TONIGHT – The Erotic Literary Salon – Surprise visit by Cameryn Moore

I have been asked to be a judge at SMUT SLAM. Come out and support erotica, support Cameryn Moore on her cross country erotic presentations, support erotica in Philadelphia.

where storytelling and erotica collide
November 16, 2011  *  8pm

You know what a poetry slam is, and maybe you know about story slams, too. Now it’s time for Philadelphia’s first-ever SMUT SLAM, a fast-paced night of storytelling based on real life, real lust, real sex. The theme for this SMUT SLAM is “I had no idea…”

SMUT SLAMMERS sign up on the night to tell a 5-minute piece of smut/sex/erotica, based on their real lives and ideally relating to the theme of “I had no idea…” (discovery, exploration, surprise), and a lucky eight to ten names will be drawn at random. There will be a team of 3 to 5 judges – interested amateurs, storytellers, theater people, writers, and anyone who loves sex stories.

NOT A SMUT SLAMMER? Don’t worry. The audience is in for a good time at SMUT SLAM! Sit back and enjoy. And besides, exhibitionists need voyeurs in order to have fun. All we ask is:

– No interrupting.    – No heckling.  – No necking.

SMUT SLAM will be running on Wednesday, November 16, from 8 to 10:30pm at The Rotunda, 4014 Walnut Street, Philadelphia. Doors open at 7:30, and the smut starts slamming promptly at 8. Admission is only $5 at the door; 18 and over please! For details, call 617-869-2970, or visit OR

SMUT SLAM creator and host Cameryn Moore is the award-winning creator and performer of Phone Whore and slut (r)evolution, which will be running in Philadelphia as a double-header on Sunday, November 20..


Tomorrow, Tuesday, The Erotic Literary Salon – Live, featured presenter – Graydancer

Graydancer not only does he tie people with intricate knots, he writes wonderful erotica. Biography of Graydancer, Ninja Sex Poodle & Ronin of Love, comes from the venerable rope bondage tradition of Madison, WI, where he honed his craft to become the world premiere podcaster of rope bondage with “the Ropecast“.    He is the author of three novels including Nawashi (which climbed to #1 on the charts) as well as numerous short stories and essays. Graydancer’s  writing has been published in several anthologies edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, Secret Magazine, Power Exchange Magazine, and most recently “Ropes, Bondage & Power” (edited by Lee Harrington).
A veteran of the stage, Graydancer has been a feature performer and M.C. for Madison’s hottest burlesque company, Foxy Veronica’s Peach Pies, as well as recently being asked to perform at Kink in the Caribbean. His GRUEs (a kink-oriented Open Space) have been held all over the U.S., Canada, and Europe. You can browse the images in the Graydancer Style gallery to see some of his work.
In 1998 Gray formed  satorimedia, a company through which he professionally rigs, photographs, shoots, edits, and consults in web, video, and social media for several clients ranging from to the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom to the Kink Academy. You can also hear Graydancer as a guest on various other popular podcasts such as Polyamory Weekly and Dart’s Domain. Currently he plies his trade as an itinerant Rope Artist, Kink Educator and Sex-Positive Activist, smiting the evil of sloppy ends wherever they may lie. He’s one of the easiest people to stalk on the web, with twitter, google, tumblr, or just at a kink event near you.
He has presented, volunteered, performed and been a part of many events, including
•    Leather Leadership Conference (Minneapolis, MN)
•    Shibaricon (Chicago, IL)
•    Folsom Fair (San Francisco, CA)
•    SPANKfest (Black River Falls, WI)
•    the Leather Archives & Museum (Chicago, IL)
•    Austin Ropecraft Symposium (Austin, TX)
•    Kinky Kollege (Chicago, IL)
•    Sinsations in Leather (Chicago, IL)
•    Blogworld Expo (Las Vegas, NV)
•    GRUE (Madison, WI, Lansing, MI, St. Louis, MO, Minneapolis, MN, Toronto, CA)
•    Satyricon and Sabbat de Sade (Madison, WI)
•    Central Ohio Perversion Excursion (Columbus, OH)
•    Ohio Leather Fest (Columbus, OH)
•    Beyond Leather (Ft Lauderdale, FL)
•    TES Fest (NJ)
•    Rapture NYC
•    Twisted Factory (Oakland, CA)
• (San Francisco, CA)
•    Minnesota KINKY Book Club
•    A Woman’s Touch (Madison and Milwaukee, WI)
•    New Orleans Leather Association
•    Kinko De Mayo (Cleveland, OH)
•    Seattle Erotic Art Festival
•    Beat Me in St. Louis
•    Chicago Rope Symposium
•    Galleria Domain II (Chicago)
•    Erotic Milwaukee
•    the Crucible’s Rope Academy (Washington D.C.)
•    Black Phoenix Dungeon (Philadelphia PA)
•    Dark Odyssey (Washington D.C.)
•    The Baltimore Erotic Art Festival
•    Madtown Kinkfest (Madison WI)
•    Nuit Blanche (Toronto, CA)
•    Club Expresión (Mexico City)

