Susie Bright's Journal

The Woman Who Organized Her Own Bukkake Party

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Chip asked me.

“As sure as I’ll ever be,” I said, feeling surer even as the words came out of my mouth.

After all, what kind of a tease would I be if I backed out of the bukkake party I’d organized for myself?

Rachel Kramer Bussel reads from her short story, "A First Time for Everything," from my anthology, X: The Erotic Treasury, at the In the Flesh Reading series in New York.

(Rachel would like to stress to you this is fiction. Rachel's imagination is as pure as the driven slush, as Mae West would say!)

The video was shot in front of a packed house:

Video: Thanks to R K B

SERE Training Turned My Boyfriend from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde

In today's NYT story, "Adopting Harsh Tactics, No Inquiry Into Their Past Use," reporters look into the American "SERE" training of our own soldiers which led to the torture practices of today's "War on Terror."

SERE was the big training craze following the Vietnam war, when I was in high school in the 1970s. I'd like to hear more from soldiers who went through SERE training "back in the day" and their families' experiences.

This is my story. I'm going to tell it here for the first time.

My high school boyfriend Robbie was accepted into the Air Force Academy when he was 18 and wrote me detailed letters of his training days in Colorado. He was "captured" on field exercises and taken to a mock POW camp for SERE training, aka "torture camp."

Bobbie went into the USAFA a civil rights activist, a self-identified feminist, a unabashed socialist. He dressed like a Black Panther in his senior yearbook photo— with a leather suit jacket and an afro that had to be 15" in diameter! We met doing the UFW lettuce and grapes boycott. He was in the Red Tide, our high school underground newspaper.

Robbie said he wanted to join to be the "spook who sat by the door," to reform or subvert from within. His skeptical friends said he was naive, that he'd be the one who'd get "subverted"— but there was no talking him out of it. He was the eldest son of a military family, and named after his father, a decorated officer, a Tuskegee Airman.

SERE training was sadistic and psychotic. In addition to the group beatings, waterboarding, rape, electric shock, sleep deprivation, sound/noise torture, starvation, dehydration, he was also forced to eat human feces and vomit, in accompaniment with the beatings. His "fellow soldiers" imprisoned him in replicas of "tiger cages'. I am not kidding. He wrote me that after awhile, his consciousness of knowing it was all "a training," fell apart. He couldn't hold the frame anymore and it became nothing but his reality. His sense of time and self evaporated.

Mission accomplished. He has not been the same person since.

Although his captors were supposed to play the part of the marxist Vietcong, they were largely white kids who'd been instructed to scream everything in "fake" "Chinese" accents that would have been absurd if they weren't so demeaning and real. They were supposed to target his vulnerabilities, which in his case, meant humiliating a young man for being African-American. They were racist in the extreme.

I think even Robbie's father was taken aback by the SERE training. Afterward, as far as I could tell, Bobbie had a psychological breakdown. He wasn't the same guy. I became afraid of him after our first visit when he was on leave.

His unit had given him some very peculiar advice about women— it creeped me out. I was, like, "HEY, Robbie, it's me, remember?" But he didn't. He hurt me when we made love, it was on purpose, and I told him to stop, and he wouldn't. My back bled. He acted like we were supposed to play this out until I got "tougher" and could take it. It didn't have anything to do with "kink" or fun.

After he finished demonstrating this tough rapey love bullshit, with the blood running down my leg, I just put on my mask too.  I got out of the room and pretended I had some urgent phone call from my dad, his mother, any distraction to get him out of the house. I felt as cold as a crypt after he left, and I have never seen him again.

I didn't tell anybody. That was thirty-five years ago.

The next, and last time Robbie came to my door I wouldn't let him inside. He pounded and pounded and shouted and carried on while I just sat still as a mouse inside. I was freaked out by his threats and declarations. After all, I was the "enemy" now; he was an "anti-communist" who wanted to teach me a lesson. I hadn't changed my political stripes, but he was on Planet Nutso. He was laughing in this weird way, behind the closed door, like a spoof of a con artist. He shouted that he had a "Rosa Luxemburg t-shirt" for me. Yeah, right. Like it was a piece of cheese I would dare nibble. I wouldn't open the door.

He used to say I was one of the smartest people he'd ever met. Yes, of course we were teenagers, but we so serious about our politics and our books. He'd given me a homemade ring from one of his parachute rigs. We put up with so much shit from people who didn't know a thing about us, just "oh-my-god-black-boy-white-girl" bigoted diarrhea. Our idealism was one of our greatest comforts. His last contact with me was chilling enough by itself, but if you'd known how gentle, empathetic, and shy he used to be, it was even more heartbreaking. Let me say that again: he was gentle, empathetic, and shy. So compassionate. That is all gone now. 

