from “Elena”

ANAÏS NIN

Anaïs Nin never wanted to be an erotica writer. Her diaries indicate quite clearly that she thought erotica was a male-dominated genre in which a woman’s sense of the texture and nuance of sexuality could never be expressed. When a “collector” of erotic books commissioned first her friend Henry Miller and later Nin to write for a dollar a page, she was defiant: the “poetry” of sex would be lost if she was to write sex on command. Yet eventually she decided to try, and the results would later be published together under the title Delta of Venus. And though Nin felt that her diaries were her true explorations into sex as a woman, she eventually conceded that her voice also emerged in her erotica, despite the conventions of the genre.

Now, a half century later, the situation is rather different. Erotica is no longer a male stronghold, and much of the femininity that Nin was at pains to express has become the stuff of erotic cliché. Reading Nin is like reading a primer in the genre, though a very good one at that. Nin’s project was to inject humanity into writings on sex; contemporary erotica should try to pick up where she left off.

When she was about to come and could no longer defend herself against her pleasure, Leila stopped kissing her, leaving Bijou halfway on the peak of an excruciating sensation, half-crazed. Elena had stopped at the same moment.

Uncontrollable now, like some magnificent maniac, Bijou threw herself over Elena’s body, parted her legs, placed herself between them, glued her sex to Elena’s, and moved, moved with desperation. Like a man now, she thumped against Elena, to fell the two sexes meeting, soldering. Then as she felt her pleasure coming she stopped herself, to prolong it, fell backwards and opened her mouth to Leila’s breast, to burning nipples that were seeking to be caressed.

Elena was now also in the frenzy before orgasm. She felt a hand under her, a hand she could rub against. She wanted to throw herself on this hand until it made her come, but she also wanted to prolong her pleasure. And she ceased moving. The hand pursued her. She stood up, and the hand again traveled towards her sex . . . Leila’s pointed nails buried in the softest part of Elena’s shoulder, between her breast and her underarm, hurting, a delicious pain, the tigress taking hold of her, mangling her. Elena’s body so burning hot that she feared one more touch would set off the explosion . . .

Elena and Leila together attacked Bijou, intent on drawing from her the ultimate sensation. Bijou was surrounded, enveloped, covered, licked, kissed, bitten, rolled again on the fur rug, tormented with a million hands and tongues. She was begging now to be satisfied, spread her legs, sought to satisfy herself by friction against the other’s bodies. They would not let her. With tongues and fingers they pried into her, back and front, sometimes stopping to touch each other’s tongue . . . Bijou raised herself to receive a kiss that would end her suspense . . . She almost cried to have it end.