The Erotic Literary Salon – this Tuesday, Fourteen Ways to Observe Pornography Awareness Week –

Missed it by a week, but I would strongly urge you to follow Marty Klein’s, Ph.D. suggestions. May I also suggest you subscribe – free, to his Sexual Intelligence newsletter. One of the best.

Fourteen Ways to Observe Pornography Awareness Week

By Dr. Marty Klein

Coinciding with the horrors of Halloween, this is Pornography Awareness Week.

Sponsored by groups including Concerned Women for America (CWA) and Morality in Media (MiM), the goal of the week is “to educate the public about the extent of the pornography problem and what can constitutionally be done about it.” These are powerful groups lobbying Washington and state capitols to adapt Biblical principles for governing, and to weaken what they label the “so-called separation between church and state.”

Their suggested activities for the Week include urging the Attorney General to enforce obscenity laws; demanding that convenience stores stop selling X-rated mags or DVDs; and pressuring presidential candidates to promise to prosecute “illegal pornography.”

They also pledge to “raise awareness” of how pornography harms every single person in every single community. In other words, their goal is to lie, cheat, misinform, frighten, confuse, and manipulate. So far they’re doing a great job.

One strategy is the White Ribbons Against Pornography (WRAP)—literally wearing white ribbons to invite conversation about pornography. (They presumably considered but discarded the White Garter Belt Campaign.)

I totally agree with the idea behind WRAP. I support increasing everyone’s awareness of pornography use in this country: how many people watch it, who these people typically are, how it affects them and their relationships, how pornographers work hard to screen out underage performers, what Americans’ rights are regarding possession of erotic material, etc.

Of course, I have a fact-based approach to this phenomenon rather than WRAP’s emotional, say-anything-to-get-people-to-stop approach, so I propose a different set of activities to observe Pornography Awareness Week.

To counter the obscene lies that our media and legislators will be hearing this week, perhaps you could do one (or more!) of the following:

* If you use porn, talk about it with your partner.

* Thank the clerk in your local convenience store for carrying porn magazines or DVDs.

* Thank your local hotel for carrying pay-for-porn, even if you personally have never stayed there. Alternatively, write to a national chain that carries pay-for-porn (and has been bullied about it by groups like Citizens for Community Values), such as Marriott or Westin.

* Write a letter to the editor of your local newspaper explaining that most people who use porn have no problem with it.

* Write about this on your own blog. Tweet about it: “I use porn and my sex life is fine,” or “I use porn and my sex life isn’t very good—but it has nothing to do with porn.”

* Invite your partner to share her/his concerns about porn with you.

* Instead of a White Ribbon, wear a Plaid Ribbon. When people ask, say it’s for Porn Awareness Week and your gratitude for the First Amendment.

