0 comments/ 63319 views/ 12 favorites Postman By: Boxerpete My wife Kay is a bored housewife we have two kids and a nanny, so other than play with herself all day and go to the gym I'm not sure what she does while I'm at work! She has just turned 40 and she is always horny, she normally jumps me as I walk in the door if the kids and nanny are out and gets me to lick her pussy and fuck her if we have time. For her age she is a cracker 5.8" tall a great arse and big C cup's plastic but they look real and are fun to play with her hair is dark brown and is in a bob, she is down the gym most days and has a all over tan. I got a picture message at work yesterday of her on our bed on all fours with a dildo in her pussy and a small vibe up her arse taken in the mirror, it said get home soon I have something to show you! I got home and she told me she wanted to show me something on her phone, it was a photo of her kneeling down in our hallway naked it was taken from above and not by her, the next photo was of her with a big black cock resting on her chin then in her mouth, there was about 10 more of her sucking and licking on this black cock, the last few shots was of her face covered in spunk and her licking spunk off this mystery cock. She told me she answered the door naked to the postman and asked him if he wanted his cock sucked?, which he jumped at the chance of, she got him to take the photos for me! He wanted to fuck her but she said not now maybe later if he could find a friend to help him!. The following week I had a call at work from Kay asking me to come home as quick as I could, I told work I had an appointment I had forgot about and made my way home, I pulled up on the drive there was a jeep 4x4 on the drive I did not know this car. I opened the front door and heard Kay call to me in the living room in here babe, I walked down the hall into the sitting room to find Kay naked except for her shoes & stockings in the middle of the room and 2 guys sitting on the sofa's, just in time babe get your camera as these boys are going to fuck me right here and now in front of you. I later found out it was the postman and his brother, Kay dropped to her knees and the guys got their cocks out and she wanked and suck on both of them as I took some photos, the postman pushed her forward and sunk his cock into her pussy it was a good 9" she sucked his brother off at the same time he was about 8" but really thick. They swapped around and both took turns in her pussy and mouth until she said is nobody going to fuck my arse? It did not take long for her to have a cock in each hole it was her first DP see told me later and she loved it. I used her mouth as they fucked her in unison, she was in heaven coming over and over again and I shot my load in her mouth, both guys wanted to cum over her face like a porn star and she was more than happy to do that. So she kneeled on the floor and they both got close to her face wanking away hard, one, then two loads of cum hit her full in the face & in her hair, the postman then grabbed her hair and fucked her face as the cum dripped off onto her tits. They got dressed and left thanking us for the fun time and asked if they could do her again some time? Yes she said in a second, once they had gone I got Kay into her knees pushed her forward and fucked her arse for all I was worth spunking deep in her arse while calling her a slut, whore, tramp, as I slapped her arse hard. I love my wife very much but she is turning into a complete slut, I get a new photo most weeks now of her taking somebody's cock, I got one this week of her being spit roasted in a gym somewhere by the postman and his brother again my question was who took the photos?! I'm not to bothered as I'm fucking the hell out of the nanny when I can, who is only 23 and a lovely little black girl with a arse to die for half my age. Postmodern Man William Smith studied the catalog from Nassau Community College. The summary of one course caught his eye: "Lit102 - Postmodern Man - Exploration of this Postmodern movement which started twenty years ago and continues today, focusing on how it affected workers in film, the theater, and almost every intellectual and artistic field of endeavor." William, who preferred being called "Bill" by his neighbors, smiled and proceeded to register online. The neighbors thought him a "man of mystery" because of the odd hours he kept. He seemed to have plenty of money and drove a large car, but it wasn't clear what he did for a living. He often vanished for several days and then reappeared. Moreover, Bill frequently paused while walking, to make entries in a small notebook. Strange behavior indeed! When asked what the hell he was doing, he would smile and say that he was simply gathering ideas for stories about life in suburban America. He always added the phrase, "I'm a harmless writer. Just call me 'Bill'. OK?" After a while, they stopped worrying about his behavior because he did seem harmless. There were others in the Somerset Gardens apartment complex who posed more of a threat; for example, elderly