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822. marjoribanks - 2/21/2008 5:21:50 AM What a pleasure to read this thread over the past hour. Great stuff, all around.
Webbie, congratulations on your book contract! I always knew it would happen for you, the style and sparkle was all there online, even, what, ten years ago?
And, I suspect I will be seeing you at some lit fest or similar-type jamboree before too long, because I'm right alongside you....
Anyway, I liked these two comments about the Mote and writing, and feel the same way:
"I never wrote here for useful feedback. I wrote to entertain and because people asked me to.
Yes. Old fashioned writing for a specific audience of friends and acquaintances. It has its advantages, not least of which is an appreciative audience. I'm grateful to this forum and its predecessor for that.
the mote did help me define and develop my voice, certainly. The more everyone enjoyed it, the more of an incentive it was to create.
Yes. Remember the El Foco Desnudo stories, for example, delightful writerly interactions which I have never approximated anywhere else with anyone else. 823. marjoribanks - 2/21/2008 5:24:47 AM I've had bad, amateurish blowjobs. Or at least I did, until I realized that the esistential purpose of the blowjob itself wasn't what I'd naively imagined it was. 824. alistairconnor - 2/21/2008 1:38:33 PM That's too much information, or not enough.
Weekend assignment : an essay on the metaphysical implications of a bad blowjob.
Open to all... comers. 825. Magoseph - 2/21/2008 5:46:37 PM May I respectfully point out that this conversation should be in the sex thread where we women can compare our sexual experience with you guys, metaphysically or otherwise? 826. alistairconnor - 2/21/2008 7:09:49 PM Absolutely not Mago. I mean, certainly, go ahead. But here it's fiction, remember.
So please, tell us a story, and feel free to pretty it up, or make it sound funnier than it seemed at the time. 827. NuPlanetOne - 2/22/2008 3:03:23 AM I think it is hard to talk about blowjobs without eventually being in jeopardy of inviting accusations of being chauvinistic. At some point the one performing the deed is patronized and marginalized as an object rather than as a willing sex partner. Especially when it is a conversation between men. Should you wax metaphysical, say, during a long wait at some hole on the back nine, and tell the guys that the blowjob you received last night at the hotel was surrounded in an aura of subliminal transcendental awareness, that further, you attempt to liken it to the Allegretto in Mozart’s Piano Concerto #24 in C minor. Declaring passionately that the effervescence of oboes commingling with clarinets signifying at long last a fusion of the divine deep within the soul of the abyss, has led you to redefine your faith in spirituality. Fore! And no one ducks.
Anyway, this is an interesting subject. That is, writing about the sex act specifically, without being specific. That is why I agree with Alistair, Mago. Hearing different takes on the subject in general, oral or otherwise, and how it could pertain to the fiction at hand, could be helpful. (Besides I want to know what other kinds of sex Webbie’s into.)
828. Jenerator - 2/23/2008 4:45:19 PM I used to wait tables when I was in college and one of my colleagues was a very sexually active nymph. She told everyone some crazy stories, and we still remember them. But they're too gross or pornographic to make for good fiction. Sorta like Chloe Sevigny with Vincent Gallo - not sexy. 829. NuPlanetOne - 2/24/2008 3:02:59 PM Jen,
Aye, but there’s the rub, if you will. Being in the company and context of the nubile nymphet, and being familiar with the more jocular aspects of her promiscuity, you found humor, not grossness, in her descriptions of her sexual encounters. Now, were you to relate these very same tales of tails writhing in ecstasy, in the wrong hands or even in the best of hands, oiled or otherwise, those hand jobs and that handholding would triple x into gutter moans and groans of dismay as the humor and context would dissolve. Webbie as editor saw this at once, whilst Alistair almost appreciated my attempt to intellectualize the graphic depictions of my lascivious consumption of the lovely Sofina. Hence the dilemma, go porn or be sworn to leaving it more to allusion, more to the imagination. How to proceed, indeed!