When we went out on our "first date," only a few months prior to his enlistment, Robbie had been too shy to kiss me goodnight. We held hands for a long time while I gave him a "of-course-I-want-to-kiss-you!" pep talk.

I couldn't believe the Air Force had taken Mr. Eagle Scout Perfect Gentleman and utterly destroyed him.

After he finished crying on his first trip back home, he clammed up and wouldn't talk about it anymore— or he lied, unconvincingly. After his service, he became a leader in a Black GOP leadership council. He runs some of the most racist, fanatical, homophobic, humanity-loathing ads you have ever seen. His entire family is horrified. Talk about Stockholm Syndrome.

I will never forget Robbie's early love letters. They were not  something he wrote to seduce me... we were already lovers, there was no rejection to parse. We wrote pages and pages of everything on our minds. I know he held onto my memory when he was in the worst of the SERE training. 

I am holding back from writing the gory details because it makes me so sick— and I feel so helpless. 

Politicians on Capitol Hill today, including the liberals, talk about whether they're "not sure" they want to prosecute war-torture violations because they don't want the trials to become a "partisan battle." Their rationalizations make me want to puke.

Do they understand that— puke? Because maybe they'd like to spend a week in a tiger cage being force-fed vomit and see if they still think it's a "partisan issue." 

I'm glad Robbie wrote me before he pushed it all out of his mind. It is the bleeding edge of the American nightmare— and everyone who's been part of it needs to wake the fuck up.

The Importance of Wearing White Dresses at Erotic Events

Why had I agreed to a second date? Was I bored? Did I like him more than I realized, after our first night out?

“So," he said, "Rachel Kramer Bussel is hosting this reading... I know erotica can be hit-or-miss, but it sounds like fun. Do you wanna go?”

I didn’t want to seem like a girl who’d never attended an erotic reading or didn’t know who Rachel Kramer Bussel was. I felt nervous and silly in my white J.Crew dress.

Marcelle Manhattan reads from her story, "Second Date," from my anthology, X: The Erotic Treasury, at the In the Flesh Reading series in New York.

The special part of this story is that the action takes place in the very bar we were sitting. Marcelle gestured toward the bathroom where her true-life whole adventure went... thereafter, we approached the powder room with awe. We got it all on video:

Video: Thanks to R K B

What We Can Learn From Pornography

Study: Children Exposed To Pornography May Expect Sex To Be Enjoyable

Susie Reviews "Thanks for Coming"

Once upon a time there was a prince, a clever, handsome young man with a loving family and an impressive head on his shoulders. His one blemish was that he had never achieved sexual satisfaction.

The prince was afraid of his genitals. He was so sheltered he lacked even the words to describe his primary instrument: He pronounced it penn-is, as if it were an Italian pasta, instead of penis. If asked to describe his scrotum or prostate, he would curl up in a ball.

Susie Bright's new book review for the San Francisco Chronicle:

Thanks for Coming, by Mara Altman

Yes, our young hero dated - he wooed and gave his affections to a promising handful. But when it came to taking off his pants and running around the bases, the prince would freeze, unable to turn the corner. He'd call his parents, "Mom! Dad! What's wrong with me?"

They adored their sweet son, and always answered, "Honey, you're just a late bloomer."

The young hunter decided if he couldn't come to sexual self-knowledge by fate, he'd investigate it with his intellectual prowess and social connections. The prince would treat his "condition" as a science project; he'd climb the mountain and entreat the Orgasm Gurus. He'd discover the Big O, and when he found it, he'd tremble from head to toe.

Our young sire spoke to the Wizards of Orgasm, and they gave him their best. They handed him the keys to the kingdom. Sad to say, our young pilgrim dropped the keys down the grate, over and over again.

My prince's tale is a memoir that has not been written. If it were, it would be held up as an anomaly, like an Oliver Sacks investigation: "The Man Who Mistook His Penis for a Book Deal!"

And yet every season we find a book like Mara Altman's "Thanks for Coming," a memoir by a woman who fumbles in the dark.

This gender distinction in adult sexual development is profound. One finds no comfort in Altman's exploration. She thinks of herself as an odd but endearing bird, the sweet young thing who can't climax - gee-whiz.

Among her peers, however, she is not uncommon. There are millions of females in their 20s who do not masturbate and have never had an orgasm. Their disdain and cheeky humor about "not getting it" is a mainstream media gambit.

What does this lack of female orgasm mean? Is it like missing the Grand Tour of Europe - or the crosstown bus? Is it overrated?

Continued here...

Remembering Marilyn Chambers — 1952 - 2009

I totally fell for her.

That grin of hers... Marilyn’s instant expression of earthy satisfaction. It was like a combination of Huck Finn, The Miss America Pageant, and the first great fuck you ever had, all rolled into one. 

One weekend in the summer of 1999, long after you'd think anyone remembered, a package arrived with a hand-printed message scrawled on the envelope. My hands trembled a little. It said, "A letter from your FIRST girlfriend!"

