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In addition to standard journalism and literary fiction, I write erotica. This is not simply romance style erotica or plain one-handed reading. I write what I like to call literary erotica, and I also write weird erotica. This includes two-mouthed dwarfs that can perform specialized sex acts and morgue workers who have sex with body parts you might not typically think of as sexual. One of my favorite things about writing bizarre erotica, and better yet, performing it, is the response I get from people. Usually these are normal reactions that I assume every writer gets—they thank you for reading and tell you they liked it, even if they didn't. I usually love reading because it's the one time you get immediate feedback on your work. And I honestly do appreciate everyone who comes to see me, and of course, everyone who buys my books. But now that I've been doing it for a while, I've had the pleasure of having some down right disturbing encounters. I have to admit that these surprised me, although looking back at them now and looking at my general body of work, I'm not sure why I even raised an eyebrow.  I guess it's because the most consistent thing I have found with these "strange" reactions is the inability of some people to understand the term fiction. If something is fiction, it didn't necessarily happen. With my stories, it's often the case that it's not even physically possible to ever happen. But that aside, I will now tell you just a few of my most favorite stories about a few of the people that have heard me read.A few years ago I went down to Los Angeles to read at Hustler Hollywood, the equivalent of a really bright porn supermarket, for their erotic discussion night. It was fun and they had a live liquid latex demonstration (I got to peel latex off a hot chick) and the turnout was good. After reading a few of my "sickest selections," I was asked by an innocent looking man if I had gotten over my perversions yet. I was completely dumbfounded. Who asks someone this in front of about 60 strangers? I wasn't even sure what perversions he thought I had, so I simply assured him I had not. If he thought I was a two-mouthed dwarf in disguise he had another thing coming. On my way out of the same reading I was stopped by a Gap-sporting, late twenty-something guy, who told me that what I really needed was love. He looked thoughtfully into my eyes and put a caring hand on my shoulder. Now I appreciate the sentiment as much as any other woman who places love above sex and feels like a "real man" and a "real relationship" are what's missing from her life. As if all of us sex writers write about sex because we can't get love. Of course we are also probably desperate housewives whose collection of romance novels and taped Lifetime movies are taking up all of the empty space in our homes, right next to the never ending supply of kitty litter. Luckily, my friends were there to drag me to the car before I fell head over heels with this sensitive stranger or something crazy like that. I assured him that I was completely happy with my love life, and picked his slimy hand off of my shoulder. (Guys, take note—that line will not get you into bed with any self-respecting sex writer.) And if someone can tell me what writing erotica has to do with lacking love, I would be happy to hear it.  In San Francisco, you would think that most people don't bat an eye at anything. And you would be wrong. I did a reading in the uptight, yuppie Marina district with Marcy Sheiner to promote Best Women's Erotica. I read a story called "Lita," where a woman masturbates as she watches another woman fall out of a window to her death and then fucks the man who (may or may not) have killed her. A man in the audience called me a misogynist and actually picked a fight with me. At the end of our brawl, he disclosed that he had been reading Andrea Dworkin—not just an idiot, but an idiot with bad taste.Then I had the pleasure of reading at City Lights, and I chose a story that had a necrophiliac slant to it. After the reading was over, a lanky, darkly clad man excitedly approached me—he asked me if I knew this infamous necrophiliac, when I said "no," he appeared confused. He proceeded to tell me about his collection of tools and equipment and wondered how I knew about the procedure of doing an autopsy. I'm not sure if most doctors compare doing autopsies to "opening a chicken," but if they do, then I'm proud to be on par with the medical community. My lack of morgue experience, which I actually regret, had to leave me wondering if this man had ever heard of the term "fiction" or the term "research," or perhaps even the term "make believe." Afterwards I had to wonder about the fact that the necrophilia part didn't phase me, but that his assumption that the story was real floored me. Susie Bright, the editor of Best American Erotica, received a letter to me about the story I had in Best American 2001. The writer spoke as if I was really the character in the story. He talked like I was really a stripper and like all of the events had really happened. The other great thing about writing erotica is being stalked. While working as the sex editor at the now defunct pop culture magazine GettingIt.com, I received gifts once a week from an anonymous gift-leaver. I swear stalking must be a profession somewhere. I never found out who it was or why he/she was sending me stuff. Maybe this is my own stupidity, but I don't get the idea of spending money on people and sending them things while never wanting to see their reaction.  Not that I don't appreciate gifts. I received a stereo from a man in London which I appreciate every time I turn it on. Just the other day I received a fat Japanese porn comic, that, for reasons involving Winnie the Pooh, really scared me. And just last week I had quite a surprise when I went to my P.O. Box. I should let you know that I haven't checked my P.O. Box in quite a while. But it was full, overflowing actually, with junk mail, contracts, SFMOMA fliers and a few fan letters. They were all from the same person. He had also sent a tiny box; inside lay a pair of silky red panties, a red rose (now dead), and a package of cherry Starburst candy. The gifts were accompanied by a note, which read "for the woman who loves red." This was in response from my story in Best Fetish Erotica about a woman who has a fetish for the color red. Too bad my favorite color's blue.I received an email just the other day about my "C-Spot" columns. It was from a woman who said she loves my column and really felt like she knew me until she read my "Beyond Sex" columns on Eros Noir. She said she was "shocked" and offered to pay for therapy if I wanted it. I can feel myself regressing back to being 13 when I used to tell my parents I needed money for a non-existent softball team so I could go buy pot. Please don't get me wrong. I love doing readings and I love that people read my work. But, fiction is fiction and sex is sex, and sex fiction can be bizarre, or sad, or funny or turn you on. Even those letters in Penthouse aren't always true. I should know—I used to write them myself in my ragged bathrobe after being up working for days. Now that's sexy. 
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