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About the author:
Anastasia Fleur is the not-very-secret pen name of Anna Pulley (annapulley.com), the author of The Lesbian Sex Haiku Book (with Cats!), which Tegan and Sara said was "an adorable and hilarious way to start the day," Cheryl Strayed called a "must-read," and actress Jennifer Tilly said was "thoroughly charming." She writes a weekly sex and dating advice column for The Chicago Tribune and been published in New York magazine, Mother Jones, The Washington Post, San Francisco magazine (the issue she contributed to won a National Magazine Award), Vice, Salon, BuzzFeed, and many others. She was also named a Top LGBTQ Writer on Medium. Her writing was excerpted/quoted in Esther Perel's recent book, The State of Affairs. She's been a repeat guest on Dan Savage's podcast, Savage Love, on Daniel M. Lavery's "Dear Prudence" podcast, and most recently on the popular 99% Invisible podcast.
What inspired you to write your book?
To write the kind of erotica I wanted to read.
Also, not seeing a place for it, but the book can be downloaded for free on Prolific Works: https://www.prolificworks.com/book/86446
Here is a short sample from the book:
It’s nearing midnight. Since noon, I’d been listening to band after band play in the swelter of the desert heat at an outdoor music festival I looked forward to all year. But now, the heat is almost breaking. A stiff wind bristles through the black cotton dress I’m wearing over a blue and green striped bikini. The breeze caresses the hairs on my neck like a hand. Or several. I close my eyes to feel the sweet of it a little more, and sigh.
The bikini was my outfit from earlier in the day, when the sun roared to 110 degrees and the sweat stair-stepped down my spine. The noonday sun in the desert is no time to be pressed against a thousand sweaty bodies in a crowd, but midnight is almost manageable. It has to be because the headliner is coming on soon and I am not about to miss it.
I’ve waited all day and all night for this.
My friend and I have a strategy to get to the front row. We’ll start to push our way through the crowd from the left side—by the merch vendors and guys selling hot dogs from a steaming cart—30 minutes before the band is scheduled to come on, which will give us plenty of time to find the small pockets of air between bodies and twist our own through them, inch by inch, row by row, until we are mere feet away from the make-shift fence that keeps the crowd from rushing the stage.
Our plan works. We’re right there.
A line of security guards stands, arms folded, between us and the stage. The lights go dark, perfect timing. We’ve made it. I throw my head back, inhaling the secondhand smoke that hangs in the air, and smile. And as the band comes onstage, and the first growls of electric guitar swell, a new tide of bodies joins ours, cresting like a human wave through the hot, dry air. I quickly lose sight of my friend in the tumult, kiss two fingers and hold them to the sky for her, knowing I’ll catch up with her after the show, and settle in to enjoy the music.
The stage is still dark when the opening notes of my favorite song ring out like a distorted hymn. The singer’s voice booms and ripples as if she’s in water, something sweet but clotted in the throat, and the hum of the bass guitar joins in, then the fleshy, thundering drums. The chorus of sounds sends a current through my whole body.
As her voice rises and falls, carrying my sighs up with it, so too do I feel my body being carried closer to the stage, the crowd pushing, pulsing with a life of its own. Something sharp digs into my ribs and I wonder whose elbow or beer bottle it is, but can’t see anything through the fog of bodies. I wince and try to ignore it by watching the singer, her feral beauty. From this close, I can almost taste the sweat forming on her forehead already.
She grips the mic like a fever, and I sing along with her, a feeling of abandon and excitement falling from my lips. I watch as she stomps around the stage, hair falling around her face, black leather pants straining as her hips move to their own internal rhythm. The crowd has pushed me closer to her. I’m five feet away now. Close enough to see a metal gate corralling the crowd in, keeping us from mobbing the stage, and a row of security guards behind it, standing by, waiting, arms crossed.
It’s then that I notice him. Someone pressing against me from behind with far more force and specificity than that of the general crowd. Two hands go to my hips and I feel the fabric of my dress bunch ever so slightly, a sliver more of thigh now exposed to the breeze made cool by my sweat. The pressure of his hands on my waist and the skittering pulse of the music set my synapses vibrating. I close my eyes, inhale the musk and dust and pot smoke swirling all around like a devil wind.
