Memoirville

EXCERPT: Entangled Lives, Memoirs of 7 Top Erotica Writers

Monday, August 27th, 2007

By piper

Even more than practitioners of other genres, erotica writers invite readers into a fantasy world. So what happens when we throw back the covers and peer between their real-life sheets? In her new book, Marilyn Jaye Lewis asks seven of the hottest erotic voices to bare all, sharing intimate stories from their very private lives. Below, Bill Brent exposes a meth-fueled episode you have to see to believe. Then read this round-table interview for some raw, honest explanations of the erotic writers’ Entangled Lives.

This Insane Allure

Visually, Wayne was a forty-something version of Willie Nelson. That’s one of the funny things Entangled Lives: Memoirs of 7 Top Erotica Writersabout fucking so many different men—eventually you get to fuck a reasonable facsimile of everybody famous.

We meet at Fort Troff, a wondrously sleazy, twin-towered adult playland-in-a-warehouse equipped to accommodate a dazzling array of sexual interests. I saw it featured in a bareback sex movie, Pigs at the Troff, and knew I had to visit Atlanta someday to check it out.

The club is everything I’ve hoped for, and more. It doesn’t open until midnight. Dimly lit concrete surfaces and horizontal wooden plank walls.

All night long, Wayne and I keep showing up on the periphery of each other’s scenes with other men. At last, we both come up for air at the same moment, with nary a dick or hole in either mouth, long enough to strike up a conversation. My ride (who has been riding me in more ways than one) has just informed me that he is leaving soon, so it’s time to put up or shut up. Wayne is more than happy to put up.

We leave the club in his small pickup. About half a mile out, Wayne asks if it would be okay to pick up a buddy of his. What am I supposed to do, say no? It’s his truck. We pull into the parking lot of another sex club, where his buddy is waiting in the parking lot. After brief introductions, the three of us head out to the Interstate. Dirk is silent. Our thighs rub against each other in the cramped, tiny cab.

I am confused when we pull into Wayne’s driveway and his friend is still in the truck with us. Now I learn that they are exes who just live together now.

Or at least that’s Wayne’s version.

Wayne has charmed me into breaking two of my rules: (1) Don’t go home with strangers who pull surprises. (2) Always have a ride out of Dodge. I think I’ve done a good job of tracking our route back from Fort Troff, yet I’m not even sure which town I’m in now.

It is close to 6 a.m. We are sitting on chairs and a couch in the front room, and Wayne wants everyone to smoke a bowl of crystal out of Daddy’s big pipe.

It sounds weird now, but for a couple of years, this was no big deal. When I traveled, sex on speed was pretty much part of the trip. I was off-duty in every other sense during that vacation, so why not?

Mostly, though, sharing a pipe served as a way to connect. Communion. Group-mind. All that be-here-now focus I would have to learn to achieve down the line without the need to tweak. Anything. Least of all, myself.

So we smoke together, and soon I am ecstatically shotgunning meth vapor in and out of Wayne’s mouth. He keeps diverting my attention to Dirk, though. We pick at the donuts that Wayne picked up along the way home.

Wayne and Dirk have a discussion offstage, then inform me that Dirk’s sister is coming over to buy a puppy, maybe even two, from the squealing litter that Dirk has bred. We can play until she calls Dirk on his cell phone to give the ten-minute warning, but then they will have to sequester me in the “guest room,” which is really just a sling and a bunch of boxes stacked against the walls. No bed.

The meth makes me have to piss. Dirk trails me to the bathroom, so I piss on Dirk. Dirk directs me to his cock. Cocks go in and out of mouths. Wayne documents the whole initiatory scene. I still have the CD of photos: pictures of myself, bent over Wayne and Dirk’s toilet, pissing on Dirk, then sucking Dirk’s dark, bloated, uncut monster; a bit later, pictures of Dirk in the sling, head cocked in post-coital rapture, sphincter winking, my cum dribbling out of his anus. Click. Click. Click.

