Five years come and gone

This picture was taken in late afternoon today. A beautiful, winter sky. There's much that I've been pondering lately. Yeah, I ponder a lot. Ha! If you've ever read this blog - back in the day - for long, you know I ponder. And muse. And get all thinky. It's what I do, how I write.

I've had this blog for more than five years now. I started it in December of 2008, as I was gathering the courage to send off a piece of erotica for a submission call. I'd written the story almost twenty years earlier, but had recently edited it a bit. That piece was "Wet As Spring", and it was accepted and published in Coming Together: Al Fresco, an ebook. My first print publication (of erotica, my poetry's been published in many places) was my story "Till the Storm Breaks" in Best Erotic Romance. That was in 2011, three years after I started my blog. I've now had eight (8) stories published. That doesn't seem like much to me. I'm not very prolific, especially these days.

This evening I've been thinking about the friends I made through blogging. Many of them are now real-life friends, people I've shared meals with, read erotica in public with, have come to care about. Some that I've met live too far away to get together with, but I'm sure if one or the other is in the same area in the future, we will make every effort to meet up. Some I have yet to meet, and I look forward to the day I will. There is a special ... joy and ease when you meet other folks that get joy out of writing erotica (and yeah, there's more than one kind of joy, hahaha). Because we write out what amounts to our sexual fantasies (in some form or another), put them on the page (paper or digital) for others to read, there always seemed to be a sort of freedom in our conversations, no matter the topic.

Yeah, I miss those days when we'd hang out on our blogs and be able to write long, thoughtful posts, or short funny one, or anything along the continuum, and have thoughtful or fun - or both! - conversations in the comments. And yeah, I realize it was just one chapter, and the page must be turned. Still, I keep this place, my little bit of cyberspace, and post once in a while. I still get a fair number of hits, and I'm pleased to see a bit more wide-ranging reading going on, not just my blow job or BDSM posts (the 50 shades effect).

I want to write more here. But I don't know what to write about. And yeah, this is old, tired ground. But we do tend to travel the same paths. I'm getting the itch to write some erotica again. It's been awhile since I've written any. I feel out-of-practice. Wish me luck.

Five years ago, on Tuesday, January 27, 2009, I wrote not one, but three blog posts! This is one of them: http://erobintica.blogspot.com/2009/01/beneath-surface.html. The picture I'm talking about in that post is now gone, a casualty of changing blog themes. I could never figure out how to place it back where I had it with the new template. But here it is. I'm still looking below the surface.

Contemplating the end of a hiatus

Has Santa Woody been reading? 

Yeah, it's been awhile since I've blogged. Sorta took a hiatus from erotica this year. Not written much. Didn't submit much. Did have a number of pieces get published though. Got my fingers crossed for a couple more. I should start writing again. I think I'm ready.

And I realize that I took down all the links in my sidebar. Guess I'll have to add them back and see what happens. In the meantime, links can be found on my Erotica page above.

Hard to believe that I used to post here so often. While I don't think I'll be as prolific as I used to be here, I am going to try and post more often. With stuff that is interesting. I hope.

Doing it in public...

Reading from "Another Chance."

...reading erotica that is.

This weekend I'll get a chance to read part of my just published story "To Bed" in front of a who-knows-how-big crowd at CatalystCon East. I'm also going to read an erotic poem. Someone asked me once, "how do you do it?" in reference to reading my erotic work in front of an audience. And I've thought about that a lot. [Duh, if you know me, you know I think a lot about a lot of things.]

I was one of those kids who would feel sick to my stomach if I had to get up in front of the class. Same thing in college. But when I became a mom, I suddenly found myself having to speak for my kids as well as other kids, and that was so important, that I found a way to squeeze past my fear of speaking in public. I led volunteer meetings for new & experienced breastfeeding moms for years. Spoke at conferences. But reading or performing your own work, your own words, is very different.

About twelve years ago I started going to a weekly poetry series. I was writing poetry at the time - lots of angsty stuff since I was dealing with some old issues, but not sharing it. Finally, after weeks of being asked if I wanted to read in the open mike, I got up the nerve to read a couple of poems. And I didn't go back for months it seemed like. But eventually I did go back. And eventually I got "used to" reading my work. Some of it.

