Last week my boyfriend called me at the office and yelped into the phone, "I think your friend Rachel is masturbating on Real Sex!"
Yeah, probably, I replied, shrugging to myself. Rachel Kramer Bussel has been writing about sex for many years now, but for those of us lucky enough to know her, the naughty stuff seems such a small part of who she is. When I think of Rachel, I don't think about nipple clamps or penises—the first things that springs to mind are cupcakes. Then babies. Then a mountain of overstuffed tote bags, brimming with manuscripts, books, and god knows what else—with a cute little lady struggling under their weight. If I ever win Lotto, I'm hiring Rachel a sherpa.
But while I sometimes forget about Rachel's prurient side, the fact is, she's an amazing sex writer and editor. Witness her latest collection, Dirty Girls: Erotica for Women. Hello, there's a nipple on the cover! And plenty of titillating goodness inside. You can check out the blog for more, but I've got a filthy little piece for you right here (I like to think she chose this bit for me because it's very catholic—just like moi):
We stood in silence, awed by the power of the place. The ceilings were three stories high, and arched with solid oak beams. The ceiling was covered with a mural of the Virgin Mary, and the stained glass windows on either side rose two stories before joining the mural in a cacophony of color and priceless artistry. Even the pews were lovely, obviously hand-carved out of expensive woods. Three steps led to the altar. An imposing crucifix hung as the focal point in the massive church.
Adam automatically dipped his fingers into the holy water at the back of the church and genuflected. He murmured something that was foreign to my Southern Baptist ears. His eyes were wide as he took in the church.
“It's beautiful, isn't it?” he whispered.
“Absolutely,” I praised.
“Let's sit,” he prompted.
The pew was surprisingly comfortable. Adam always kept a small rosary in his pocket⎯it was like his guardian angel, he would always say⎯and now he pulled it out of his pocket and played with it, turning it over and over in his hands as I lay my damp head on his shoulder. We didn't speak, content to just look around for the longest time. I listened to the silence.
“Is anyone in here, you think?” I asked him.
“I'm sure someone is nearby.”
I trailed my hand up and down his thigh. Adam quietly fingered the beads of his rosary while I stroked his leg. Maybe it was the heathen in me that my Baptist preacher never could quite talk away, but I found myself growing wet at the very thought of fucking Adam in a church.
I don't know where the idea came from. Maybe it was that polished table that boasted a long sentence in Latin, then below it: Do this in remembrance of me.
“Hmmmm?” He seemed to be almost asleep.
“I want you.”
“To do what?” he asked.
I snickered. “No, silly. I want you.”
He looked down at me, still not understanding. I made it very clear.
“I want you to fuck me in this church.”
Adam started to laugh. I didn't. He sobered very quickly.
“You are serious,” he stated flatly.
In response, I took the rosary from his hand and pressed it hard to his crotch. He grew hard almost immediately, despite his wide-eyed look of astonishment. I moved the smooth beads around the outside of his shorts, then slid them up inside the leg of them to press the rosary against his balls. Adam's hand covered mine to pull it away, but he hesitated as I slid the beads up his hardening shaft.