As a Chef, I have known so many waiters and waitresses like your friend from long ago. When I get back to my Piccatta story, I will try to introduce a major character to represent that part of the restaurant. Chicanery between the front and back of the house is what makes for most of the fun and friction in the daily workings of a busy kitchen. Webbie had her French boys, come on Jen, tell us about that sauté cook you followed into dry storage!
830. Magoseph - 2/24/2008 5:53:14 PM ...tell us about that sauté cook you followed into dry storage!
If she does, Nu, then I'll have to link to her post here from Sex & Gender. Remember what Ali told me: Absolutely not Mago. I mean, certainly, go ahead. But here it's fiction, remember.
So, hurry up, Jen, tell us more and fictionalize!
831. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 8:16:52 PM Hahahaha
I didn't take any sauté cooks into dry storage - though I kissed a gorgeous bartender in the walk-in freezer! I always had strong (free) drinks after that! :-)
Probably the most comical, sexual situations at that restaurant involved Ramón. He would flirt with all of us waitresses. For me, he would position oysters on the half shell in such a way that they resembled a woman's genitalia. While working the line, he would lick the oysters and slurp them down for us in a show of what "could be" for the lucky lady.
Guh-ross! 832. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 8:17:23 PM Mags,
I forgot what I said in Sex & Gender? 833. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 8:22:26 PM As for chefs, cooks, preps, and washers, I have learned that they are the horniest bunch in the world!
Managers and bartenders are part of the mix, too, though, they are usually somewhat more discreet about their conquests in that regard; but not much.
When I worked at the Hard Rock Café, I was shocked as to the language that was used in the kitchen, and the amount of sexual action that took place. All sorts of orgies back there and on the Beatle's paraphernalia. 834. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 8:51:59 PM 
The next time you see this, think of Ramón!
835. judithathome - 2/24/2008 9:58:53 PM I forgot what I said in Sex & Gender?
I think Magos meant she would have to link your story of actual work sexperience back to Sex&Gender because, alas, such a tale would be NONfiction, and this is the Fiction thread. In other words, if you posted something "non-fiction" i. e. your real life adventures...it could no longer qualify HERE as fiction.
I thought hers was a clever little post, myself. ;-)
836. alistairConnor - 2/24/2008 10:19:42 PM The next time you see this, think of Ramón!
No Jen... I'll think of you.
Mouth-watering! 837. Jenerator - 2/25/2008 12:09:46 AM Ah, thanks Judith! 838. Jenerator - 2/25/2008 12:12:31 AM What about this one, Alastair - you flirt!
 839. Jenerator - 2/25/2008 12:14:48 AM I find myself transported back to the restaurant circa 1993. I can see Ramón now, carefully placing this oyster on the ice saying, "Baby, your order is ready. I like-a to eat this one."
840. Jenerator - 2/25/2008 12:17:49 AM Too bad none of us had access to some trumpets to terrorize Ramón with!
 841. alistairConnor - 2/25/2008 12:53:28 AM And sure enough, the Desperate Housewives were there.
In the target age group of, say, 30 to 45, I found them almost all decidedly palatable. Mostly brunettes, which was a pleasant surprise, of varying skin shades. The overall impression was of an squadron of trim, prim Juliette Binoches aligned on the exercise bikes.
For my part, I was taken in hand by a skinny blonde trainer who showed me the ropes (and the weights) and jollied me along, introducing me to the variety of elaborate machines, numbered from one to twenty-seven. Most of them looked like some variation of a cross between a dentist's chair, an ironing board, and a birthing bed; a modernized Spanish Inquisition might use such apparatus, I speculated. Or the Gitmo people.
And from there, I confess, I rather took my eye off the ball. The Binoches seemed to disappear from my field of vision, and for the first few weeks, I was completely absorbed by the struggle to dominate those infernal devices. For it turns out that the fitness gym is an intensely narcissistic activity, a sort of mano a mano between mind and body, where the combination of real suffering and verifiable progress brings a sort of corporeal gratification that I had been entirely oblivious to. This reaches a sort of paroxysm in the case of one particular machine, which, I found, after a particularly painful set of exercises, induces a rather orgasmic sensation in certain muscles. I will not tell you which machine it is, gentle reader; you will have to seek it out for yourselves.
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