Some stuff I wouldn't read. But I did share it with my writing group, and when we decided to form a performance troupe [I'd never "performed" really before], when we worked on picking which poems to do, it was my more erotic pieces that were favorites. So, I gathered up my thin threads of bravery into a ball and "went on the road" performing poetry, including some of those erotic poems. Off page, in front of people.

Reading at The Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia

Now, ten years later, reading poetry or my erotica in front of folks doesn't phase me at all. That's not me being all brave and shit, it's not that I don't get nervous. I do. But I've also read enough to know that it's important for people to hear this stuff read without shame. Thank you The Erotic Literary Salon.

Yeah. Shame. Our culture and society attaches such shame to anything to do with REAL sex, that some really weird things happen. We can have 10 story high advertisements on the sides of buildings for underwear [no sex there, just move along folks], but try to have a beautiful black and white photo of a naked couple curled up together on the cover of an erotica anthology, and that behemoth online book sales place has a conniption fit. If you look over to the right, on the sidebar (you may need to scroll), there is a picture of Susana Mayer's SenSexual: A Unique Anthology. Those are the images used on the combined Vol. 1 & 2. That's the images as they should be. These photos were done by Arnold Skolnick, who created the iconic Woodstock poster.

But then look here - at the heart that had to be added in order for this cover to be able to be listed. When the volumes are split up [to be sold separately], the one image was deemed too explicit.

What's wrong with this picture? A somewhat rhetorical question. ----->




And then the images had to be edited for inclusion in a press release [below]. ??? What is wrong with the world? Another rhetorical question.

What's this all have to do with reading erotica in public? Only this - we create our own shame. Once you've read something in public that bares some quite innermost thoughts, and THE WORLD DOES NOT END, and people actually come up to you and thank you for reading whatever it was you read,
you start learning that it's possible to make a small difference in the world.

I  have a real problem with shame. That sentence can and should be interpreted in many different ways.

When I read my story from Joan Price's Ageless Erotica on Saturday night, I will be wearing my FUCK SHAME necklace, of that you can be sure. And there will be pictures.

The non-perils of sex writing

A few days ago, a friend sent me a link to an interview in the Paris Review: Nicholson Baker, The Art of Fiction No. 212.   Though I'd been intrigued over the years with various titles of his, I'd not read any of his books yet. When House of Holes came out last year, I put it on my mental "to read" list, but of course our library doesn't have it (or any of his sexually-themed books). I've since checked out The Mezzanine (his first novel) from the library and started it last night. I think I've found another writer whose strange work I love.

The interview is long, and I had to read it in chunks because I was otherwise occupied. But it is well worth the time. What I most loved about the interview was Mr. Baker's answer to the question "Can we talk a little about the perils of sex writing?" Mr. Baker answered "Yes. There aren't any."!!! :-)

I would love to know if the interviewer was as flummoxed as it seemed. A little further on, Mr. Baker is asked "Is writing about sex arousing for you as you’re writing it?" and part of his answer is the whole reason for this post. "There’s no point in doing it if it isn’t arousing to some degree. Erotic-romance novelists talk about, after certain chapters, taking a “fun break.” You’re imagining all these wild, explicit things. I think it would be really perverse to sit there completely unmoved."

But we, as in those of us who write erotica/smut/porn/whatever already know that. ;-)

Something about reading this review made me very happy. Nicholson Baker had much more to say about "sex writing," so go read the interview. It's great!

Why I signed

The Electronic Frontier Foundation letter to Paypal.

If you don't know what this is about, check out the Banned Writers site, There you can find links to all sorts of articles and blog posts and petitions. Basically, Paypal sent a number of ebook publishers a letter telling them  to stop publishing erotica (and one would assume other works as well) containing themes of rape, incest, bestiality or they'll have their accounts basically shut down. So these ebook publishers informed their authors to take down any offending works. This bothers me so much, that I'm writing here to try and make sense out of why I'm so all-fired-up about it when on first glance it doesn't affect me at all. 