* Start a conversation with someone: “Did you know that the Bill of Rights says NOTHING about exempting porn, obscenity, or indecency from our Freedom of Speech?

* Send a few bucks to the ACLU, National Coalition Against Censorship or Woodhull Sexual Freedom Alliance. They protect your right to read, watch, and jack off to whatever adult material you like.

* Write your mayor or governor reminding them that you vote–and that you have no problem with porn.

* Memorize this fact: in the real world, porn is NOT connected with violence against women, child molestation, or divorce. In fact, the FBI says these have all declined since the country was flooded with internet porn in 2000.

* Memorize this fact: the adult industry NEVER knowingly creates or distributes child porn. They’re smart business people, not clueless idiots. The government has only identified two underage performers in professional films—both of whom produced sophisticated false identification—in over twenty-five years.

* Memorize this fact: using porn does NOT cause brain damage, erectile dysfunction, or loss of sexual interest in one’s mate. Other things do that, but not porn.

* Use some.

Bonus: What to say to people who say that pornography causes most of America’s problems:

* “Of course some rapists and wife-beaters use pornography. So do 50,000,000 other Americans, and it doesn’t make them rape or beat anyone.”
* “Of course some people watch way too much porn. Other people watch way too much football, reality TV, or the Weather Channel. That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with any of them.”
* “Porn doesn’t make men withdraw from their wives and girlfriends. Men withdraw for a variety of reasons. No pictures or stories can compete with a satisfying sexual & emotional relationship with a live person.”


Jeremy Edwards, erotica – Muriel, Justus Roux’s Erotic Tales

Jeremy Edwards, featured presenter at the Salon on several occasions, is guest writer this month on Justus Roux’s site. Jeremy is an extremely gifted erotica writer and is tentatively scheduled to be at the Salon this August.

Jeremy Edwards

As a hardcore environmentalist, I’ve always felt weird about my
obsession with big-ass automotive tires. I never wanted to buy into
the Great American Motor Vehicle Fetish … to glamorize these
machines that are, at best, a mixed blessing.

But I had to spend a lot of time on the road when I was a traveling
saleswoman. My hilarious friends used to kid me about my alleged romps
in the hay with farmers’ sons. Meanwhile, the reality was that I was
fucking truck drivers northbound and southbound on I-95. Inhibitions
were broken down in many a breakdown lane, and very little rest was
obtained at rest areas.

As for the truck stops: I knew them like the back of my clit. Like
anyone who travels for a living, I kept track of the best places to
pee. But I also kept track of the best places to give or get head, get
screwed against a wall, or do a set of pantyless knee-bends onto some
fresh driver dick.

Jesus, I loved the way those places smelled. The aroma of hot truck
tire permeated the parking lots and even the insides of the buildings.
All around me, I could sense rubber that was as hot as I was. The
rational part of me knew that what I was inhaling couldn’t possibly be
good for the environment. But I couldn’t control what it did to my
senses–nor, to be honest, would I have wanted to. It acted on me like
a drug, making my pulse race and my pussy throb; and I reasoned that
as long as I didn’t unnecessarily contribute to all this intoxicating
toxicity, it couldn’t hurt for me to enjoy it for all it was worth, as
I slid wetly out of the car in search of my next trucker ride.

By the time I hit 30 I had settled down a lot. I’d taken a job with a
local nonprofit, as I’d always wanted to, and I’d traded in my
road-weary Honda for a shiny new laminated bus pass. And though I
wasn’t exactly what you’d call a celibate, I was on a moderate fuck
diet of one or two poets/musicians/activists a month, rather than one
or two truck drivers a week. I kind of liked getting old.

But the scent of tire rubber always spelled sex to me. One whiff of a
delivery truck on a summer day could take my cunt straight back to my
favorite Interstate parking lot, and I’d have to head for the nearest
ladies’ room to do something about it.

