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It wasn't too long ago when Lee Maracle, the well known Native writer turned actress, and I were having a lively conversation at a downtown watering hole. The subject at hand: the exciting growth and expansion of Native literature. Something we both have a familiarity with.
In recent years, there have been many inroads and directions explored by Native writers. We have produced biographies, comic adventures, dramatic novels, searing political attacks and a plethora of theatrical plays all to be enjoyed.
But, we noted, there were still a few unexplored avenues of expression that had not been, as yet, tested. Erotica, for some unknown reason, sprang to our minds.
Pooling our experiences, we both had come across a few poems and some theatre that bordered on the erotic, but other then those few samples, the pickings were pretty lean. And knowing that nature hates a vacuum (not to mention two writers in search of a good idea), we toyed with the idea of co-editing a book of Native erotica (not to be confused with Native nerurotica, of course). Between the two of us, we knew we could put together the finest samples of literacy love Native writers had to offer. Page upon page of pounding pulses, sweaty skin, heaving bosoms. Why should white people have all the fun?
The closest I had ever come to the concept was a book of so-called erotic legends I had read as a teenager. Called Tales from the Smokehouse, it featured a series of amorous adventures with such characters as Big Arrow, narrated by men in a sweatlodge.
Compiled and written by a white writer, some of the tales had a decidedly contemporary setting and feel to them. The fact that one of them takes place in Montreal during Expo'67 leaves me to doubt their authenticity.
The more we talked about our little project, the more excited we became. First, we had to discuss what the parameters of the collection would be. Specifically how would we define Native erotica? What separates our erotica from other types of erotica? My argument was the real difference between the two was that, in Native erotica, there are no tan lines.
However, the former journalist in me saw the need to research this properly before the writing could take place. Some have argued that one type of Native erotica (stories about Natives, not by Natives) is already alive and well and available at your local book store. Much like Tales from the Smokehouse, non-Native writers have tapped into the lust, filled Aboriginal angle long before Lee and I came up with our hot and heavy little idea.
A visit to the historical romance department of my substantial bookstore and I encountered an amazing selection of such literature featuring Native men. They are well muscled, dressed in a taut, laced buckskin breech cloth, and always leaning at a 45-degree angle with a follicaly and mammarily blessed woman (almost always fiery, independent and white) who is willing to loosen the ties that bind, if you know what I mean.
Here is a random sampling of what's available:
Wild Thunder
By Cassie Edwards
"You have come to see the horses," Strong Wolf said. Suddenly, alone with him, his night black eyes stirring her insides so pleasurably, Hannah went to him framing his face between her trembling hands, hardly able to believe that she could be so bold, so reckless. She brought his lips to hers.
When his arms pulled her against his iron hard body, his head swam with the ecstasy of the moment. Strong Wolf whispered against her lips "you want to see the horses now?" His touch stroked her back. The heat of his touch reached through the thin fabric of her cotton blouse.
"Later" Hannah whispered back, her voice unfamiliar to her in its huskiness. Strong Wolf whisked her up into his arms and held her close as their eyes met in unspoken passion. He kicked the door shut, then kissed her feverishly as he carried her towards his bed.
An awful lot of whispering going on. I must learn to whisper more. And why do they always hav names like Strong Wolf? Never anything like John, or Ted, or Herbie or Drew.
Comanhce
By Fabio
She was tired of fighting him. She curled her arms around his neck and let herself succumb, only a little, to the potent feeling White Wolf's nearness aroused. He trailed warm kisses down her jaw, the curve of her neck. Then she felt his bot breath and wet lips tickling her. Maggie moaned softly. She had never known such rapture could exist. The intensity of the pleasure racked her with chills. With a devastating urgency, her resistance faded.
Maggie felt free of her shadow of control. Her heart hammering, her flesh crying out for her husband's heed, she mused that she might be out of her mind, and she was in the arms of a wild, totally aroused savage, determined to have her.
Strong Wolf, White Wolf. They must be brothers. The Wolf brothers. They lived just down the block. Sounds like Hannah and Maggie could be related too. It seems they both have a fondness for "totally aroused savages." But then, who doesn't?
Song of a Warrior
By Georgina Gentry
Passions flamed! "Green eyes, you are too innocent to know what might happen if I stay." Her heart skipped a beat. She was playing with fire, like a small child, suspecting the danger but too fascinated by the flame to back away while there was still time. Her whole being seemed controlled by heat and she couldn't control her words.
"Don't go," she said again. With a muttered curse, Bear turned and swept her into his embrace, holding her close against his powerful body. Willow knew she couldn't stop him now even if she wanted to. She was horrified when she realized she didn't want him to.
Just another typical day on the reserve. Bear and Willow at it again, sweeping and embracing everywhere. I tried sweeping and embracing once. The woman thought I was going for her purse. I couldn't walk properly for a week.
Shawney Moon
By Judith E. French
When his Shawney mother died, handsome halfbreed Stirling Gray left the nobl tribe that raised him and crossed an ocean to become a British soldier and gentleman. Now he's returning to his homeland with a breath-taking new bride. A Scottish hellion wearing an ancient Celtic necklace whom he rescued from a hangman's noose.
Though his very presence inflames Cailin's heart with a vengeful fire, Stirling knows the dangerous beauty is his destiny. A love foretold in mystic visions that he must risk his passions, his pride and his future to win.
I'm a halfbreed. I've been to England. Well actually, it was three hours in the Heathrow airport, but it was still England. But for the life of me, I don't remember running across any Scottish hellions during my breakfast. Must have been an off day for them.
All things said and one, someday Lee and I will get this book off the ground. Is the world ready for it? Who knows. The world's just getting used to us not being stoic and silent. I don't know if they're ready for a little First Nations slap and tickle.
And what should we call the book of Aboriginal ardor? Again Lee and I argued. I had a suggestion. I wanted to call it The night was dark and so was he.
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