No way. Could it be my junior high school flame? Last time I saw Miss Thing, she was on the back of a bike heading to Sturgis.

No, this package was from a different kind of girlfriend, albeit with a similar radiance— a sex symbol who was an equal trigger for my teenage nostalgia. 

Inside the envelope was a video and comeback announcement from none other than the best-selling actress in the history of porn, Marilyn Chambers. The tape was called Still Insatiable. 

Marilyn may not have been in 9th grade with me, but we were both teenagers at the same time. She became famous in 1972, when I was 14 and she was just five years older.

I wonder how many pop cult devotees have an instant mental image when Marilyn Chamber's name is mentioned. Do you flash on her swinging the trapeze in Behind the Green Door, taking all comers— or are you haunted by her voracious marathon on the pool table in the original Insatiable? Perhaps you have a David-Cronenberg corner of your heart  etched in her memory because her starring role in Rabid. 
  

For most people, even if they never saw a hardcore film in their lives, the Chambers legacy will always conjure the image of a sweet young thing with an adorable smile, cradling her baby on the Ivory Snow detergent box.

She was the girl who went from modeling for soap suds to becoming a porn star legend, cast in one of the first high-production, no-holds-barred X-rated movies. But there was something about her that was bigger, an icon of the 70s, an authentic germination.

Reading the DVD cover letter, I learned that Marilyn decided to make her comeback role by playing a right-wing politician who stumps for anti-porn legislation. She investigates the sordid depths of the sex biz and inevitably succumbs to her libido, thereby…. changing her position. It’s a porn script!

Can’t you just see her starring in the ultimate Sarah Palin rehab farce?

Marilyn certainly grew up from when she was a whippet-slim fox with a boyish figure. In her new movie, she was womanly with breasts and hips— a sweet Momma’s belly. I asked her director and old comrade-in-porn, Jane Hamilton, how fans reacted to her image who'd seen the comeback movie.

Jane said, "About half are irate because they don't ever want to see Marilyn again if she's not exactly as they remember— and the other half wouldn't care WHAT she looked like as long as they know its her— they love her, period."

"I think I'm part of that last crowd," I said. 

What gave me goose bumps in her return to the screen was the moment when her steely blue eyes turned right into the camera, and that smile of hers made everything else in the picture disappear.

When Marilyn made her first film, neither she nor anyone else had any idea she was making history. Her early producers, Jim and Art Mitchell, were bone-grateful to have a radiant young beauty who would go for it. I don't think anyone realized what her star power was all about. That captivating smile of hers personified a whole attitude about taking your pleasure and loving every minute of it.

The other key to Marilyn's appeal, the character behind that great face, is found in the title that most serious sex fans know her by: Insatiable. She could bottom on camera like few others. —So much cinematic power from an ironically-labeled “submissive” position.

Marilyn inhabited an unyielding, butch, yet feminine mojo— where you might imagine taking on the entire Nave SEALS and then taunting them for more.  She made porn clichés like “volcanic” come to life. She was Pelé-esque, but with the endgame of vulnerability and... ecstasy. Her bonhomie about what was possible— it was infectious.

She was so warm, witty, accepting of you as you were. A survivor of crazy times.

She was unique among showbiz people— and I do mean show business— it's hardly just porn— who was equipped to deal with life after one’s heyday. Very few have the security, good health, and family to translate from the A to D list, even if they have the wry humor for it, which Marilyn certainly did. She also had a strong family and great friends.

Getting old: not for the timid, certainly. But for those who spark so bright, the burn might be eviscerating. Marilyn, such an angel; what was all that shine about if not a capacity for love?

Portrait Photo: Life Magazine

Photo still: Rabid

Update: Marilyn died of undiagnosed heart disease, the number one killer of American women in her age group.

Riding Naked on the New York Subway.. Among Other Things

First stop in Brooklyn, York Street, the ghost town stop. Still, I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was entering. For a moment, I had a flash that Joe would make whoever entered the car join our hand-cuff party. I felt ashamed. And very hot.

“I get off in six stops,” I said, suddenly angry.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Joe said, impishly. “Then we’ll have to hurry this along.” 

Martha Garvey reads from her story, "Night Train," from my anthology, X: The Erotic Treasury, at the In the Flesh Reading series in New York.  Video below!

I have not told Martha, or anything else, but her storytelling inspired me. I had a real New York moment that night, after I said goodbye to her and all the other authors.

The reading ended around midnight. I needed to get to the upper West Side from our bar in Chinatown. I was in a strapless evening gown, heels, a tiara. I stepped out onto Canal Street to get a cab, and the wind was howling. February, 20 degrees. Icy rain.