The house I rented after I gave up the road life came with a small,
shady backyard. And one of the first things I’d done after moving in
was install a tire swing on the biggest oak. Recycling, you know. I
had total privacy back there, and that tire was my favorite place to
jill off. Gently swinging and underwear-free, with the evocative
perfume of the rubber wafting into my face, I’d let my fingers find my
groove slot, and I’d soon be pounding my ass up and down against the
thin air that tickled me from below.

So it wasn’t just my environmental conscience that made me an early
adopter when those sandals, belts, and other accessories manufactured
from recycled tire rubber came on the market. The only problem was
that I couldn’t wear, carry, or even look at these items without
getting instantly horny. This was a girl who could smell old tire
rubber from across the room.

It’s remarkable that I didn’t smell Mitch from across town, given what
he was wearing. When he walked into my neighborhood granola-crunchy
café, I practically creamed my favorite junkyard-rescued couch. The
dude had tire tread all over his slim, hipster body. From his sandals
all the way up to his fucking fedora. Did I mention creaming the

He had obviously crafted most of the outfit himself. (Believe me, if
tire-tread jeans and shirts and fedoras had been available through the
normal retail channels, your girl would have known about it.) Yep,
this guy had lovingly assembled slivers of used tread into a jersey
and a hat and an ass-glorious pair of 30×36 pants–how, I couldn’t
even imagine. The thought that he had personally created this costume
made me even hornier, and I could feel my bud twitching like a tiny,
excited animal. Even as he stood magnificently at the counter in his
ensemble, I could see him naked on a wooden floor, surrounded by
fragrant rubber, diligently tailoring his masterpiece. I wanted to
suck him and fuck him on all that rubber, in all that rubber, around
all that rubber.

I decided it was time to order another espresso.

“Your clothes smell great.” I couldn’t believe I’d blurted that out,
right at the counter. Well, yeah, maybe I could.

“Thank you.”

I wasn’t sure whether or not I should be surprised that *he* didn’t
look surprised by my abrupt compliment. Did he hear this stuff all
fucking day, from tire-crazed vixens in burnt-rubber heat? I had
thought this was a quiet town.

“I’m Mitch.”

As always, I was fascinated by the fact that the tire rubber, which
looked so black from a distance, revealed itself to be a handsome gray
when viewed up close.

“Hi, Mitch. I’m Ruth. Do you mind if I feel your tread?”

He smiled. “Why not. After all, I don’t have any biceps to speak of.”

He bent an elbow and offered me a forearm. I ran my finger, with slow
ecstasy, along one of the sensuous grooves. The soft, squishy sound of
my fingertip dragging along the rubber seemed thunderous in my ears,
and I could swear I felt his skin warming through the rubber, beneath
my touch. My panties were so damp I was sure they’d soon start
dripping like a percolator onto the black-and-white checkerboard

“There are empty seats back there where I’m set up,” I said, cocking
my head in the direction of my knapsack and my novel and the couch I’d
nearly anointed with my arousal. Thank god, I thought, for cafés that
are conveniently crowded in the front and attractively empty toward
the back.

“I have a thing for rubber,” I confessed after he’d settled into place
next to me on the couch, at my invitation. My gaze was locked on the
artificial six-pack created by the texture of his industrial-strength

“You don’t say,” Mitch replied affably. He took a sip of his coffee,
then he laughed. “I *knew* we had something in common.”

I’d been so fixated on his clothes that I hadn’t given enough
attention to his face. Now I saw how his brown eyes glowed at me from
beneath the brim of the fedora, and how his smile sang boyishly from
inside the confines of his Vandyke.

So I helped myself to two handfuls of tire-clad torso and kissed
Mitch, hard, breathing a cocktail of rubber and aftershave. Within
moments, we were giving new meaning to the term “rubberneckers.”

