erotique's topics - tribe.net

are you a ERWA member?

wscross — Mon, 22 Aug 2005 20:26:03 GMT

One of the better resources for ertotica and improving one's skill set is the Erotica Readers & Writers Association. In addition to archives of good erotica, you can participate in Story Time, a virtual writers group where members critique your work and offer constructive criticism.

To find out more, visit the ERWA website:

http://www.erotica-readers.com/

W. S. Cross
Author of "Beyond You & Me"
http://beyondyouandme.blogspot.com/

posted in erotique - 0 replies

yes, that is me, your moderator, in the cover picture

artiste_de_goddess — Tue, 16 Aug 2005 05:58:04 GMT

I sometimes photograph myself a la Cindy Sherman, you know, self-portraits?
Anyway, that is a photo of me when I lived in a loft in downtown LA, before my daughter (my second child, I also have a five year old boy) was conceived and born. (about two years ago then, give or take, I am terrible with mathematics).

anyway, it is good to see that we are finally building up a group of writers. My fault it started so slowly, as my daughter takes up ALL of my time and I don't get much writing in these days. Not to mention the inspiration to write about sex, much less have sex, sadly, but these things will improve...

I am going to post another one of my stories.

kisses,
artiste

posted in erotique - 1 reply

Dark Cloud, Falling Rain

artiste_de_goddess — Tue, 16 Aug 2005 06:05:42 GMT

Dark Cloud, Falling Rain [2321 words] (F M rom)
By Ava_Pavlova (artiste)
Copyright © 2004 by Ava Pavlova.

It is the memory of him that stays within me. When I try to imagine him, I see his face as if I am looking at a photograph in sepia. His face: luminous as warm porcelain, smooth as lychee fruit, his eyes questioning. Chinese eyes, full lips, a sincere mouth, a luxurious mouth. He is beautiful, unreal almost. But I will never again see his face. I can only find him through the dark clouds of my dreams.
He exists in this memory, where I can look at him: tall, in a gray suit, red and blue lights curving along his elegant silhouette, in the dimly lit nightclub where we met. Here he appears, as if out of a vintage photograph, or a 1930’s film noir. His slender hands are exquisite, His hair; thick, black as the ink-dark night outside. Then his face appears, like the moon from behind a cloud, so beautiful, that if its full light fell upon me, I would shatter into a sky of desire.

I was a nude dancer in one of the nightclubs in New Orleans.

I was twenty-two. I had moved away from my family to live my own story. My face held the wild beauty of gypsy immigrants; long, dark hair, eyes the muddy color of a river. They held a secret; my eyes, my smile. My family had splintered apart from divorces, then distance, moving apart like the earth. The fragmented, dry ground of California crumbled underneath my feet, so I left to find a place where the earth was soft, where I could take root and become someone else. Yet I have come to expect that things do not last, not even the solid earth. The earth fractures, erodes.

How I became a dancer at the Desire Club on Bourbon Street is another story; a story that does not belong to this memory. It is that other story, though, that brings me to this place, this moment I am telling you about.

There I am: a young woman, in silk, nude underneath my red dress, nothing else but the dress. My body as a blossoming flower, magnolia-white. The silk dress falls away, revealing my nakedness, standing in front of him, in high heels. Stage lights spilled over my skin, sticky with humidity, desire. He watches my body move; smoking a casual cigarette, holding his gaze upon me. It is then our eyes meet. Others that watched me as I danced on stage fade into shadow. I don’t see them. In that first moment of seeing his face, it glowed with a mysterious light, surrounded by spirals of haze in the smoky room, as if he emerged from a dark cloud.
Like a blossom wrapped in cellophane waiting in a market, he chose my body. After the stage, back in the silk, the red silk gown that I wore that evening. What if we had met somewhere else, I thought in that moment. I could imagine us in a another place, where the story changes. Where he takes me with him, somewhere far, to another life. But in that that night garden, fragrant and beautiful, he chose me-- pollen dusting his lovely hands, and for that moment, far away, nothing in the world but those hands.
I am there to show my body, for his pleasure, for others.
“Please, will you dance for me?” he asked, looking up at me as I descended the stage steps. His voice was pleasant, the scent of him was warm; a faint, warm scent of sandalwood cologne. He seemed eager, like a college student; he could not wait to ask for me.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice softened by the music, by the roomful of voices; men laughing, drinking, carousing at the round cocktail tables surrounding the center stage. I gave him a reassuring glance.

