Giselle Renarde: Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

I’ve never had such difficulty writing my foreword to this anthology. It’s not from lack of having something to say; rather it’s a matter of choosing the personal and historic landmarks as a jumping-off point for the remarks that you’ll no doubt skim over before plunging headlong into this year’s collection of erotica.

But when in doubt, say “thank you.” And I’ll start by thanking this year’s judge, Sinclair Sexsmith, for the outstanding job she’s done. I’ve known Sinclair for several years now; we’ve been between the same covers (in anthologies!), served on panels and shared evenings of readings, and in the last few months, I’ve grown to admire her more than ever for both her craft and eye as an editor, and her strength and courage as a friend and member of the community.

We had an excellent, invigorating exchange about the final choices for this volume, and even once we’d started the process, a detailed conversation (shouted, in a bar, on the night of the Lambda Literary Awards), that gave me more of an idea of how best to determine the stories to give her. Because we trust each other, and respect each other’s opinion, we got the lineup that follows. As I say each month after my reading series, “Drunken! Careening! Writers!”: I think this was the best one ever.

That Lambda Awards night, I ran into a friend in the East Village, and realized that one of the topics people were talking and blogging and tweeting about was the playwright Edward Albee’s speech at the Lammies (he got a Lifetime Achievement Award). In his speech, he identified himself as a WRITER, before identifying himself as gay. There was a lot of criticism of that stance (and my friend commented that Albee had been saying it for many years), and I found myself wondering at the critique. After all, I realized, I identify as a writer first.

I was well into adulthood before I came out, and it was a process that took years and a square tonnage of denial that could power a small city. And yet, during all those years, I was a writer, and had a craft, and worked at it diligently. Even after I came out, which did wonders for my writing, I still paid first dues to the craft. After all, it’s my chosen lifestyle.

A few years ago, I was in Chicago for a reading of one of my plays. It was Pride weekend, and I’d debated leaving New York on one of my favorite weekends of the year. I love to ride behind my sweetie on her motorcycle and wave to the cheering throngs, and stop for the moment of silence on Christopher Street, sometimes right in front of the Stonewall. And on the morning of my reading in Chicago, I got up and went to the venue, pausing as I saw a gaggle (an exaltation?) of drag queens on their way to Chicago’s Pride Parade, and my footsteps turned to follow them. Until I realized: I have to go to my reading. And I went. That doesn’t make me a bad queer, it makes me an artist, with all the accompanying ego and neuroses. And it’s not likely we’ll forget who we are: as Albee pointed out, Tennessee Williams was invariably referred to as a “gay” playwright while the likes of Arthur Miller are not referred to as “straight” playwrights.

Of course, identifying as queer first is no guarantee that everyone will love you. What moved me about Albee’s speech at the Lammies were his passionate tributes to two friends and playwrights who had passed away the month before: Doric Wilson and Lanford Wilson. I quoted Doric’s Street Theatre in last year’s introduction, and talked about how his depiction of outliers in the queer community ruffled the feathers of what can now be considered its mainstream. I often heard chapter and verse from Doric about the people, many of them gay and lesbian, who’d prefer that he just keep his mouth shut, and not write about leather people and transpeople.

And what’s all this have to do with Best Lesbian Erotica, Kathleen? (You might be asking). Well, I’ll tell you. I looked at some of the reviews (both published, and personal reviews on Amazon and the like) for last year’s volume, and found that everyone has her (or his) own idea of what is “best.” For some, anything with a cock, whether real or purchased at the toy store, is not lesbian; for others, anything with BDSM is beyond the pale; and still others consider anything “trans” either MTF or FTM, to be “not lesbian” (or erotic). And then there are the folks who love the variety of the work, and give it two thumbs up, four stars, and a “hip hip hooray.”

From within and without, people continue to nail themselves (so to speak) into boxes, paste the labels on the outside and try to find comfort in knowing exactly who they are and what they should and should not like.

Well, here’s some dynamite to blow up the boxes.

This year’s collection has a chronological arc to it. It starts with the story of two young girls in love: one embraces who she is, the other panics at the unknown. And so it goes through lifetimes: people fall in love some more, break up, have brief encounters, know each other better than anyone else, heal their wounds, have families, take vacations, find comfort, grow older, care for each other, continue their pursuits, and keep on keeping on.

I paid for a cable upgrade so we could watch the New York State Senate pass marriage equality in June 2011. That just seems to me to be one more step in the journey that recognizes me as an adult, a person with the maturity and responsibility (and the desire to take on the responsibility) of marrying, and having (and being) a spouse. Of course, there are many (including friends of mine) who see no need, have no desire to be defined as “married” and worry that the continued push for mainstream recognition takes away the identity (there’s that word again) of queer people, and pushes them/us into predefined roles.

There are no prerequisites for enjoying this book. There will be no judgment, no identity checks, no right or wrong side of the column, no test afterward, no grades. Rather, you might want to pretend it’s the first beautiful day of summer, and no matter what comes next, you’re walking outside and it’s warm and sunny out, and you feel great in your own skin.

As Sinclair and I were preparing this year’s edition, we lost a dear friend and colleague. Cheryl Burke was a wonderful writer and a past contributor to BLE . We’ll always remember and miss her. We’d like to dedicate this year’s Best Lesbian Erotica to Cheryl and her partner, Kelli Dunham.

I know what I want.

I knew exactly what I was looking for when I read the submitted stories for this anthology: dirty, smutty, smart about gender, smart about power, packed full of sex with the barest of necessary descriptions of setting and context, and, oh yeah, good writing. It doesn’t have to be dirty in my personal favorite ways—with sultry accoutrements and costuming like stockings and strappy sandals, or with strap-ons and lots of fucking, or with blow jobs and dirty talk. I like stories where the characters are so turned on and lusty that I feel it too, even if it is not my particular kink or pleasure. I like stories with unique descriptions and rolling prose and insatiable narrators and rising and falling action. I like stories where I want to recreate the action for myself, when I am inspired by the delicious positions and settings and words.