Erotica: Handcrafted Bamboo

feature image via Shutterstock

Hey everyone, Ali here. At A-Camp 3.0, Riese and I taught an erotica writing workshop. We knew it would be fun. We knew it would get funny. We didn’t expect to be blown away by all the amazing content generated in this v. short time (only an hour and a half, people!), which maybe we should have anticipated because A-Campers are p. much the best. We assigned an exercise where one person wrote four lines of a story, the opening of the story. Then we collected those four lines and passed them out for another writer to continue the story. We assigned this because there’s a lot of pressure when you write about sex to be – I dunno – suave? Flawless? Ultra-sexy? It compounds the anxiety that some people get while writing at all. So we wanted to come up with a way to take the pressure off – in our experience, many writers are less precious when they’re writing a story that they didn’t originally come up with. If you want to write erotica but aren’t sure where to start, gather a group of good friends and try this exercise! Because guess what? We now have proof that it works.

Minerva Magdalene wrote the first four lines of this story. Ranger drew that story from the pile and continued writing it. When it was read aloud at the workshop, the entire room died – with laughter. Through my applause, I shouted “That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard!” Because of its smashing success at the workshop, Minerva and Ranger found each other after and finished the piece – Minerva cracking out a few good paragraphs with Ranger writing the last four lines. A mirror image of how the story was written in the first place.


Handcrafted Bamboo

by Ranger and Minerva Magdalene

There was a small pile of sex toys already on the bed, but the drawer was far from empty. “This is a flogger that I made from reclaimed bike tubes,” she said, pulling out a wicked little thing and tossing it onto the bed beside me. We were both still fully clothed, we hadn’t fucked yet, she was just showing off. “And this is a collar that I made from chain mail.”

With every new show and tell, every DIY tool of pleasure or pain, I got more and more uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable in a, “There are some serious freaks at the co-op” kinda way, but more of a “growing dampness and tingle situation in my groin” kinda way. The agony was building. So many things to play with, but still no game to be had. And I couldn’t interrupt, couldn’t be rude. She was monologuing now about the three-pack of vegan edible underwear she had just bought on Etsy. But I needed to get down to brass tacks, I needed to get down with her, before I left a puddle on her organic cotton duvet.

“So,” she purred, giving me the once over, “anything strike your fancy?”

Oh God, yes. None of it. All of it. I just needed to get on with getting off. I reached blindly into the center of the pile and pulled out a paddle, handcrafted out of sustainable bamboo.

A hint of a smile formed on her lips, “Nice choice,” she said while sweeping a coil of hemp rope to the floor and sitting beside me on the bed. The smell of her; patchouli, sweat, and lentils, had the surprising effect of making my palms moist. She took the paddle from me and gently turned it over in her hands. “You know,” her voice syrupy and coy, “you really can’t have the full experience with this unless you take off your skinny jeans. You game for that, baby?”

My answer was to grab her by the lapels of her thrift store blazer and tongue write my consent on the back of her throat. I had wanted to make out with her, to fuck her, ever since I saw her at a folk punk house show three nights ago. Our hands had brushed and eyes locked briefly when we both reached for the last bottle of homebrewed IPA.

She grabbed a fistful of my faux hawk and pulled me off her mouth. With equal parts conceit and contempt, her eyes drilled into mine. “I asked you a question.” I felt myself flush and dared not even breathe. My skin flared with heat, matching the inferno now raging in my cunt. I swallowed and managed to whisper, “Yes. Please.”

That seductive smile returned. “Mmm, that’s better.” She glanced at my bottle cap belt buckle and I moved my hands to it, relieved that I could finally get the spanking I’d clearly earned. But to my deep disappointment, she swatted my hands away. “Not so fast,” she was as frustrating as she was sexy, “Before we begin, are there boundaries I should know? Any emotional triggers? How about ‘no zones’ or words you like or don’t like? Did you have a good relationship with your father?”

How could I even begin to answer her questions when all I could think was, “why the fuck are we still wearing pants?” I blinked once, twice, and managed to say, “No, no, the soles of my feet, bitch, whore, and kinda. Um. Just don’t leave any marks? Bruised baristas get less tips.”

She nodded knowingly. “Been there.” She started slapping the paddle against her hand while we negotiated four different safe words and two hand signals. She ran the edge of the paddle firmly along my thigh while grilling me on my medical history. By the time she told me to take off my pants, it took me a second to remember how zippers worked. And I completely forgot that skinny jeans don’t pull off over sneakers. A less sexy de-pantsing there had never been before. But there I was, standing before her in my Autostraddle boxer briefed finest. In rapid succession, she cocked an eyebrow, grabbed me by the v-neck, and pulled me down, positioning me ass up across her lap.

The breath went out of me and I’m not sure which exploded first, my mind or my clit. “Please, fucking spank me!” She chuckled at my desperation. I felt her arm swing up, I clenched in anticipation and —

“Sweetie? Do you and your friend need anything?” hollered a disembodied voice from somewhere.

“No,” she shouted at her closed bedroom door. “We’re fine, Mom.”


Minerva Magdalene is a California queer lady and an amateur trans feminist. She is an aspiring university graduate, professional domme and ambulance driver.

Ranger is a soft-butch, chapstick lesbian tomboy who lives in the New York Capital District. She just landed her first solo apartment and can’t wait to get a kitten and completely lose her deposit. 

Minerva has written 1 articles for us.

28 Comments

  1. I got to be at that workshop! And hear it read twice! I have made a shattered attempt to explain it’s hilarity to everyone I know, and failed miserably! Thank you so much; now I can convince my friends I’m not crazy…

  2. True story, someone’s mom called while we were hooking up and she had to answer and tell her that she was coming home soon. also she managed to stay remarkably composed, I was really impressed given the positioning of hands and stuff at the time.

    I think the moral of the story is that parents are just trying to keep us from getting laid.

  3. There is so much I could say about the awesomeness of writing this piece. Collaborating with the talented and completely lovely Minerva, doing a read through for my cabin-mates (I see you Starjammers), and reading this aloud for the most supportive audience were all unforgettable and really special. But the moment I love the most is when Ali and Minerva came over to my seat, just after I had read, to congratulate me. Minerva was gushing (which was a relief because she hadn’t heard the finished piece) and Ali was laughing and plugging her nose. Did you know that Ali snorts when she laughs? We were all trying to be respectful of the next act. But it felt victorious. And that’s what A-Camp will always be for me; feeling victorious.

    tl;dr: Bren, I was totally wearing my AS boxer briefs while reading this at the talent show. They also happen to be my favorite underwear to wear to protests.

Contribute to the conversation...

You must be logged in to post a comment.