As our bodies heated up, I could smell the sweetness of his fresh
perspiration leeching the essence of the tires. I could imagine the
slick sensations he must be feeling across his skinny chest as the
warm rubber suckled his skin. I was making his entire body wet, the
way my own ravenous sex was wet, and the only thing I wanted in the
world was to jam his cock inside me while our senses snaked together
in a rubber-infused fog of pleasure.

He had somehow sewn a zipper into the front of his pants, and I was on
it, with little concern for the fact that we were, technically, in a
public place. I hadn’t done anything this brash since my I-95 days;
but I was officially a woman out of control at this point. And I
wasn’t hearing any complaints from Mitch.

Whenever time constraints force me to choose between eating and being
eaten, I’ll usually vote to have my pussy tongued till I scream. But
I’d known from the moment I first saw Mitch that I wanted to snack on
his dick, to lick along the length of it like my saliva was a dribble
of mustard and his cock a sizzling hot-dog, protruding
trigonometrically from a charcoal-tinted rubber roll.

As I went down on him, it made me feel ticklish to sense the contrast
between his naked flesh–so delicate yet so rigid–and the rugged
lewdness of the pants. The treads looked like cartoonishly exaggerated
corduroy wales, and I gripped them for stability as my head bobbed and
kissed and nurtured its way up and down the pale, stiff prize. He was
sensitive, and he cooed for me like a twee-pop singer as I brought him
closer, moment by delicious moment, to delivering a coffeeless cream
into my mouth.

“Are you guys done with your drinks?”

Frankly, I was glad we’d been thrown out right after Mitch’s pretty
dick exploded for me, because the café was beginning to cramp my
style. I wanted to sprawl naked for him on my futon, to feel him roll
softly over me in his tire treads, to sense the chemistry of flesh and
rubber fusing me to him and melting my entire body into Campbell’s
cream of cunt soup. While Mitch glanced backwards into the place we’d
been ejected from, I was looking forward to all of this.

I may be an unapologetically promiscuous adventurer, but it’s a quaint
social nicety of mine that if I bring a boy home to fuck him silly, I
make a point of exchanging full names. After the café, it felt a bit
anticlimactic; but a rule is a rule.

“I should tell you that my birth certificate says ‘Ruth Obergard,'” I
volunteered a little shyly, just as we were crossing under the local
I-95 overpass.

“Mitchell Lynne,” he responded, extending a handshake hand with mock formality.

We walked on quietly. “My Michelin Man,” I thought inanely. I laughed
without explaining, and he seemed to like that.

I’d been jonesing for the futon, but it was a beautiful day, and so I
decided to introduce Mitch to my tire swing first. He sat for me
there, his cock proud as a stick shift in its glossy black condom, and
I peeled down my juice-stained panties and straddled him. Under my
flimsy skirt, my naked thighs rode a tarmac of cheeky rubber. I loved
feeling how it was sort of hard and soft at the same time when I
pressed into it.

Once I was sure our positions were stable, I let myself go wild on
him. As my flesh slapped down more and more frantically, I could no
longer tell where Mitch’s pants ended and the tire swing began. All I
knew was that rubber kissed my soft ass with every thrust of my hips.
And while our combined momentum made the swing move faster than I was
used to, my crazy snatch gushed onto the rubber-sheathed prick and the
rubber-clothed lap. When Mitch released his come and daintily touched
my clit, the little backyard spun around us faster than
tractor-trailer wheels.

In my bedroom, Mitch was soft in his rubber pants. So he simply rolled
over and over me, like I’d imagined, and his kind eyes watched my face
as I fucked myself beneath him–relishing his texture, absorbing his
smell, practically crying because I had what I craved and craved what
I had. I came like a romantic–now actually sobbing with joy–and I
fell asleep beneath a blanket of masculine rubber.

For all those years, I had come again and again on the Interstate.
Now, at last, the Interstate had come home to me.

*And I didn’t even need a fucking car.*

To read more of Jeremy Edwards’ work: