You know you’re getting old when some of your most prized and adventurous moments from your 20’s can now be accomplished in a fucking reading circle.
Meet the Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society. My awesome Facebook buddy K.Z., who might just know my work better than I do, sent me this HuffPo link to a story about a 95% female book club that meets around Manhattan, goes topless, and reads books together.
Read on for more book club (NSFW)…
As my buddy K.Z. immediately perceived, these women are obviously living an homage to my ebook, “Angela and the Big Park Tease (Angela’s Adventures)” (Amazon link). My story takes place in Bryant Park. This is a real park and I wrote the story based on the crazy exhibitionist shit that goes down there.
The women of the Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society also love Bryant Park, which is (fittingly) right behind the New York Public Library:
Now suddenly here is a book club that reenacts my first ebook! If I were to go meta, I’d say these women were reading my stories! If I were to go full Lindsey, I’d say this is also probably how women read my erotica stories: naked and in public, while soaking up lust from nearby clusters of men. (PS, never go full Lindsey.)
For what it’s worth, “Angela and the Big Park Tease (Angela’s Adventures)” was also my first self-published erotica story (it was originally titled “Teasing in the Park”). Though I’d written tons of erotica, this was my first real ebook and I got stupid. I forgot to include a sex scene. The climax involved the guy spitting in the girl’s mouth. Reader reviews? “Odd.”
Don’t worry! Since that time, I have familiarized myself with sex between humans and rewritten the story.
Original, with spitting:
Holding my tongue down with his thumb, and pulling my jaw open, he watched me for a while. I wondered what was next — a blowjob in the park? He leaned close, and then I expected some sort of byzantine kiss. But no. He suddenly spat directly in my mouth, letting my jaw go as I reflexively swallowed it.
How could he know me so well? It was the exactly perfect thing to do, with people watching and me naked and lusting in broad daylight.
“I love you,” I breathed, and launched myself at him. We kissed for a long moment, and then he walked away.
Current edition, without spitting:
“It’s about fucking time.”
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
“I’ve been your girlfriend ever since we met, Tyler.”
He hooked a finger under my chin and pulled it up. I had to climb off my stomach and into the air. I covered my breasts with one arm.
I know I had a choice. I didn’t have to make a spectacle of myself by kneeling above the surrounding crowd. But… His finger was on my chin, people! He had the cutest dimples when he smiled.
“Now that you’re my girlfriend, I’m going to enjoy you every way I possibly can, okay?” I nodded. “You’re mine, Angela.”
“That goes both ways.”
He pressed his dry thumb against my lips. I opened my mouth and he slid in. He pulled my jaw open.
What a scene we were making! He watched my face, my eyes, my flared nostrils, my held-open mouth. I let him enjoy himself. He had a look of ownership in his eyes that I delighted in watching.
Tyler leaned toward me. The next thing was a kiss. A beautiful kiss. We had no lead-up. No blundering around. His open mouth landed on mine and mine met his. My mouth was as damp and receptive as the pink between my legs. I got hot again, then flushed cool in the breeze. I cycled hot and cold like a broken coffee maker.
Tyler owned me with his mouth. He owned me with people watching, while I was nearly naked. Lust shimmered between us like hot air above a campfire. It refracted off the strangers in our audience. I was a hot, twenty-one-year-old cell tower with orgasm-pink skin, and I was collecting all the sexual desire in a 100-yard radius.
(To read more, buy the book…)
Most of my stories are about average (often smarter-than-average) women who let their sex-tigers off the leash in public. With trepidation, exhilaration, mortification, and deep, deep hunger, they let themselves become the fantasy-fulfilling urban maenads that every man secretly craves.
My women sublimate themselves in the fascination of strangers. They receive awe, lust, desire, and disbelief, and this opens them to receive everything physical the world can offer too. There are never bad consequences for these women. The worst they feel is degeneracy and humiliation, but that’s part of the thrill, too.
Nerve.com’s write-up of the topless book club observes:
There’s no denying the thrill … For a legal act, going topless in public is something that feels wholly forbidden, daring, and, as longtime member Shelby observes, “liberating.”
Why is the co-ed topless book club good?
Unlike my stories, the Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society is doing good work. They are actively expanding the public female space. If you want to feel wholesome and clean as you ogle their skin-filled blog, read some of their mission statement in their post On Modesty:
Why do we go topless in the park at the end of summer in the middle of New York City, where it is legal and any woman may do so if she wishes?
That’s fucking why.
That’s the difference. While I write about hot exhibitionists who experiment with crowd-sourced gratification, these hot exhibitionists are making the world safer for women and more beautiful for everybody. Respect.