Miss Tremble who muttered to herself about imaginary rapists and how she would use a kitchen knife on them. Two months after arriving at Somerset Gardens, Bill had blended in well, perfect cover for a reporter on a secret writing assignment. On the first night of class, Bill found Room 342 in Asimov Hall and joined others waiting for Lit102 to start. It was a motley crew, which was to be expected for a group of aspiring writers. At exactly 7:30 PM the instructor appeared. What a sight she was, even for the multispectral scanners which lay behind the blue pupils of Bill's eyes. He focused on the lovely bare body beneath her clothes, a trivial use of multispectral scanning technology. In his defense, one might argue that he'd been away from Pohl 509, his home planet, for a long time and was terribly lonely. She introduced herself as "Miss Gilhooly." Bill searched his memory banks on the topic of ethnicity, discovering that she was probably of Irish extraction, and that her red hair was consistent with the profile for Irish women - passionate and loving in nature, although quick to anger. His civilization on Pohl 509 hadn't happened yet - a seeming paradox. Bill was on a voyage of exploration to the past, a traveler in spacetime. It had occurred to him, when he read the college catalog, that he was truly a "Post Modern man", someone from the future. Perhaps he could discover what people in this time and place knew about time travel. His editor, John Campbell, loved the idea of such investigations. Bill could easily return to Pohl 509 and his own Galactic Time coordinate (GT 567.897.+9806) by twisting and then pulling a mole located on his neck. It was the only "defect" on an otherwise perfect human body, constructed by technicians on Pohl 509 for his mission to Earth. He approached Miss Gilhooly after class, inquiring if she had time for a few questions. She glanced at the time-keeping device on her wrist, hesitated, and then answered, "I have some time. What are your questions?" "I'm afraid that I may have signed up for the wrong course. I'm not a Lit major." "No problem, as far as I'm concerned. You don't have to be a Lit major to take this course. What's your major?" "I'm a...you'd best call it a Physics major." "I don't know much about Physics. What's your specialty?" "Time travel." "Is there really a field called 'Time Travel'? I thought that was only a Science Fiction thing." "Well, I'm in the field, and I'm quite sure that it's not fiction." "Amazing! By the way, I like to correlate people's faces with names on the Class Roster. What's your name?" "William Smith. 'Bill' to my friends." She glanced down at the roster, made a check mark, and responded. "Ok, Bill. Your other questions?" "From the course title, I assumed that time travel was to be discussed. Since I know something about that field, I was interested in taking the course." "What led you to such an unusual idea?" "It's simple logic. I would call today the 'Modern Age'. That's by definition. The word 'Post' means sometime later. Hence, 'Post Modern' means a future time." She laughed, saying, "My, that's a new one on me. By 'postmodern' we mean movements in literature that arose as a reaction to the philosophy and practices of avant garde modern literature and plays. It's a revolution of sorts. It usually involves a revival of traditional elements and techniques. Professor Cervo at NYU has written papers on postmodern developments in the theater. His papers are hard to find though. I could loan copies to you. Are you interested in the theater?" At this point, he would have claimed interest in anything she mentioned. His multispectral scanner had detected a lovely odor from what humans would refer to as her "cunt." He'd been away from home a long time, far too long since his last sex release session at the Gratification Center. "Yes, I'm interested in the theater," he replied. "Are his papers hard to obtain? Can I speak to him in person if questions arise in my mind after I read his papers?" "He's a busy man, one who writes on such topics as an intellectual hobby. I've heard that he writes erotica, but that's just a rumor. He's an actor, and a director of plays. I should think he'd be hard to talk with, because he lives way out in Brooklyn, near the Gowanus Canal. Rumor also has it that he's into spanking. Of course I'm not interested in such things." Ping! Ping! His scanner had detected a blatant lie. She was interested in spanking. [Technical note from the Editor: The Lie Detector Option is not usually installed in scanners used on Pohl 509, to protect political figures from embarrassment. For travelers to distant places and times, the Option is enabled.] Bill decided that she was worth pursuing, her red hair and curvaceous body being strong inducements. Besides, John Campbell liked stories with a sexual slant. Another thing that motivated him was that spanking was the only form of sexual play regulated on Pohl 509. It went on only in private, between consenting adults. All else, including bondage and sadomasochism, was openly practiced and encouraged