The Erotica
Project
- by Lillian Ann Slugocki and Erin Cressida Wilson
$14.95
ISBN 1573441163
available through
Amazon
Reviewed by Susannah Indigo (12/20/00)
The
two female playwrights who wrote The Erotica Project, first
for radio, then off-Broadway, and now in print, posed naked together
atop a mirrored Plexiglas bar in the middle of the afternoon, wearing
nothing but suede high heels, in order to promote their work. They
considered this more a political act than a sexual one, they say,
"because intelligent, serious writers are not photographed naked,
ever." Especially when they are near forty years old.
I have to like them just for this, even though they both look
quite lovely and model-like in their photographs. I also like them
for carrying on through a certain amount of grief from critics when
The Erotica Project was created -- I skimmed the online reviews
of the New York play, and every possible complaint was there, ranging
from the basic "it's porn" fuss to a criticism for their not using
more body-types, ethnic actors, and gay experiences. But they say
they were just two white, heterosexual women who were friends, and
they wanted to put on their own vision of strong women owning all
aspects of their sexuality.
And the book is indeed powerful. Some of my favorite erotic writing
is short, poetic pieces that work best if read out loud -- writing
that lands with the impact of a good poem. I've been reading The
Best American Poetry 2000 alongside The Erotica Project,
alternating back and forth, since neither can be read entirely in
a single sitting without sensory overload. At some point the poetry
mixes in with the erotic writing and it seems to me that with a
little more boldness in our world, they could be intermixed. Both
should be read with a bit of poetic drama for maximum impact, and
both of them reach inside to touch you someplace beyond ordinary
literature.
The 75 stories (prose poems? monologues? hard to know what exactly
to call them) in The Erotica Project range from the smutty
to the soulful to the mildly shocking, and they come complete with
interspersed black and white photos of the women, my favorite of
which shows them both naked, with one of them covered in papers
and books on all her private parts, and the second woman is writing
on her belly amidst the papers.
Some of my favorite writing is from "A Man in My Thighs," where
Wilson writes a single, gorgeous, 200 word sentence that is most
of the piece:
Objectify me and I'll objectify
you, and that will be our highest form of love. I don't want anything
intricate. I don't need S/M, special novel sex, touch-my-clit-this-way
sex, be sure to screw me only when the scent of rotten apples
is filling the bed, make sure that Vivaldi is playing, that the
Backstreet Boys are blaring, fuck me with pornography weighing
us down on the bed, sit in the corner and dial up a 900 woman
who will give you a blow job over the phone, and whack off for
me - while you retain a calm voice over the phone, shoot your
spunk onto a centerfold, take a bite of steak before making out
with me, plant tulips and mangoes and apricots in my cunt and
eat them out of me, bronze my nipples and put them in the Smithsonian,
cast your torso and let me carry it around as a handbag, open
up a small café in my pussy and invite your parents and all your
friends over for coffee, look into my eyes and let your pupils
dilate as you come and mouth my name - and when you make me come,
it's like a house with a goddamn chimney flowing because you are
home.
Many of the stories are passionate like that, and some have a
bit of a girl-power twist, like "When He Kisses Me":
In my dream he pulls the sheets
back and they are clean, a clean white-silk landscape. He stands
over me and takes off his clothes, lies down next to me, pours
me a glass of cold champagne. Pours the champagne over my naked
body, licks it up, and makes love to me. Afterward, I am wrapped
up in his white robe. He thinks I am unattainable, fashionable,
and passionate. I sit silently, inscrutably, and lap up my hot
coffee. It will take him a lifetime to get inside my head, inside
my heart, but he is willing to wait. Because, by God, here is
a woman worth waiting for.
There is also a section on youth, full of plenty of attitude, called
"Sex at Nineteen," and a closing section called, "When I Kiss You,
Your Mouth is Filled," complete with some true power in "Ten Thousand
Volts of Electricity":
I want a prescription for Valium,
Librium, and cocaine. And then I want ten thousand volts of electricity
shot through my skull so I'll forget everything. I want Freud,
Jung and Miller to screw me and every TV talk-box idiot to write
my life story on the back of a pack of matches, sell it for a
quarter on the corner where they sell dime bags of pot. I want
long black hair, red lipstick, high heels dug into the small of
my back. I want a black man and a white woman to tongue me to
death and ten thousand volts of electricity shot hot up to my
pussy. Hook me up to a socket, wire me, brain me, shock me.
I'd go see The Erotica Project in a flash if it came anywhere
near my town, and I can't think of a more soulful and sexier way
to spend an evening than to read some of these with your lover,
a group of friends, or on a long-distance phone call to someone
in need of a little post-holiday cheer.
©2000 by Susannah
Indigo
Reader Comments
Susannah Indigo
is the Editor-in-Chief of Clean Sheets.
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