I started this blog to do in a more thorough way what I also do in the books of EXPLORATIONS: that is, to provide the "real" version of the events allegorized, avatarized, and elaborated as hotly as I could elaborate them in EXPLORATIONS. The "truth" of these matters has a hotness all its own, I find, when I return there, to my first years with Charles, in my mind these ten or so years later.
I think I can probably also convey the hotness of my early struggles with my anal-submissive orientation: the repression, the sleepless nights, the sweet agony of the shower, the wild release when at last I gave in and masturbated, whether it was for just a few seconds that brought me to a frustratingly shallow orgasm or for hours on my stomach with my bottom raised and my hand on it, in it, in the quiet of my dark, chaste room, biting the inside of my cheek so that I wouldn't cry out and thinking about my Latin teacher taking my ass, just taking it, just taking it.
Or maybe that's not hot after all. We'll see.
In Emily's Submissive Wedding Night I told fantasy-Emily's version of the story of her awakening by porn to the importance of her anal-submissive orientation. I give a few hints there as to the reality behind it, but I want to tell that story at a bit more length, here, for myself and for anyone else who wants to read it.
My first memory of erotica was on board a ferry from Maine to Nova Scotia with my family, when I was thirteen. The tiny gift-shop on the ferry had a rack of books, and on the rack was a copy of one of the few editions of The Pearl that have come out over the years (unlike the one I later, finally, bought, only in a fit of guilt to throw away and instantly to regret having thrown away, this edition edited all the stories together into continuous narratives, rather than preserving the original shape of the journal numbers).
It may be because of the many, many times I subsequently read those same stories, "Lady Pokingham," "Sub-Umbra," "My Grandmother's Tale," and "Miss Coote's Confession," that the memory of the first punishment from "Lady Pokingham" has remained so vivid in my mind. At least in my reconstruction of my erotic life, the moment Beatrice (later to become the eponymous Lady Pokingham, whose new husband Lord Pokingham ravishes her bottom on their wedding night, also a signal moment for me) has her skirts pinned up so that she may be birched upon her bare bottom, was the moment that I knew that the shameful, secret fantasies of my bed, the ones of spanking and, then, ever so slightly more and more until it became dominant, of anal eroticism, were not peculiar to me.
Were I, Emily Tilton, really real, I'm sure I wouldn't disclose it, but the rest of that very long ferry ride was occupied by alternately retreating to our day-cabin to masturbate and returning to the gift-shop to read another story from The Pearl. The memory becomes the signal moment it is when, the ferry about to come into port, the gift-shop lady who had I'm sure been observing me all the while in disgust (these many years later I do wonder whether it was actually disgust or perhaps even sympathy) told me that if I wanted to read the book any more, I'd have to buy it.
I fled, and my flight then emblematizes my life with my anal-submissive orientation until Charles.