as forms of self-expression. Time travelers encounter wide variation in sexual practices throughout spacetime, one reason for the large number of applicants for the job of Investigative Reporter -- many apply, few are chosen. Bill replied, "Too bad that you're not interested in spanking. I'm an expert in that area, so to speak. But that's not important. There are other things, such as literature, on which one can focus. Are you free for a cup of coffee? By the way, what is your first name?" "It's Sheila. Maybe I'll have coffee with you tonight, but I have a great deal to do at home. It will have to be quickie, so to speak." Ping! Ping! Another lie - she had nothing to do at home, except surf the Internet for spanking stories. She dreamt of the day a handsome man would take her over his knee and spank her ass until it was rosy red and smarting. Then he would take her into his arms and kiss her tears away. The Irish are big dreamers. They went to the College parking lot together. He said, "Your must know this area better than me. I'll follow your car. Best give me directions, in case I lose your car." "You did say that you're an expert spanker, didn't you?" "Yes, I'm an expert. But what does that have to do with driving instructions?" "It's a sensitive topic for most people. At the diner I had in mind, it's hard to have a private conversation. How do you feel about coming to my place instead, for coffee and a chat?" How he felt could best be judged by the way the large penis provided for Bill by the body technicians on Pohl 509 responded. It rose, and his breathing rate increased. "Good idea. I'll follow you." She lived in a small house, separated from neighbors by privet hedges. He pulled his car into the driveway, behind hers. There was an awkward moment, broken by her. She took him by the hand and said, "Let me lead you. There are no lights outside. I don't want you to stumble and fall." It was their first physical contact. Bill's hand was against her skirt, right next to her curvaceous bottom. It exuded heat, even through the cloth of her skirt. It had been too long, he thought, since he'd felt a shapely ass, on his last visit to the Gratification Center. It had been even a longer time for her: she had never had a male hand so close to her bottom, except for medical exams. She took off her jacket and asked for his coat, in order to put it into a closet. When she turned away, toward the closet, her lovely rear was clearly outlined beneath a very tight skirt. A drop of precum formed on Bill's cock, due to his obsession with that feature of female anatomy. Sheila put romantic music in the CD player and motioned for him to sit down on the couch. "Would you like a drink?" "A beer would be fine. I'll just listen to the background music until you return. Lovely piece, indeed." She looked closely at him, to see if his last comment was a double entendre. He looked innocent, too innocent. To hell with him! She'd been called a lovely piece before, by Irish guys. She came back to the living room, carrying drinks and a thick folder. "I have some things here that I downloaded from the Internet: spanking stories. I'd like your comments about some of them, since you're an expert in that area, so to speak." "Sure. Why don't you come to the couch, close to me? You'll be able to hear me better that way." She sat close to him, very close, and handed him the folder. He did a quick scan of the contents of her folder. She had downloaded many spanking stories. One caught his eye; the author was listed as "Sheila G." - he held it out for her to see. "God damn," she said. "I thought all of those were in a different folder. Give it to me, please." Her cheeks were red with embarrassment, and her voice shook. "Hey, Sheila, nothing to be ashamed of. Sit right there as I read your story. I'll read silently until I find something I'd like to discuss with you. OK?" "Go ahead, but I don't like what's happening, not one bit. Please give that story back to me. It's a very private story and I hate the thought of a new acquaintance reading it." "Relax. Here's one part that I think could be improved." '... she was over his lap, nude, with her ass available to Sir Anthony. He whaled away at her ass with his paddle, until it was red and starting to show blisters. She felt used by her Master and excited at the same time...' "What about that part?" she said. "I think it's pretty hot stuff." "Too much 'tell' and not enough 'show'. It's a common fault with beginning authors. How did she feel, down deep inside?" "I don't understand what you just said." "I'll demonstrate, if you wish. Take your skirt off, and lie face down, over my lap." "This is crazy. What do you take me for?" "I take you for a lovely young woman who has had a fantasy about being spanked for many years, a woman who has almost given up hope of experiencing that in real life. Now is your chance to have the real thing, at the hands of an expert. Say 'yes', and you'll never regret it." "Will it hurt?" "Of course, but only up to your limit. If you say 'please stop' at any time, I'll stop." "Can I trust you?" "Yes, of course. I'm not a rapist. Everything between us will be consensual. Come, Sheila, take your skirt off and lie across my lap." She had never faced such a decision before. He looked like a nice guy, the music was romantic, and - most importantly - she didn't know if an opportunity like this would ever come along again. She removed the skirt slowly and stood before him. "The panties too," he said. "A good spanking requires good contact." Sheila hesitated and then slipped her panties down, revealing a mound covered with auburn curls. "Turn around," he said, "very slowly." She turned, revealing what Bill had hoped to see, feel, and spank: a beautiful rounded bottom. "Come, lie over my lap," he said. She did so, awaiting the first impact of his hand. Instead, he gently stroked her shapely ass, lingering at the crack between her wondrous globes. "How do you feel?" "Why are you talking instead of spanking?" "Just answer the question." "I'm...excited." "That's 'telling', not 'showing'. What happens when you get excited?" "I can't believe it! This has turned out to a Lit discussion about writing, not a spanking, you creep! My cunt is getting wet, and my pulse is racing. I see pulsating red spots behind my eyes. I'm turned on by your hand in my crack and I'm faint due to my desire to get swatted real hard. Is that what you wanted to hear?" "Yes, now you're showing how excited you are, rather than just telling me. Enough of the art of writing erotica for this evening. Let's get on with the spanking." With that, he smacked her across the ass, not too hard, but just enough to get her to jump a bit. The spanking continued, with increasing force, alternating from one ass cheek to the other, until her bottom was quite red. She was breathing hard, squirming, and thrilled with her introduction to spanking. "That's enough for tonight," he said. "God, don't stop now. I've never felt like this before!" "There will be more spanking next week, after Lit102. Your ass is very red. A few blisters may appear by morning. I'll put some lotion on your beautiful behind and leave." Thus, the traveler in spacetime and the redheaded Lit Professor embarked on their journey together into the erotic world of spanking. After a session the following week, he stayed over, cuddling and kissing her, rather than going home right after the spanking. They hadn't had sex yet; both assumed it would happen someday. But something happened to upset their plans for the future. As they lay in bed one night, resting after a very intense spanking session, there was a chime she hadn't heard before. "What's that noise, Bill?" "It's my pager," he said, pointing to his left wrist. "It looks like a cheap wristwatch to me." "The technicians at home are very clever. Pardon me, while I scan the message." Sheila watched as he stared at a message which scrolled down the device on his left wrist. He seemed disturbed. "What's wrong?" "John Campbell is retiring. I'm being called home to fill his shoes. I'll have to leave within the hour. I'm really sorry, dear. There is one solution, though, come with me." "To another universe, and in the future? Up to now I've accepted your story because you're such a great lover. You cannot be serious!" "I am serious. You can go with me to a world full of marvels not even imagined by people on Earth. Please come with me." "I hope this is all true, and not a fantasy on your part. How do we get there?" "I have this button on my neck which looks like a mole. If I twist it and then pull it out, I'll be transported to Pohl 509." "Assuming that's true for you, which I find hard to believe, how do I come along with you?" "We have to be...connected, so to speak." "Does that mean what I think it means?" "Yes, it's only a matter of time until we would have been...connected." Sheila stared at him for a while, comparing her life before meeting him to her life since they'd met. She had no close family to consider, and the teaching job wasn't inspiring. She would go with him! "Let's get connected. How shall we do that?" "It can be face-to-face, with my tool inserted into your pleasure cave. Or, it could be with me in back, connected to you from behind. I recommend face-to-face, since it will seem like an eternity, and the journey can be a lonely one. That's why time travel is not as popular as you might think. If we are face-to-face it will be comforting for both of us: kissing, feeling each other's bodies, and that sort of thing, while we're connected." "You said it will seem like an eternity? Why is that?" "Time travel is hard to explain to someone who doesn't know the concept. In one sense, the journey from the present to the future takes but an instant, to people at either end. But, to the people in transit, it seems to take almost forever. I don't know the scientific details, but it has to do with linking different universes, irrespective of the apparent time at each end." "I'll do it. I just hope it works. Let's get comfy, face to face. Now insert your cock into my cunny." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "It's in, Sheila. It feels so good, as I move it in and out! How do you feel?" "Fantastic! I'm shaking, and my pussy is spasming around your beautiful cock. I'm full of your essence - It's better than I'd imagined! My heart is pounding, and I see those pulsating red spots again; I'm about to come. Pull the damn mole!" * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Thus, the longest orgasm ever recorded took place, for almost an eternity, so to speak, as they traveled to Pohl 509. Of course they lived happily ever after. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Copyright 2004 by Lesly Sloan. This story may not be distributed or copied without the express permission of the author. Postmodern Porn (Note:The following essay was meant as a curiosity, or even a joke. Certainly, I've yet to come across anything comparable that's been written. The reader should be forewarned that there is nothing the least bit erotic below, aside from the excerpts from "Friday Night"; if anything, in fact, these pages are likely to lessen your enjoyment of erotic stories. I believe my arguments are sound. At any rate, if you actually read through the entire thing, you are perfectly free to consider it a pretentious load of crap.) Erotic stories—and, indeed, pornographic material in general—have received far too little critical attention. If the number of Literotica readers and writers is any indication, however, this is a genre that deserves to be analyzed, if not for its artistic merits, then at least for its societal impact. Seeing the field of criticism laying fallow, I have decided to take on this burden myself. I will narrow my focus to a single story, "Friday Night," by Ravynsloft, to enable a more in-depth reading of a single text. Obviously this story cannot function as an embodiment of all the elements found in the genre, but it raises more than enough issues to be worth the effort of interpretation. A few words on my methodology are in order. Stuart Hall, in "The Work of Representation," distinguishes three theories of representation that in turn can become modes of literary criticism: the "reflective approach," in which "meaning is thought to lie in the object, person, idea or event in the real world, and language functions like a mirror, to reflect the true meaning as it already exists in the world"; the "intentional approach," which "holds that it is the speaker, the author, who imposes his or her unique meaning on the world through language"; and the "constructionist approach," in which "it is social actors who use the conceptual systems of their culture and the linguistic and other representational systems to construct meaning, to make the world meaningful and to communicate about that world meaningfully to others." It is this last approach that I use: rather than use Rayvnsloft's text to illuminate the "real world" or attempt to guess what he intended his text to mean as he wrote it, I will look at the mechanisms that the story constructs its meaning in relation to the reader—in other words, not why the story is the way it is, but how it does what it does. Somewhat as a prefatory aside I must mention some questions raised by the story as a whole regarding the conditions of representability itself. If we are to believe his profile, Ravynsloft is male, aged "41 to 50." Yet "Friday Night" is told from the first person viewpoint of a teenage girl; indeed, the only male presences in the story are Brad, Jackie's boyfriend known only through Jackie's words, and Michelle's dad, who appears only briefly during the breakfast scene. (From a psychoanalytic perspective it would be interesting to consider how these figures may function as surrogates for male readers, or for the author himself—but these considerations fall outside the boundaries of my analysis.) The relationship between the author and the character must, therefore, be one of empathy, not identification; whether this empathy is an example of inappropriate intrusion or of insight is a moral question that I cannot answer. The paradox of the middle age man speaking as the teenage woman implicitly calls into question, by its very prominence, the basic assumption of fiction itself: the ability of the author to take on the psyche and experiences of the "other." In the case of "Friday Night," we are presented with a sort of second-degree representation: first, the author is representing the story to the reader, but he must also have gleaned the elements from which he constructed the story from another representation (unless one assumes that Ravynsloft has the uncanny ability to imagine sexual acts he has never seen, heard or read about). In all likelihood, he made use of other erotic stories as sources, since he shares many of the same linguistic tropes used by other stories. The whole of Literotica, in fact, might be considered a self-reinforcing social construction (even though, of course, it does not exist in physical space); each story makes use of the available erotic discourse and, in turn, contributes to it. It would make a fascinating project to trace the origins of Literotica, its early years and influences, to see how this construction came into existence—a project, unfortunately, beyond my abilities. I have above allowed myself to stray far from the text of "Friday Night" itself. I wish now, by contrast, the focus specifically on the ways the story constructs the identities of the two main characters. To begin with, "Friday Night" makes use of the narrative archetype of innocence and experience. Almost from her first appearance Jackie is shown to belong to the second category: "She was supposed to be on a date with Brad, her boyfriend for the last few months. She was dressed to kill, with a satiny red miniskirt so short she didn't dare bend over. The side was cut open almost to her waist and held together with three taut strings. The only panties you could wear with it was a thong, unless you wanted them to show thought the slit. I certainly wouldn't have the guts to wear a thong with a skirt that short and tight." (p. 1) Michelle, as Jackie's necessary antitype, is shown as the inexperienced and somewhat shy best friend—a figure common in all types of erotic stories but doubly so in those with a lesbian theme: "I was still a virgin, but I got to live out some pretty wild fantasies though her stories. She always told me what happened on her dates, with all the juicy details. When she left I would masturbate while thinking about her beautiful naked body writhing underneath her latest muscular hunk." (p. 1) Using the innocent friend as the foil to the "slut" enables a narrative of initiation into pleasure, and thus introduces a dramatic tension that might be lacking if both characters were sexually experienced. And, as is made especially clear above, it allows the reader to enjoy both the excitement of this initiation and the more immediate satisfaction that comes with the description of the experienced character's sexual escapades. Yet there is also, throughout "Friday Night," a tone of innocence in the representations of both Michelle and Julia. The most important element in this effect is their youth: "Jackie is my best friend. Our birthdays were only 11 days apart and four weeks ago we had a combined party to celebrate turning 18," Michelle is made to narrate. This plays on another fantasy, the ideal of pure, young love, without the complications brought by age. True, "Friday Night" does not make quite so idealized an impression. At the heart of the narrative, after all, is Jackie's (unseen) relationship (and breakup) with Brad. But Michelle and Brad's playful attitude to sex—and, indeed, their insatiable sexual appetites—construct an image of youthful vigor. Depending on the reader, of course, one may either identify with their experience or contrast it to one's own as an unattainable ideal. (To a large extent, after all, the erotic story functions as an impossible fantasy—doubly impossible in cases when the sexuality of the protagonist's differs from that of the reader, as when a man reads a lesbian story). Contained within the narrative of innocence, experience and youth is also the concept of discovery. Michelle and Jackie, never having made love to women before, are necessarily discovering new techniques as they go along. Consider the following passage: "The sight of this artificial penis moving in and out of Jackie's pussy mesmerized me. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was heavy and erratic. Her pussy lips seemed to cling to it as I retracted the dildo. Then I remembered something I had read in a magazine once about a woman's G spot. I tilted the base down slightly so that the head would rub up against the roof of her vagina, right where the G spot was supposed to be. "Oh...Oh!...Oohhhhh!" Jackie cried out as an orgasm raced through her. Her head was thrashing from side to side and her white knuckled hands were clenching the bed covers. When she began to calm down, I slowed down the motion of the dildo. "Where did you learn that trick?" Jackie asked breathlessly. "I've never had a guy hit my spot like that before. That was amazing." (p. 4) Here, clearly, is a moment of discovery. But the discovery must be mediated in some way if Michelle is to retain her innocence—hence the phrase "something I had read in a magazine." The means of discovery, therefore, must be through another text; if Michelle had discovered Jackie's "G spot" completely by accident the episode would have jeopardized both Jackie's character and the comprehensibility of the story. Using the term "G spot" allows the (presumably well-informed) reader to make an immediate association between the action described in the story and a previously known sexual practice. To reclaim the "G spot" as the unique property of the narrative—in other words, to prevent it from becoming a colorless cliché—Ravynsloft must introduce a superlative statement ("I've never had a guy. . .") that, as it were, transcends the threat of clinical sterility. There is yet another side to the concept of discovery, however. In a narrative such as "Friday Night" the reader empathizes with the