruthless. When she sent back my proofs, complete with
suggested
revisions, there was a wry note attached to one of the typos. My
intention had been to mention the heroine’s “golden curls.” But
the
typo pixies had intervened and produced the phrase “golden girls.”
“The
Golden
Girls?”
Mitzi enquired. “Dorothy, Rose and Blanche get
everywhere,
don’t they?”
Wicked
begins
with
the King and ends with the Lord. It’s fair to say that the
anthology
takes a pleasantly circuitous journey between these two legends through
some of history’s most memorable names as perceived by some of today’s
strongest erotic writers.
Elvis,
Axl
and
Me is a shining example of perfectly paced story-telling, quirky
humour,
and characterisation so strong you could almost kiss the heroine.
Award winning short story writer, novelist and essayist, Janice Eidus,
has produced a tongue-in-cheek tale that sizzles with passion and sings
with its own distinctive style.
In
The
Ballad
of Scott and Zelda, Maxim Jakubowski transports the reader back in time
to the days of flappers and the American literati of the twenties,
thirties
and forties. Aside from writing with his usual flair for noir
erotica,
Maxim makes this story delicious for the exchange he has included
between
Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway.
Tulsa
Brown
brings
together Pablo Piccaso, Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas with an
imaginative twist and a sizzling content. Lynda Schorr has
produced
a story that is grotesquely absorbing and arousing in spite of its
subject
matter. Vanesa Baggott rewrites Genesis with her cleverly
constructed
tale: On The Eighth Day.
There
are
other
legendary names in the anthology, and that remark applies to the
authors as well as the protagonists in their stories. Mitzi
Szereto
has included her Letter to Valentino, while Sacchi Green presents a
glorious
image of Dietrich in army boots. The brilliant Ann Dulaney, the
inimitable
A F Waddell and the stylish Fiona Zedde all make compelling
contributions.
There are plenty of others – all of them equally worthy of being
mentioned
- but a part of the appeal with this anthology is that you don’t know
who
you’re going to meet next and, personally, I don’t want to spoil the
surprise.
Some
of
these
stories will entertain as they are read: others have that
distinctive
charm that makes them return to the thoughts days later. Wicked:
Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers, is an anthology that is needed in
everyone’s
collection: and I’m not just saying that because my story is
included.
There
are
a
goodly number of artists mentioned in Wicked and, after browsing
through
The Guild of Erotic Artists (Volume I) I can now understand why they
are
so highly revered.
The
Guild
of
Erotic Artists is a non-profit organisation that promotes the work
of
some fantastic contemporary erotic artists. With their own
exhibition
hall (a renovated monastery) in the picturesque area of St Albans, it
is
obvious that they are serious about properly representing their
members.
The quality of the book they have produced is superb. Aside from
being illustrated with dazzling photographs it is also replete with
fascinating
introductions to some of the Guild’s current artists and gives an
insight
into their inspirations, methods and motivations.
It’s
a
fascinating
and absorbing read. But the main thing that struck me with this
volume
was the diversity of styles the Guild promotes. Obviously there
are
line drawings and paintings. Lara Addams uses sanguine and sepia
to produce such warm skin tones her images smoulder. Paul John
Ballard
creates vivid drawings that are striking for their complex
simplicity.
Ray Leaning has a gift for crafting the most lifelike glossy realism
and
James Alfred Scotchford produces superb and vivid canvases.
Erotic
photography
is
strongly represented. Alex Treacher, John Keedwell and Douglas
E show off their skills using light and dark techniques. Mike
Crawley,
Paul Churchman and Petra Joy are amongst those who dazzle with a
display
of the rich and colourful. The stunning photography produced by
Gothic
Images is bold, imaginative and intensely arousing.
But
this
volume
contains more than the traditional drawings, paintings and
photographs.
Ken Clarke, an artist and authority who has worked alongside Stephen
Spielberg
and George Lucas, reveals some of his erotic bodysculpting creations
while
explaining a little about the process involved in this unique form of
expression.
Fellow sculptor, Andrew Smith, exhibits a gallery of his glorious
monuments
that are so soft on the eye it is almost impossible to believe they
have
been carved from stone.