The other day, I posted a short piece over at We Who Are About To Die, a "lit blog" that I sometimes contribute to. The title of the piece was "First they came for the underage, incestuous shapeshifters." Yeah, it's a cheeky title, but I'm quite serious. Erotica, which I write, and have published, is being targeted right now, not "literature." In fact if I recall correctly, the wording of the original request had to be reworded so that it was understood that only "icky" writings had to be removed. [I could be wrong here - I remember reading something - but I've read so much the  past couple of days that if I go searching for it, I'll never get this post written.]


Literature is full of underage sex, rape, incest, and bestiality. Here is a short list that Remittance Girl compiled. 

The Old and New Testaments

Chaucer

Boccaccio

Most Classic Greek homoerotic poetry

Romeo and Juliette

A Clockwork Orange

The Tin Drum

Little Birds

Lolita

Flowers in the Attic

I, Claudius

Equus

Everything by the Marquis de Sade

Story of the Eye

Satyricon

Moll Flanders

Tess of d'Urbervilles

I'll add (though some may not consider it fine literature) an international bestseller that's been made into a movie twice: The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. This book has all those no-no themes as the basis of the entire plot of the book! I mention that now since I'm rereading it after having seen the 2011 US version, so it immediately came to mind.


Remittance Girl (RG) is one of the first erotic writers I came across when I started to explore erotica online a number of years ago, long before I ever thought to share the few things I'd written or write it (erotica) seriously. And publish it? Never did I dream...


But I did. The saga of my journey is contained in the posts of this blog, now more than three years old. The friends I've met in the erotica community of writers are some of the most supportive of any community I've ever been part of. And so it only seems right to me to be supportive of those writers, even though I've not personally been affected. At first glance. 


If you look over on the right side of my blog, you'll see the link to Coming Together: Al Fresco, the anthology that my first piece of published erotica (other than on this or other blogs) can be found in. If you click on the link, it takes you to a page about the collection, published through All Romance Ebooks. But if you click on the link that takes you to ARE so you can buy it, you get a page that says "You must be logged in to view this page" just like you see when you click on the "Erotica" link on the site. You cannot see the books that are offered. You can see other books (including "Erotic Romance"). So, since CT: Al Fresco is exclusively through ARE, that means that the anthology that contains my first published story is, in my opinion, not really available. That makes me sad, even though I've always felt a bit conflicted about the label "romance." Which is ironic because my first published IN PRINT erotica is in Best Erotic Romance. Go figure. 


This morning I was taking a walk and was thinking about the whole situation. I'd signed the letter. Even though I don't foresee myself writing any underage rape incest bestiality stories anytime soon, and I sure don't go searching them out to read, I most certainly don't believe that those subjects should not be written about, no matter how repugnant you find them. It is in the shameful shadows that these things occur in real life, and I believe that writing (whether fiction or non) shines a light. Writers who want to explore these subjects should be able to, AND be able to share their work with those readers that want to read it. I wondered how it felt to suddenly find that your work is "banned." 


We're used to submission calls listing what we cannot write about. I've not been writing long enough to feel comfortable (or even uncomfortable) writing - that is JUST WRITING something with one or more of the forbidden topics. I understand the reasoning. I understand it all too well. Don't want to make something that is damaging in real life seem attractive or even worse, arousing. But wait. If we're writing stories, make-believe, why then don't we ban anything that has violent themes? Why allow books that have murder in them? I'll get back to this in a minute.


It's because of the sex. People in general are terrified of the power inherent in sexuality that's shown in all it's complexity. Makes us "animals." And even more terrifying is women's sexuality. That's plainly clear in the current round of slut-shaming and contraceptive wars. Most of this "transgressive" erotica is written by women for women. It's scary to the powers that be. 


Maybe you think that this kind of writing should be banned (though if you do, I'm not sure why you're here reading this blog - because most of the searches that bring folks to my blog are pretty interesting). But it's a slippery slope. If these nasty things are banned, what's next?