There is nothing special or magical about these photos. I look just like any anonymous tweaker with a mouth full of dick. My cock has three kinds of cockrings on it. I need a shave and a haircut. My irises are as big as buttons. We both look like emaciated wrecks.

Suddenly Dirk’s sister is around the corner. So now I lie alone in the playroom, covered with a blanket, rocking gently in Wayne’s sling, doing my best to relax and possibly even snooze a bit (on speed? Fat chance!) while Dirk’s family visits … for two hours!

Dirk’s six-year-old niece wanders down the hall while the adults are distracted in conversation. I am trapped. If I call out, it will blow their cover. If I don’t, she will see me, since the door does not hang right and it is impossible to close it completely. Later I will learn that all the doors in the house are like this, and that this is one of Dirk’s tricks to ensure that Wayne can never have complete privacy while Dirk is home.

I don’t want this to be happening. I try to erase myself. I will myself to be invisible. I’m really glad I insisted on this blanket.

Finally Dirk’s sister calls out, and her little girl replies, “Mommy, come look! There’s a man in this room!” The little girl is quickly scooped up and taken away. Despite this glaring lapse between my hosts’ onstage and offstage lives, the brood will remain for nearly another hour. Tick. Tick. Tick.

At last they depart. Dirk is overjoyed because now he has two puppies’ worth of money to take to the bank. Wayne at least has the decency to be contrite.

The rest of the day settles into a blur of douching and web-surfing. I learn from Wayne that Dirk’s family was ready to place him in Georgia’s mental institution until Wayne agreed to give him a place to live. Yet Wayne sleeps on the couch, while Dirk has the only available bedroom all to himself. I suppose they could make the sling-and-boxes room into a second bedroom, but that would require focus and commitment, which are two things in short supply among tweakers. When you’re high on speed, the first things to go out the window are your senses of priority and proportion.

Dirk takes me aside later and claims that he owns the house and can prove it in court. I also hear from Wayne that Dirk has been up for at least several days prior to my arrival. Furthermore, Wayne has a behind-the-scenes agreement with the owners of Fort Troff never to grant Dirk a club membership. Apparently it’s the only place in town where Wayne can reliably escape Dirk’s stalking. In a later chat, Dirk is sorely puzzled as to why he can never get a membership.

6 responses

  1. Marcy says:

    Wow, Bill, this is very far out. You’re more daring than I, for sure! Who knew?

  2. Sam says:

    Damn it sounds like you have a death wish or that you’re HIV+! You’re into PNP (party and play-sex with meth) and you’re having anon sex with strangers/tweakers that you met at the bareback only club FortTroff and you’re barebacking them! Have a nice life or what’s left of it.

  3. Sam says:

    Tweakers like you disgust me and give GLBT people a bad name.

  4. marilyn says:

    Luckily, it is still a free country and a (relatively) free Internet, and people who want to take the time to express disgust & contempt, and pass judgment with a lack of empathy for the plights of fellow human beings can do so. And do it publicly and with complete anonymity. Thank you for taking the time, Sam. Unfortunately, though, it’s a point of view we hear all too much of in this world.

  5. Anti-Sam says:

    Right. And if the People In Charge ever find it serves their purpose to round up the GLBTs and other so-called misfits, Sam is just the person we’ll all count on to stand up for us then.

    NOT.

    How pathetic.

  6. Puma says:

    To borrow Sam’s phrase, people like Sam disgust me.
    No empathy.
    No allowance for the fact that Bill may have subsequently gone through recovery.
    Sam gives like-minded LGBT people, and straights, also, a bad name: ready to pounce in a self-righteous manner on those who have the courage to share their darker side.
    Are we all supposed to present only our Pollyannaish side for those of Sam’s ilk?
    How dull! Most creative people, regardless of their specialty, have more than a few secrets to share. In fact, good literature has as some of its components rounded characters, character development, and conflict
    Bravo for Bill who has the courage to share a difficult period of his life!
    Puma

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