The Call
Expelled Seed
The Music Teacher
Sometimes It Just Takes...
The Gift
Crazy to Death
The Three Dans - Dan
The Lure of the Dead Lover
The Three Dans - Danny
The Three Dans - Daniel
Surviving
Work and Desire
Marrying Man
When It Began
Considering It
Veering Away
When It Happens
Telling History
Where Things Grow
Brother Tomás
Between [the Lines]
Holiday Revelations
The Decision
Coming On Out
The Black Rose
Bob On Bob
Son to Father
Bob on Frank
Why. Not.
Red on Red
Bob My Ass
Son to Father to Son
Hard Need
Serving Her Café
The First Cup
Tools of the Trade To Be Continued

Shenar’s adventures are sexual. If you are not an adult, do not continue into this site.

All stories on this site are fictional. Any resemblence to past or present events or circumstances or beings, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Like erotic poetry?

Erotic Poetry by Gail Rae Hudson

She came to me in the late 1986, when I was involved with a crazy man. She was, too. We became friends.

Her lover was a collector of erotica, for which he claimed a highbrow appreciation. My lover was a simple porn dog, sniffing out images in the cheapest places they could be had, drooling over them in bed, in the bathroom.

We were both invited into representational sexuality by these benign hosts. We were both deeply affected by what we saw; what we read; what we imagined as we read. When we met, we would analyze our sex lives in light of what her lover called “the erotic sensibility” what my lover called “sexual heeling”, “following at the feet of the mystery”.

Yearning for more than understanding, we began to fashion our sexual episodes into stories. We reimagined them, sometimes from our own perspective, sometimes from the perspective of our lovers. One of us would initiate a story. The other would embellish it. Our stories emerged as counterpoint monologues, linked together by the wisdom of chaos, complimenting each other’s so completely that we realized we were loving each other’s lovers.

We coalesced into Shenar.

Shenar began recording our stories. She felt something important was passing between us, and should, perhaps, pass beyond us.

When we had no more stories to tell, Shenar stopped writing.

Together, one day, months after we had laid Shenar’s manuscript to rest, we looked at each other and remembered the old stories, because we were ripe with new stories to tell.

We knew it was time to read Shenar’s stories aloud.


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