Already many authors are feeling the irritation of the binds that they have to work under. Early on in my erotica "career" I sent a short flasher to a blog contest, one of Alison Tyler's flasher contests, anonymously posting it in comments like was required. When my entry did not show up, I inquired. Turned out that my story, Pulsating Jets, which concerned a couple–not alone–in a hotel room, couldn't be posted the way it was written. The couple was sharing the hotel room with their children, who were asleep. Could I change it? I did change it. I understood the ramifications (someone I respected having her blog shut down) and I wouldn't have wanted that to happen. It wasn't a major change, but going back and rereading it, I realized that the change made the story less "true" in a way. By the way,  here it is (scroll down to read the story). 


I have other stories that I've never attempted to publish because I remembered that. Stories in which married parents of children have sex with each other. But the children are in the beginning of the story (at the school bus stop) and I was afraid if I didn't cut that out, nobody would want it. And I didn't want to cut it out. Maybe that's just me being overly cautious. I'm still finding my writerly erotic voice. 


Some of us write because we want others to read what we write because we enjoy reading what other writers have written. I think it's sad when I stop myself from writing something because I'm afraid of what other people may think of it (I've done that a lot this past year). I think it's sad when others do it. But this time I'm bothered enough that other writers are being told their work isn't "okay" that I'm not only standing up for them, but standing up for myself. 


This is not finished.  I have much more to say. But it's almost 6:30pm and dinner is almost ready. 

Suite news!

Today I got the news that my story "Return to the Nonchalant Inn" will be in next year's Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel for Cleis Press! Needless to say, I'M THRILLED!!! Due out the middle of next year, it will be my second print publication of my erotica. There's just something about a book with paper and pages and a cover and print. I wasted no time in signing the contract and sending it back. :)

I've been reading Rachel's anthology for years and it is most definitely an honor to be chosen by her for this second anthology of hotel sex stories. I can't wait to see the TOC!

This comes on the heels of the release of Best Erotic Romance, edited by Kristina Wright for Cleis. I've got a story in that, and my next post will be an excerpt from it!

Women In Lust: Erotic Stories

Most of the definitions I found of the word lust were somewhat unsatisfying and bland.

Until the one at Wikipedia: "Lust is an emotional force that is directly associated with the thinking or fantasizing about one's desire, usually in a sexual way."

Lust is most definitely a force. A force to be reckoned with.

Lust is a craving so strong that reason flies out the window.

Lust makes us do and say things that make us shake our heads and say "Did I say/do that?"

For those of us who are Dante's Inferno fans, our lust can send us straight to the second circle of hell, to be endlessly tossed around by "the terrible winds of a violent storm." Yup, sounds about right.

While preparing for this stop on the virtual book tour for Women In Lust: Erotic Stories edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel for Cleis Press, I kept getting sidetracked when I'd type "lust" in the search engine. There was an awfully lot of links associating lust with sin. Thankfully, the women of Women In Lust don't tend to worry about that.

But one link led me to Valentine de Saint-Point's Futurist Manifesto of Lust, where I found my favorite definition of lust:

Lust is the expression of a being projected beyond itself. It is the painful joy of wounded flesh, the joyous pain of a flowering. And whatever secrets unite these beings, it is a union of flesh. It is the sensory and sensual synthesis that leads to the greatest liberation of spirit. It is the communion of a particle of humanity with all the sensuality of the earth. 

The women who lust–Donna George Storey's Natalie, Brandy Fox's Brooke, Elizabeth Coldwell's Barbara, all of the women in this anthology–would embrace that definition wholeheartedly.

Over the course of the day, today, I'm going to come back and post a couple of lines about each story in the comments (a comment for each story). I'd post them all at once here, but it didn't occur to me till just now to do that as I read. I never liked taking notes while I read because I like to lose myself in the story.

For more about this book, go to  http://womeninlust.wordpress.com/about/.

The full Women In Lust Virtual Blog Tour schedule is at that link, with links to past and future posts. It's running for the full lusty month of November, with a trickle over into December. Reviews, interviews, and who knows what's to come?

Writing from where I am

This morning I've pulled on a sweater, made a pot of tea, squeezed a bit of lemon in my cup, put on my favorite autumnal music (Autumn by George Winston), and prepared to work on a special story. Why special? Because I am going to write it from where I am right now. Mentally. Emotionally.  Physically. This is a story I'm planning on sending to Joan Price for her Senior Erotica Anthology (call for submissions here), open to writers over the age of 50. She's not looking for "youthful erotica with an older chronological age slapped on."