The hands clutch my waist, and tip my pelvis slightly forward. He pushes firmly against my ass, his intention as hard and unsubtle as a cliff face. In the rush and swell of the music, and the singer’s high-lonesome voice, my flesh turns into a living drum and I find that I don’t mind anything, not this stranger pressing against me or the heat or the throng of bodies tightening like a fist around me.
I keep my eyes on the stage, pressing slightly back into him. My shoulder blades meet his chest, and I welcome its hardness. The unmovingness of his body in the shifting sea of bodies anchors me and I feel safe, somehow. I dare not turn around, not that I could, pinned as I am by the crush of the crowd, the hands and hips and torso locking me in place. My breath catches as his hands leave my hips, make their way up and up, fingers grazing the periphery of my form, past the slim hollow of my waist, the taut rise of my ribcage. He stops here, hands at my ribs, and in this pause I understand a request is being asked of me. Keep going or stop? I place my hands on top of his, feeling the thick cords of his veins, feeling their enormity compared to my own, and move them slowly upward. He pulls the blood to the surface of my skin as his fingers trail pass, like the moon to a ravenous tide, stopping, finally at my breasts, which are full and aching to be touched through the thin fabric. He presses them, gently at first, his thumbs making slow circles until the nipples rise and harden. I let out a gasp that is quickly lost to the booming cries of the music, but he hears it. Or if he doesn’t, then maybe he feels it, as his touch becomes bolder.
The dress and bikini prove to be too much of a barrier for him, and in a frenzied rush, he finds the opening at the top of the dress’s plunging neckline, reaches into my dress and bikini top with one hand, and cups my breast underneath the fabric, kneading it roughly. The pads of his fingers are calloused, and I wonder if he is a musician. His hand is slender and strong on my bare skin, and our sweat mingles. The possession of the act causes me to pitch my head back against him again for a moment. His chest is as steady and hard as his desire and my thighs tighten against my cunt, as if to hold every ounce of pressure there. Every ounce of pleasure. I can’t tell how wet I am in this heat, but suspect I’ll find out soon enough.
My gaze is still locked ahead of me, on the stage, the bright lights, and smoke. The singer’s sweat traces the air in a wild arc as she bellows and moans, the dark hair framing her face wet under the bright lights of the stage. I shake my head violently to the undulations of the beat, nodding, wordlessly, yes yes yes yes yes.
The stranger’s hand remains clasped to my breast, fondling it more gently now, playing me like an instrument, while the other one travels down, fingers clawing at the side of my dress, inching the fabric up, slow as sunrise, each sliver of skin exposed to the air bringing with it both trepidation and excitement.
He stops to linger on the soft crease where ass meets thigh, each inch of trespass a chance for me to stop it, to put on the brakes, to say that’s enough. But I don’t. I don’t stop it. I move my dress up for him. I help him along, guiding his hands to trace and cup the firm roundness of my ass, until the entirety of the lower half of my dress lays bunched above my waist. Ordinarily I would feel self-conscious about being so exposed, but the crowd and the night and the song and the large body of the man behind me embolden me, make me feel a little cocky, and a little crazy.
The song builds, frantic now, choking to a crescendo as he slides the fabric of my bikini bottom to the side, feeling his way into the cleft of my cheeks with his fingers. My back arches and my legs go wobbly when the tips of his fingers find my entrance, which is, as I had suspected, slick with wanting, with desire, and anticipation. As he slides inside me, plunging slow and deep with his long, slender fingers, his head tips forward toward mine, and I feel his breath on the back of my neck, warm and cool, at turns. The slight, sour taste of beer hits my nostrils as he removes his fingers from my wet cunt, which is now dripping with need. I want to cry out, to beg for their return, when I feel his hand move again, pulling the teeth of his zipper down. There’s no way I could have heard the zipper over the loudness of the concert, but I do, I do! The shrill, metallic sigh of it sends a ripple right through me, and then his cock, which is warm and firm and eager.