Aside
from
presenting
the traditional mediums, the Guild of Erotic Artists (Volume
I) also exhibit digital art from talented Lindsay McDermid. Mr
McDermid
produces stunning computer images that are so three-dimensional it is
frustrating
that a viewer can’t physically touch them. Equally effective is
the
blend of photography and computer manipulation that Matthew Slade uses
in his ultra-modern abstracts.
And
the
book
isn’t without humour. Julian Murphy, described by the
Musée
de l’Erotisme as, “…one of the finest erotic artists of his
generation…”
includes some fantastic works of gauche on board that genuinely
entertain.
Mr Murphy manages to portray a pair of Swiss Army knives in a light
that
most of us had never imagined. And what he can do with a vacuum
cleaner
or a clothes peg will make you wonder how you never saw the obvious
eroticism
in these commonplace household items.
Continuing
the
humour,
Nancy Farmer has managed to present Ken and Barbie in a
deliciously
disturbing new light. Meanwhile Saskia Deneuve has created some
stupendous
metaphors. Studying the computer images she has created, it is
obvious
she is strongly influenced by Dali, Giger and a mischievous sense of
fun.
There
are
currently
some astounding artists producing erotic work of the highest
calibre. For anyone wanting to learn more about what’s happening
and who is making it happen, The Guild of Erotic Artists (Volume I) is
the best place to begin.
A
Book Review
Written
by: Marcelle Perks - Rated 2.35 out of 5, 63 people have rated it.
Wicked:
Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers
"You
are
my lover and I am your mistress and kingdoms and empires and
governments
have tottered and succumbed before now to that mighty
combination."
Violet Trefusis
I
don’t
know
how many of us actually admit to being nosey about other people’s
sex lives, but I bet most of us would like to know a few juicy details
given half the chance. Well this fabulous new book does just
that.
Marcelle Perks does the honours and gives us an insight into the gems
within!
This
enticing
collection
of twenty-one red hot stories, all inspired by the legendary
exploits of the famous makes for fascinating reading and blends
passion,
angst and craft equally. The problem is simply this: we need a
marketing
category to describe the type of extraordinary fiction that Szereto is
bringing together in her collections. The label ‘erotica’ doesn’t work
anymore because the quality and variety of what is described as such is
so diverse.
This
is
literary
fiction with oodles of sex and mystique, and it’s all the more
interesting because the writers are not afraid to describe sexual
problems
and complexes: Maxim Jakubowski writes about Scott Fitzgerald’s
impotence,
Ann Dulaney about the sexual fears of Hans Christian Andersen, Lynda
Schor
about Eva Braun’s last abortion.
The
trend
in
American ‘erotica’ is for compact, pithy fiction that revolves
around
sex as a plotline but is less concerned with getting down to the
niceties
of the passion. Here we have a bit of British oomph and get to see
human
sexuality in all its perversions and glory, and the characters can age,
be afflicted by various ailments and complexes and still get it on.
Yep,
even a wrinkled old Freud with a couple of prostitutes can be sexy. I
suspect
that editor Szereto is a secret romantic; she has a tendency to select
stories pulsating with sensuous emoting with lots of attention to
detail
like costumes, petticoats and shoes. The standard set is lavish and
stylish,
and all twenty-one stories are well-crafted and imaginative with their
subject matter.
Some
of
the
writers have gone to a great deal of trouble to research
biographical
details for their imaginary sexual adventures. Sacchi Green’s Dietrich
Wears Army Boots is particularly endearing and lovingly recreates part
of Dietrich’s biographical details during the period when she was an
army
entertainer and had to live rough and wash her hair in her helmet.
Maxim
Jakubowski’s The Ballad of Scott and Zelda is particularly poignant as
he knowingly delves into their fable of the original playboy. Fiona
Zedde’s
portrayal of a black lesbian love affair is exquisitely written and
described
in Love, Zora. AF Waddell’s Marilyn captures the star to a T, and
Lisette
Ashton has an interesting twist on the Marquis de Sade in the tale of
Justine,
who is here a literary agent peddling smut. The most imaginative tale
is
Vanessa Baggott’s On the Eighth Day which imagines how God might have
sex
with Mother Earth and her sister Mother Nature. The ideas, sexual
styles
and things that people find sexy are unimaginably diverse. I’m not
going
to reveal the secrets about Chairman Mao, Warren Beatty and Abraham
Lincoln,
if you want to find out, buy the book!