I could not get a cab to save my life. I motivated through sheer rage and flew into the first subway staircase I could find. I don't know the NYC subway system well. This was a "J." What the fuck. I had no idea where it went, but I was sure I could get uptown.

Once I was underground, I looked at the platform and realized... I was alone. I've never been alone on a City subway platform. It wasn't quiet, but it was soundless from "people noise." Incredible.

The train came. I knew I had to go one stop to Chambers, then transfer to a Green line. One Stop.

I was still quite alone— the only person in my J-car, speeding from Canal to Chambers. I became convinced that I could take off ALL my clothes and change into the jeans, sneakers, and t-shirt I had hidden in my tote bag.

After all, if Martha Garvey can describe getting handcuffed and fucked on a lonely Broadway night, surely I could have a brief moment of total nudity and clothes-struggling.

I did it! I was completely composed and dressed like a boring gym rat by the time I stepped off the train.

The car was warm and there was a moment when I wondered what would happen if I just sat there naked for the whole ride. Probably nothing. I took refuge in the thought that people would think I was simply a "crazy old lady." I'm not young enough to look like I'm doing it for commercial gain!

Thank you, Martha... and enjoy the video!

Video: Thanks to R K B

Dear Jeff Bezos: Let's be Adults, Shall We?

Dear Amazon:

So... you've de-listed the sales rankings among a targeted group of books that sounds like it was dreamed up in at one of Fred Phelp's Pajama Parties.

Overnight, you're reinvented as "#amazonfail."

As you know, this game plan is undermines publishers, authors, readers, and the entire legal basis for American publishing and distribution.

I can hardly imagine what misguided Bowdler-Petit-Functionnaire came up with this maneuver.

You responded to one author's discovery of the fiasco by saying you are "protecting" people from "Search" surprises who might be offended by "adult" titles. What a strange euphemism for such an infantile preoccupation.

Please show us the medical records from all the people who have died, been injured, suffered breakdowns, litigated successfully, went blind— etc. etc.— from an unexpected "Search" result.

Obviously, the answer is ZERO. No one has ever been injured from being offended.

The realization of good searches, however— which has always been the pride of Amazon's business model— is to get people to what they want and might want, and give them some idea of what's available in their areas of interest. Unexpected, expected, but relevant results are the point.

It also makes a good match with democracy.

Publisher's Weekly took the time Easter Sunday night to quote one of your spokespeople saying  it was an "glitch, not a new policy."

Have the guts to have someone with a name step up to the mike. You're not stripping remainders here.

What kind of glitch targets only books that offend Pentacostal Paranoia? That's a heck of job.

When are you going to make this right?

Susie Bright

Paula Bomer Does the Hard Stick of a Thing

Sonia walks over and every muscle in her body feels tight and strange, as if walking were something her body had never done before.

He taps out a Camel filter for her. Up close, she notices things about him that weren’t evident from two parking spots away. He has that reddish tan skin that has a bit to do with the sun, and much to do with cigarettes and alcohol.

“I haven’t had a cigarette in a long time,” she says.

“Are you pregnant?”

Sonia looks down. She feigns surprise. “Look! I am pregnant!”

... “Can I sit in your truck for a minute?” she says.

He widens his eyes.

“Please?”

“Sure.” He clears his throat. “I’m going soon, but sure.” He starts looking around himself, as if he were waiting for someone.

Sonia wants to scream, Fuck you, pussy! What are you afraid of?  Instead, she says, “Thanks. Just for a minute.”

Paula Bomer reads from her story "On the Road with Sonia," from my anthology, X: The Erotic Treasury, at the In the Flesh Reading series in New York. The video clip takes you a little further in!

Thank you to Rachel Kramer Bussel for the wonderful footage of our event.

Stay Tight, Amber Fox!

Meet Nick Kaufmann— one of my literary inspirations and the author of "Comeback," the story you see him reading here. It's a tale of sweet revenge by a washedup but unbowed porn star!

This is a live clip from a show we did together in NYC to celebrate our new anthology, X: The Erotic Treasury.

I had a physical thrill hearing Nick (and my other authors) read aloud the stories I'd only studied silently before. I knew every word from editing them, but the live reading electrified me!

My arm hairs stood on end, thinking, "OMG OMG, this is perfect!" I don't know why I was surprised, but I was. It was one of those strange moments when you realize something wonderful you did... really is exactly that. I heard the audience laugh and squirm— and my whole body flushed. It was apt we were in a bar called "The Happy Ending."

Everyone asks Nick if he is a porn star, a hasbeen stud, or whether he spent years in the sex business.

 No! He is a wellknown and award-winning writer in the horror and fantasy genres. Now you can see why he's a master of suspense and evil cunning! I want so much for his character, Amber Fox, to be alive, my new best-slut. Love her!

Thanks again to Rachel Kramer Bussel and the whole "In the Flesh Reading Series" crew for making us shine up so bright...