The drums escalate, a feral rhythm matches our own wild pulsations, snare and bass and ride and hi-hats warring as he finds my opening once more and pushes easily into me, slick as I am with sweat and desire. He takes his time to fully penetrate me though, hands on my hips, fingers digging at my hip bones, pressing a little further into my cunt, and further still, his shallow thrusts gaining speed and momentum along with the galloping beat, until the full length of him is inside me. The night goes black. I am lost in the music, the soft slap of our skins, the agonizing pleasure of him plumbing the depths of me. Sweat slides down my spine, cunt red and swollen and filled and spilling like champagne.
During the song’s stampeding build, the instruments go quiet, save for the throaty drag of the singer’s voice, who chokes out the words like hot blasts of exhaust fumes from a semi. This sends the throng into a new bout of madness and I find myself crushed once more by a wave of bodies, my joints cracking and lungs struggling to take in air.
As she sings, our eyes lock, and I feel her stare as intensely as I feel his cock inside of me. She is looking at me and only me, as if my desire for her is as glaring and plain to read as a billboard. And perhaps it is. She places the microphone back on the stand and, with one hand, undoes a single button of the loose, light blue shirt she’s wearing, soaked in sweat. The crowd erupts in a fury of hollering. And then she undoes another button. And on and on, each hint of her flesh revealed sends the crowd into a furor. She smiles when she reaches the last button, hovering, teasing us, teasing me. Pausing, she runs a hand through her drenched, shaggy hair, and shakes the sweat from it, sending a spray into the still, hot air. And then, she whips off her shirt, revealing a slender, androgynous frame, her small, pert breasts framed by a black leather chest harness, metallic studs glinting, and two black X’s criss-crossing her nipples.
The notes unspool in her throat, her voice cracking from the strain and the heat and it’s enough to make me come then and there, just hearing her voice, something desperate in it, animal, her longing a thirst for salt that can never be soothed or satisfied.
And then she balls the shirt in her fist, winds her arm back, and throws it into the audience, the blue glint of it arcing as if in slow motion right at me. I reach my hand to the sky, sending a silent prayer toward any and every god who might be listening, and feel the cool wet fabric graze my fingers. I catch it. I catch it! I can’t believe it. Holding the garment as if it was a life preserver, I place it against my neck, feeling the cold miracle of it on my bare skin. Inhaling the sweet, musky scent of her, I feel as if I might die, as much from pleasure as the crush of the crowd.
But I do not die.
Pain and pleasure meld furiously over and through and inside my flesh as the man pushes harder and faster, and the crowd pushes harder and faster into me. Her voice, too, catches speed, begins its agonizing climb up the mountain once more, and the guitars join in, the bass, the drums, the handclaps and roars of the crowd, all of them tiny rivulets flowing into one gushing, thrashing river. Flowing into me. The man grabs a fisttful of hair at the nape of my neck and tugs my head back, so that suddenly I am faced with a snarl of stars, so many of them, you never see stars like this in the city. Their light has long extinguished, yet is reaching me just the same. The beauty of the riot of stars above and the riot of stars pushing all around me causes my vision to blur, the pressure between my legs as hard and acute as a diamond.
She strides into the final coda at the same moment I feel the shiver and clench of the man behind me, gripping and loosening and palpitating as his lust comes tumbling over that frenetic edge. The pressure in my cunt erupts and my own release comes like a deep, mournful, perfect lyric.
I barely have time to enjoy it, though.
A rogue arm flung against my windpipe sends the air out of me and my knees start to buckle. The crowd is engulfing me. I will be trampled if I can’t stay upright. Before I am about to go down though, I feel the steady arms of the man once more, holding me, lifting me up and over the crowd, above the metal gate, where a security guard catches me and escorts me out of the mob, away from danger.
I take one furtive glance back at the crush of bodies, the singer’s shirt held tight in my hand, and wonder who he might be. No eyes meet mine as I walk through the cleared path leading away from the stage, tugging the hem of my dress down, and feeling the remnants of a thousand fires heating me everywhere at once.