I'm 53. I'll be 54 by the Feb. 1, 2012 deadline. Though I don't consider myself a senior, I know I am no longer young. I've gone through menopause and have discovered that nothing seems to work like it used to. Also, lately I've been having a very hard time writing erotica (well, writing anything). And I realized it's because I haven't been allowing myself to write from where I am. To write from what I'm experiencing now. 

So, when I first heard about this call (back before it was an actual call), I was excited. I'd already started writing with "older" characters, and look forward to being able to have some news along those lines. But I've been struggling to come up with a story (gee, no "theme" other than over 50, doesn't help). That's when I realized, that I really have to write what I know for this one. Maybe I knew that all along, but was resistant. 

This blog post has been a loosening up of my fingers in anticipation of writing that story. I'll let you know how it goes. 

Into the thicket

Tonight while doing the dishes with my husband, I was compelled to just lean against his back and kiss him between the shoulder blades. We'd been listening to Marketplace and they had a story about online dating in China and modern matchmakers. "Glad you're not dating in China?" was his response. Yeah. Very. 

And as soon as I write that, I worry that my single friends will think that's a dig at them. I don't want it to seem like a "ninner ninner lookie what I got and you don't" (as my heart cringes just to type those words). So many of my friends are divorced, widowed, never married, "retired," not dating, starting to date, whatever, and many of them are going the online route. All I know is that I have so many personal self-image and self-esteem issues that any profile of mine would probably be "you don't want me." 

So yeah, I'm glad that I'm long-married (30 years on Oct. 4) and that we seem to have weathered plenty of storms so that hopefully future ones will also leave us standing. Have never quite been sure what he saw/sees in me. But enough time has passed that I've stopped really questioning it. We celebrated with a quiet dinner at home accompanied with champagne paid for by a friend and a couple of rounds of our newest evening entertainment–"dirty scrabble." Yup, now that the kids are gone (1 married, 2 at college), we can do things like make up our own rules (more about dirty scrabble another time).

Earlier today I commented on a Facebook post by Shanna Germain. She'd posted about some unwelcome attention that left her feeling icked out (my words). The comments ranged from the typical I'll kick their ass for you to ponderings about safety, being able to wear whatever you want, etc. A friend posted an apology for his gender. Some guys posted tongue-in-cheek replies that I was able to spot as such and laugh, but some of the other commenters didn't. There at one point seemed to be quite an undercurrent of us vs. them. Guys are mindless droolers who are incapable of controlling themselves. From there to Slutwalks and whistling and harassment. Although it was sorted out (use emoticons when joking), it still left me feeling a little sad that there is such a divide between men and women. 

It's hard for everyone. Old ways of relating, how to approach someone, what's acceptable, what's not–all this is changing. Women want to be able to be themselves. They don't want to have to fear harassment or violence just because. Men, no longer sure of how to act, can end up stifling parts of themselves out of fear of being a "male chauvinist pig," to use a term from my youth. 

Meanwhile Dominance/submission seems hot in the erotica world. And it's something I have trouble with. I've yet to really been able to write any. And often, reading them, no matter how hot, I feel a bit uncomfortable. Guess it's that thin line that bothers me. I still have trouble separating myself from my writing. 

What has ANY of this had to do with anything else here? I don't know. It's just my mind's ramblings. I'm trying to connect my typing fingers to my brain again. I need to get writing again. But I've been going through enough changes that I'm not sure where I'm writing from anymore. 

Pondering

Lately, I've been having a great deal of difficulty finding my direction. Maybe it's because I find myself at some critical junctions of my life all at once and I cannot prioritize them. So, I start spinning. One minute I want to hide under a rock, not saying a peep. The next I want to get out there and try to change the world. Most of the time I'm somewhere in between, going round and round. But I've decided to write about it.