Up the stairs, his hand leads mine, up into the darkness. I stand before him in the space where he waits, for my body to charm him, moving with the rhythms of the music. He sits and watches me in the private dance room, hidden only by a small velvet curtain. With the music, I move my hips like a belly dancer, slowly, my body guided by eroticism. I turn my back to him and look over one shoulder. His hand reaches delicately to caress the curve of my hip. I stop. His touch is not allowed, a club rule, but it possesses me. Somehow, I cannot tell him not to, like the others. The feeling of his hand upon my hip resonates through my body, setting off little fires through my veins. I can hear the blood rushing into my ears, the soft explosions of desire.

I begin to undress again, as I did before, onstage. He stops the dress from falling; his hand reaches, carefully lifting the silk, pressing it against my skin.
“No,” he says. “Please, leave it on.” His eyes follow along the slope of my back, pulling up the straps, a continent of mysteries to him. As I turn to face him, he holds my gaze, looking at me intently; a gaze that touches me all over. I am drunk with the scent of his skin, like incense, only half my arm’s reach and I could run my hand along his shoulder, the bare pearl of his shoulder underneath the gray suit as I imagine it.

Gray silk, scent of tea leaves, wet grass, scent of damp earth, heat of his mouth. He fades away when I reach for him in this memory. When I linger in the sensory remembering, he returns. Then I see the stage, a whirling pool of neon shimmer. I see the curve of his cheekbone, and the gray suit. I recall the feel of his hand when it first touched my hip.
“Stay with me,” he asks, as his long, willowy fingers select the carefully folded one-hundred dollar bills like delicate leaves of origami paper from his wallet.
“Please,” he says, “stay and talk. I want to be near you.”

I did not try to know this man from China, elegant, smelling like fresh linen. His face searched mine. But I did not want to be known. I was not there for that. He mentioned he was traveling. When he spoke of this, he seemed lighter.
“My family lives in Wu-han where I grew up, but now I live in Hangzhou.” Then he lit up a cigarette and looked downward. “That’s near Shanghai.” he remarked, waiting for a response. Not knowing where it was, only the name, I smiled softly, and said nothing. My thoughts drifted along maps and the expanse of a land far away. Then I thought, he could be a rich kid passing time, or on a business trip, busy and seeking escape. He did not tell me his real name, or if he did, I don’t remember it, only that part of it meant Dragon in Chinese.
“Where are you from?” he asked. “Not from here?”
“No,” I reply. A small smile crosses my face. I look at him. I am not sure of what to say. He is searching for words between us, but the space, it fills with a river of longing. We just stay there like that, looking at one another as if we are the only people left in the entire world; in the half-lit room with the velvet curtain, red walls, color spinning around us. He turned his face to me as if to say something, but drifted somewhere else, and mentioned how beautiful I was. I placed my hand gently in his; skin touching with the softness of leaves falling.

Rain, warm and soft, fell inside my body. His hand closed around mine, pulling me near. He drew my body toward the center of his parted legs.
“Will you dance for me, again?” he asked through the continuous music, a hypnotic rhythm. My body swayed like sea-grass in the tide. Slowly, he pulled me against him. His soft hands stroked the silk dress, barely so. My arms looped around his neck, the spill of my hair surrounded his face, a cloud. Then, like a sudden rain, he kissed me. A kiss; barely touching mouths, the sweetness of his breath against mine. He traced with his mouth, kissing along my cheek to my ear, and whispered, “May I touch?”
Through clatter of rain falling somewhere outside, through the rising voices, the music in the club, an answer from my body was heard through the storm. For a moment, I forget who I am. I forget and give my body over. “Yes,” I answered, his mouth upon mine, melting into the heat of his kiss.
Under the silk gown, his long fingers, gentle, caressed my leg, along the inside of my thigh, up to my sex. Hesitation. The wandering tips of fingers: one, then, two, scarcely touching my sex, not entering me, just heat from his hand, hovering like a hummingbird. My clitoris became a stamen, circled by his touch, a camellia, my sex yielding. I shuddered against him; the intensity of pleasure rushed through my entire body; rippling, waves undulating throughout each limb, through my hips, stomach. As though by surprise, every part of my being had longed for that moment of awakening. I would have allowed him anything. With my eyes closed, I felt the heat of his hand, like water, like waves.
The surface of my body held in a great liquid heat, as a volcano. The touches of his hand caused the molten world within me to awaken. Everything blurred around us, with fire, with longing.
He simply stayed this way, touching my sex, butterfly-soft. He translated every trace of my response by touch, and lingering there, he waited. His hands held my body in an erotic suspense, where every motion was a whisper, another language. Inside that moment of hesitancy, with a barely audible sigh, he trembled. Then he slipped his hand away, smoothing the silk of the dress against my hip, as if to say, that is enough.
With the heat of his body against mine, through the crisp fabric, through the gray silk, the mysterious hardness of his sex pressed into me. He desired me, his hands damp, searching along my hips. My excitement enflamed; a current of feathery vibrations rushed through my body from his touch. I held his hand and led it back, under my dress. With a surge of intensity, he kissed me deeply, slipped his fingers along the little sea-shell of my sex, and slid them inside. Dizzy from his hands, from his touch, the wild little sensation arose within me, as everything swirled and disappeared into clouds. In the colored spotlights and strobe lights, time dissolved, pleasure drowned everything.
From his wallet, more one hundred dollar bills, carelessly handled, fell into my hands, into my purse, bringing us back to where we were: in a stripclub, on a street named Bourbon, with red neon signs of desire drenching the night in its pomegranate stain. The red-orange light on his face, the flick of a lighter, the click, the smoke rising into curls of obscurity. It really meant nothing, the money, just paper. Just leaves falling from wind, scattered.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “No, I shouldn’t ask you that.” He paused, watching the end of his cigarette burn. Then he looks at me, searching my face, and says, “I wish I could take you with me.”
“Where would you take me, then? Not back to Hangzhou,” I said with a tender look.
He smiled gently, yet behind the smile, was sadness, like something lost, a cracked surface of his reserve. He looked down into the shadow. “I would like to,” he said, “take you with me someday.”
I forget how we parted, for it is just this fragment I have in my mind. I didn’t know how I would long for the man from Hangzhou; a dragon-cloud vanishing into the night. In this memory, I hear him say, “I wish I could take you with me,” his voice, echoing somewhere inside this lost place. That moment, elusive as reflected light upon water, beautiful and never again tangible. Only the light of the memory.
I tried to forget about him. I left Bourbon Street, and moved back to San Francisco. To find this man I looked through other men; money received for evenings in hotels with Chinese businessmen, traveling, needing the warmth of company. It filled a curious desire, but like moments lost, I knew it was just to find the one moment with him. I accepted the proposals; only from those that reminded me of him, perhaps the elegance was more or less there, the polite gestures, maybe the inflection of the soft voice slightly similar. They paid for our evenings: dinners in shiny red dining rooms among a background of laughter, exotic language resonating against the lacquered walls, blurring my mind with the memory of him. When the waiters spoke Mandarin or Cantonese, or some other dialect, to the man I was with, was it to say, nice catch, the white woman, lovely anyway?
Years have passed since; I married, then the children were born, and I moved into another life. Another life outside of the one I knew, the one I led at the Desire Club.
But I knew that he was what I was searching for in them, back then. My body, asking each man, Where are you? Where can I go to find you again? Longing for the man I met in the darkness; the man that knew the secret code of my body, tattooed with his invisible calligraphy. To him, I answer, yes, as my voice whispers this, softly fading, like falling rain.

posted in erotique - 0 replies

Tropic of Desire -- copyright 2004 by Ava Pavlova

artiste_de_goddess — Sat, 25 Jun 2005 16:42:19 GMT

Tropic of Desire

Through the electric window, little points of light, tiny bright pixels burst like stars as the images appear. He sends them to me, through the jungle of wire, from his trip back home. Brazil. I see him smiling, laughing, the curve of his eyes like crescent moons in laughter. His Korean eyes; an echo of generations, of the tangled arms and legs of his mother and father, grandmother, grandfather. From Korea to Brazil, from the shore of the Yellow Sea, Huang Hai, through the bodies of continents, to the open arms of languid Bahia. It was there he was, I can only guess, conceived on a languid afternoon, where they made love slowly, like the rhythm of waves caressing the sand. His parents must have given him his smile too, a smile that beams in tropical warmth. In the picture on my screen, there is the equator of his mouth.

I am lost in the equator of his mouth.

Beaches appear, the sway of palm trees, colors in the sky, jeweled light. Water of impossible color, a blue, so deep and clear it looks unreal. It makes me think of the bath gel I loved as a little girl; aquamarine from a plastic tube, the scent of fresh wet grass and flowered soap.
Bahia. With that blue tropical shore behind him, he looks into the square frame at me, sipping on a straw out of a coconut. He is tall, wide-shouldered, leaning toward the camera, sleek black hair in a chignon, strands coming loose in the warm breeze. He sips, lips placed around the straw. The vision sends electric shivers through my body like thousands of minnows swimming along a fast river current. It is my desire to kiss him that sends these sensations shoaling through the river of my body. He is underneath an umbrella, and as I look deeper within the picture on my screen, I can almost feel his skin. It is sticky from the humid air, with little hidden lights along his shoulder that sparkle and lure me. Along his left shoulder, a reflection of blue from a beach umbrella curves along his skin. His skin must be so smooth, I think. I wonder, what does he taste like upon that shoulder. Does it taste saline from his sweat, the salt air? I imagine the scent of him, musky, coconut tanning lotion, and spicy like cinnamon tea. The ocean water is glittering upon his skin, drying in the sunlight. He is luminous.
In my mind, I hear his laughter. His voice is luxurious. It fills the air with a rhythm, and the soft guitar string of his voice resounds in a chord of sunsets.
Images fill the computer screen in squares. Within these squares, the beach and the man I desire. They are little gems, glittering. I want them like a thief. I want the contents to consume me until I am covered in sun and sand, with his strong body rising within me like the surf.
Waves of blue drench me. I am wet and tasting sweet and salty, skin slick with coconut oil, my sex open like the center of a fruit. Bananas curve from trees. I desire his sex, to fill my mouth with. I want him with a thirst, as he sips the coconut. I imagine, his tongue tastes sweet. I slip the thought lightly along my lips, tasting the thought again, the slow syrup of his kiss. Sand surrounds us, so hot, burning, sugar in a pan. Lips like passion fruit, like guava. My mouth longs to taste him. Plantain sweet, in my mind he fills my body, and I imagine sea-foam with the tide of his desire, his beautiful sex sliding within. The sound he makes, the way his face delights and his mouth opens. As I touch myself, I think of his face like this.
What does he say when he is with a lover? In a cadence of Portuguese, whispered, does he say things that are raw, delectable? I want him to say these little things within the shell of my ears.
Now I am reaching for him, imagining my body upon his. My legs are wrapped around him on a lounge chair, the one behind him, in that picture with the coconut. He is holding me upon him, his hands strong around my waist, around the small of my back as we make love. Thinking this, my sex becomes as hot as the climate of the Amazon.
I look at more photographs; little squares, appearing like sudden dreams. I see another of him, his arm outstretched, taking a self-portrait from the passenger seat of the car. It is the angle he looks at me, head tilted sideways, a hint of a smile, but his face tells me much more. His eyes are concentrated desire. He is inviting me to look deeper into the world of him. He is wearing an aqua-blue shirt, the color of everything. I finger through his warm black hair in my mind. My eyes drift over his right ear, his smooth face, graceful eyebrows punctuating his barely-there smile. An intimate smile; a ripple on the glassy surface of a beautiful lake. The lobe of his ear asks for kisses. His chin, symmetrical, burnished porcelain. Yet that mouth. It’s his mouth that pulls me, draws me to him. Now we are between the equator and the Tropic of Capricorn.
I have wandered into the Tropic of Desire, following the map of this longing, dreaming in this hothouse, intoxicated. Here, he is mine.

posted in erotique - 2 replies

Posting your Erotica

thatgrrl — Sat, 26 Mar 2005 05:18:42 GMT

Do you have favourite sites you contribute or post your erotica to? I have an archive on ASSTR.org. It's free, easy to maintain and one way to be sure I won't lose anything if my computer dies.

posted in erotique - 3 replies

my inner Anais Nin

artiste_de_goddess — Sat, 25 Jun 2005 02:53:53 GMT

Alright kiddilywinks... I am a bad bad bad girl.
I have not yet done a thing with my erotique tribe.
Spank me. Bite me. Pull my hair. I am so sorry. really.

I will post some stories, and also... to make up for my naughtiness, I will get right to those member requests. I promise.
Kisses.
XXX

posted in erotique - 3 replies

nom de plume anyone?

artiste_de_goddess — Mon, 27 Jun 2005 05:33:31 GMT

I have been going over in my head this "pen name" I have... not that it matters at this point, but am I really feeling like Ava Pavlova? I came up with it through a year long career as a tantra goddess. Like my other former occupation, as an exotic dancer, I am used to using any name I please. Once it was Juliette, then it was Ava... and now... a last name. To avoid sounding like a drag queen gone wrong, I figured I'd draw on my Russian heritage. I mean, my grandfather's family was from Odessa, and, well, the Russian name was shortened when they arrived to the States. Still, it doesn't carry the romantic sparkle like "Pavlova" (the famous ballerina). I have a few thoughts for new names, but, maybe I am just kind of used to Ava. When I think of changing it, I feel, well, attached. And French names can turn into drag queeny names very very easily. Two queens in my past life dubbed me: One liked to call me "Fifi Leroux"-- and the other called me "Dorothy L'amour". Neither of those would I take seriously. Besides, I am not a fraction of French in my DNA... no... I am some kind of Russian-Slavic soup... I am built for borscht and pierogies, I can slog down vodka like it's water, I am strong like bull and graceful like swan. Ava Pavlova. I kind of like the ring to it.

posted in erotique - 0 replies

books to read

artiste_de_goddess — Wed, 06 Apr 2005 17:29:36 GMT

Right now I am reading ( while standing and cooking, while eating, while my baby daughter takes long naps ) a book by Isabel Allende called "Aphrodite".

It is all about sensuality. Highly recommend it!

posted in erotique - 0 replies