characters in the act of discovery. However, there is also clearly a way that the reader is made to feel superior to the characters through his or her understanding of the story's structure. The reader, in other words, is given a kind of omniscience that is evident even in the first-person narrative of "Friday Night." This is conveyed most directly in characters' incomprehension of their own feelings: "I watched as my hands took on life of their own. They rose as if lifted by invisible spirits and softly cupped Jackie's breasts. The flesh was warm and smooth. Jackie groaned and arched her back, pushing her tits into my palms. Wait, what was I doing? How had I let things go this far? Why was I turned on by this scene? My mind was filled with confusion, but my hands were filled with the soft, supple flesh of Jackie's rounded tits. I struggled to find myself while my fingers rolled her nipples. I wanted so badly to stand up and flee, and at the same time lean down and kiss her beautiful breasts. Paralyzed, I did neither." (p. 1) The reader, of course, knows exactly why Michelle feels the way she feels: she is filled with an unacknowledged desire for Jackie's body. The very fact that the narrative is framed as an erotic story under the "lesbian" category prepares us precisely for what is to come, if not in the finer details, then in general outline. This knowledge constitutes a form of power over Michelle's body and mind: the reader knows her better than she knows herself. The passage quoted above is interesting in another sense because it appears to document Michelle's discovery of a new form of desire that already existed within her: "Was I gay? Why did Jackie playing with herself affect me like this? Why on earth did I grab her tits? I knew part of the answer. Because she asked me to. A second reason floated in my thoughts I almost sobbed out loud. I also did it because I wanted to. I started to tremble and shake with the realization that I had feelings for Jackie that went way beyond being her best friend. I had always idolized her, but now I knew that was just a mask for a deeper longing." (p.1) Michelle's "deeper longing" would seem to indicate she sees her sexuality as a reflection of a pre-discursive reality that exits independent of conscious thought. Even so, however, it is significant that it is only through running these thoughts through her mind—that is, through words—that this reality becomes visible. Ravynsloft, however, emphatically disavows identification with a specifically defined identity group: "All of my worries vanished. This was what it was. There was no point in over analyzing it. Why should I put her or myself into that box or this one. It didn't matter if I was bi or gay, or straight. I was Michelle and she was Jackie, and that's all I needed to know. I accepted the situation for what it was." (p. 2) Direct emotional experience, in this case, is promoted above rational thought—a common trope, one might add, in erotic stories. Jackie herself makes a similar point slightly later in the story, saying "I hate those labels. It's like being lesbian or bi says more about you that how you treat people, or how smart you are, or anything else." Ravynsloft seems to be hinting at a point made by, among others, the lesbian theorist Judith Butler: that the conflation of the self with the identity category may be overly simplistic and, potentially, may serve to reinforce oppressive regulatory regimes. In Butler's words, "a Foucauldian perspective might argue that the affirmation of 'homosexuality' is itself an extension of homophobic discourse." There remains, on the other hand, the opposite possibility: that the erasure of the lesbian identity serves to contain "abnormal" sexualities within the dominant (heterosexist) regime. Thus the reader, especially the male reader, may wish to retain the physical aspects of lesbianism as objects of arousal while eliminating the identity category "lesbian" due to its political danger. Nothing I have written above is intended as a value judgment. If appraisals of "quality" are to be made at all, they will take place in the mind of each individual reader. I selected "Friday Night" not because I wish to condemn it, nor necessarily because I enjoy it (though, as it happens, I do), but because it provides a way to discuss many issues brought up by the erotic stories within a single, relatively compact work. Even so, I have hardly exhausted the critical possibilities of the story—I never even mentioned, for example, the ways the story constructs the idea of lesbian love, or its incorporation of exhibitionism, or its implicit generational relationships. I have also tried to avoid broad generalizations or sweeping statements on the nature of all erotic stories; rather, I have attempted to draw out certain points from Ravynsloft's work without making the unverifiable assumption that these points necessarily refer to the genre as a whole. The reader must judge for him or herself to what extent my points are valid, for "Friday Night" or any other of the stories on Literotica.