I'm going through  menopause, which doesn't help with stability at all, and the effect on my libido (where has it gone????) has, in turn, made writing erotica difficult, to say the least. I've always been the girl with the one-track-mind. To have that suddenly (because is sure as fuck feels sudden) change is hard to deal with. I'm hoping that once everything has settled down, I'll find my way again. In the meantime, the loss (temporarily I hope) of an important part of my self can be depressing. But I'm not going to just give up (though often I want to and even threaten to - sorry dear husband). 

Though I believe a mother's "job" is  never done with her children, mine are all pretty much over needing me day-in, day-out. Yes, I've been a stay-at-home mom, even making lunches for my high school children. It's what I need to do. But soon my youngest will be done with high school and moving on to college (and he's having his own "what will I do with my life?" crisis thoughts). My oldest is married. The middle child is studying on the other side of the world (Japan) and I won't see her again until next July. My identity as a mother is shifting. Soon, my time will be more my own than it has been in more than a quarter-century. The last time I had this kind of freedom was when I was in my early twenties. Oh to know then what I know now. But I don't wish to go back. 

With this change in focus comes the need to think about what I'm going to do from here on. I want to write, and will be able to (hopefully) devote more time to it. But I often have crippling self-doubt episodes which pretty much paralyze me. I should be doing something "real." Wanting to just sit and write is "selfish" and a waste of time (because it will  never amount to much). I know where these thoughts come from - they've been passed down generation-to-generation. And THAT is what makes me want to keep at it, to not give up, to break the cycle. Wish me luck.

With all this comes, looming on the horizon, moving our lives. We've been where we are, in this town, for just about 18 years. In this house for almost 17 years. Longer than anywhere either me or my husband has ever lived in one place or one house. We'll be moving to Maine, though when we don't know. But I find myself already mentally separating from this place. This house, this street, this town, this state. The crashed economy has made us change all our plans (aka dreams). We'd hoped to move into "something" up there when our son went off to college. That's not likely to happen. Next year my little writing cabin should be done, but I don't think even we could live together in a 10 x 12 one-room cabin for very long. But we need to get up there somehow. So I find myself in a sort of limbo, being one place and wanting to be another. This will be the first time in my life where a move was a conscious decision to move to someplace. Always moves have been because of the decisions of others (parents, husband) in reaction to jobs or house purchases. Most often it's been moving from. This will be different. Already is. 

Life is strange. Maybe I'll start writing here more. I'd sorta wanted to keep this blog more erotic-oriented, but then I realized, it wouldn't be whole. This is my writing "home" and so there will probably be a change in tone. Maybe not though. Who knows?

Yielding: Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission

I don't like to be bossed around. I don't consider myself to be submissive, and my husband doesn't either. But.

The idea of being restrained, of being NOT in control, of being told what to do ... why do these thoughts turn me on? Why do I get a rush when my hands are held together over my head? Why does a little bit of pain seem to make my body respond so strongly? I don't know the answer, but I do know that reading the stories in Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission have had a much stronger effect on me than I had anticipated. (Disclaimer–I've not read all of them yet). The stories in this new collection of BDSM erotica, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, explore "female submission and male dominance from the sub's point of view." The women in these stories are "smart enough to know that kink is not about simply embracing one's fears, but grappling with them, battling with them, taking risks and seeing if, in fact, they yield sexy rewards."

It's getting close to midnight as I type this. I know I'm resisting. I don't want to go to the places my mind is going right now. Earlier this evening, I was talking with Emerald (author of the story "Power over Power") on the phone, and she said something about "intimacy with self" (I wasn't taking notes, but I did jot this down). And I'm tired and I don't recall the exact context, but that struck a chord with me. We have to get very intimate with ourselves, to accept whatever kinkiness lies within us. Sometimes what we want is not what we think we want.

Like I said, I've not read all the stories yet. But all the ones I have, even the stories that have at their center something that I just can't wrap my mind around, have been engaging and thought-provoking as well as arousing. I would heartily recommend this book if you are taking part in NaMaMo (for National Masturbation Month). That blog was started by Shanna Germain, whose story "Anticipation" starts off Please, Sir.

Here's the book trailer for Please, Sir.




