$14.95
ISBN 1573441813
available through Amazon

Reviewed by William Dean
(02/04/04)

We pretend that we know, but we never do. We pretend that we are experienced, cynical, analytical. We aren't. We pretend that we've been there, done that, got the coffee mug and the hot logo sweatshirt, but, at bottom, we're still grasping for meaning and intent. What we're talking about is women's erotica, women's sexuality, women's desire.

We are led to easy generalities through our own modicum of experience, aren't we? And it's never enough. At the end of the discussion, there is always a vast, unfathomable, and unique cosmos of behaviors, attitudes, quirks, and riddles. Women's sexuality is Woman herself. Ever-changing, ever-constant, ever unpredictable. It's no writer's gloss-over or sociologist's shrugging, moot question to ask, "What do women want?" It's no lie to answer, "They want it all."

The twenty women authors who contribute to editor Marcy Sheiner's Best for 2004 put on exhibition the wide panorama of "what women want" from college-age to grandmother. From vanilla to the complex fetishist, from cuddles to confession, from the past to tomorrow night. While none of these tales should shock, all of them should give you that trembling frisson of having your mind and heart opened to the literary lick, the kiss of the revealed, the fondle of the desperate and hungry.

It's not condescending nor judgmental to talk about women's desperation. Desperation drives, impels, forces us to confront what we'd otherwise avoid and stay in our comfy emotional ruts. Desperation is need and without need there is no passion, only bland routine. Take a moment right now and write yourself a Post-it note as a reminder. Stick it up prominently, so you remember: "Woman is passion."

"I'm emotional often," writes Gabrielle West, in her story "The Captain and Clare." "I'm desperate to be touched, loved again." And this is so refreshing to read when so many in real life seem to have given up and sunk into a blinded surrender to endless lonely nights where television is our companion. Good erotica prompts us to remember the importance of human touch.

Godfrey pressed in on her thoughts -- fragrant, smooth Godfrey with his musical hands. She slid out of her clothing and walked across the small room to the bag, and drew her treasures out. She poured the slip over her head, the sleek silk settling like a whisper over her breasts and hips, her thighs. No. She wouldn't return it. Wearing it, she felt alive. She felt her body move under its second skin, dark, smooth and perfect. She hummed a bit and danced in the tiny space as the late afternoon sun filtered through the smoky air. She lost herself in a fantasy of Godfrey's hands possessing her until they had felt every reachable inch of her body and invaded her damp insides. She couldn't help the cry that followed her orgasm. Within minutes Mr. Hardy was knocking at her door.

Men seek to conquer and possess; women seek to explore and know themselves. This is what separates their sensual and sexual natures. Men are usually embarrassed by discovery; women absorb it and move on. In "Alternate Lives," Sacchi Green takes the reader on a journey of rediscovery which is as sweet and harsh as the desires of Everywoman can be.

I beckoned to Cleo to join me in the still warm water. "Therapy time," I said with authority. "You, on your knees! And you," I turned to Yelena, whose eyes flashed open wide at my stern tone, "on my knees!" I sat close beside her and urged her onto my lap, then gripped her hips firmly. "Now," I said over her wet shoulder, "since I haven't convinced you any other way, I'm going to hold you so steady that no matter what you do, even if you beg, I won't let you move in any way that might hurt. And Cleo is going to fuck you, not gently, but with everything she's got. If you say harder, she's going to believe you mean harder. No holding back, while I'm holding you."

Too, the reader is reminded that this is 2004. The time of the new, aggressive, strong, and impassioned women of today includes plenty of turning the tables on old-style chauvinist men, the time of the bend-over-boyfriend. The up-raised fist is both a sign of empowerment and the invasion of territory once thought to be Man's alone.

He held his mouth shut, twisting his head to either side. He was the type of man who didn't even like to kiss me after I had given him head.

"Taste it," I said. He started to buck. I clenched the bra and pulled tightly until he was gasping for air. I stuck my finger in his mouth. "Tastes good, slut," I said wiping my finger off around his lips.

Now, holding the bra with both hands, I mounted him. As I worked my cunt up and down his shaft, he began to quiver. He lifted his legs up as if to fuck me and I pulled the bra tight. "Bitch," I said. "I'm fucking you -- not the other way around. Be still."

This is a book of journeys and adventures, of women exploring themselves and other women's often secret places. Wherever it may lead you, you'll find the landscapes staked out and your sisters waiting to embrace you.

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