Also, at the Please, Sir blog, there are some interesting posts, including interviews with some of the authors, excerpts from the book, as well as tidbits like info about the gorgeous corset on the book cover.

While some of the stories involve pushing limits and receiving physical punishment, some are more about psychological power play, such as Donna George Storey's "Just What She Needs," which involves a reversal of sorts.

What I'm wondering right now (when it's getting so late that I really need to stop wondering) is what some of the authors felt as they were writing these stories. Were they exploring territory they are familiar with or unfamiliar with? How much is autobiographical and how much imagination? You don't have to tell which is which, LOL. Unless you want to. Also, if in the writing of the story, you discovered something about yourself that maybe you weren't as aware of before.

And if you're not in this anthology, please comment on your thoughts about the whole submission/dominance topic and how it relates to your writing (if you write).

The last line on the back of the books says it all: Find out why nothing is as hot as the power of the words "Please, Sir."

Glowing Pink

It's been ages since I entered one of Alison Tyler's writing contests.  But recently I was inspired, submitted one and got 2nd place!   The picture here is the only thing I had in my files that came close to the color I wanted.  (added) Oh, but look what I found! This would have been perfect!

Rose Comes for Dessert

The table is set. Candles lit. Vases full of roses, palest pink to deepest crimson, arranged just so. Champagne chilled. I wait.

When she arrives I take her coat without a word. I take her shoes, tight black skirt, shear blouse, and lacy pink underthings. The room is warm, but her nipples go from bloom to bud, and I smile. I pop the cork, pour, offer her a glass. Watch as her lips sip the golden liquid. I let her finish, then reach for the silken cords as she sits on the table.

I deftly wrap her proffered body till she is immobilized, bound into a position that presents me with the perfect dish. I pull up a chair, tuck a crisp white napkin into my collar, pour a glass, drink, and allow my eyes to savor the glowing, pink tart before me.

As I lean closer, my exhalations warm on her moist flesh, I hear her breathing quicken. Lightly I bring my lips to her glistening ones, and feel her quiver.  The tip of my tongue traces her folds, and when it meets her swollen clit, I know her body would press itself to my face if she could. But she cannot, and I intensify my efforts until she is vibrating with constrained passion. Forgetting my manners, I finish off dessert with my fingers, then offer to share the last drippings with Rose. 

P.S. Haven is a Salty Dog - Spicy Summer Sundays

Today is P.S. Haven's salty turn at the Spicy Summer Sundays blog tour! He's tickling our fancy with a mouthwatering pickle recipe. I've never made pickles myself, but I'm sorely tempted to try this recipe.

Since "salty dog" means (among other things) "libidinous male," as soon as I heard that Haven was doing salt, I thought of this here song. Because Haven is definitely libidinous. Duh. We all are! So here's some vids. We got some Procol Harum and then some Flogging Molly (with some lovely Jack Sparrow footage).

Then our Haven has an incredible amount of reading material for us, including a brand spanking new one just for our Spicy Summer Sundays! In all that, he reveals his obsession and asks about ours. But I'm not even giving a hint, you have to go read.

So head over to Haven's blog - Faster, Baby - that is if you're looking for a salt lick.

And since one of the things I'm obsessed about is just weird stuff, here's a video that is definitely in the weird column. Takes me back.

First 1st!

So I've been entering Alison Tyler's flasher contests at her blog Trollop with a Laptop since December of last year. I've missed some, but not many. I don't know how many I've entered - all I do know is I have a shitpile of buttons from the contests and more. So many I've forgotten what some of them are for. These stories are fun to write and there are some I've really liked and others that well...

But I'd never had one of my stories take 1st place. Until this past week.

And there's a now funny story about it. I wrote it while sitting in my husband's truck on the side of the Mass Pike as he tried to fix a leak and salvage a weekend trip (for just us two) up to Maine. This truck has a lonnnnnnnnng history. Let's just leave it at that. So I wrote this in a notebook and typed it into Alison's blog comments on my husband's computer in the motel room up in Maine. Needless to say, things didn't happen quite this way...

Roadside Discipline

The state trooper just left, warning us that if we’re not gone next time he comes by we’ll have to be towed. Tommy’s under the car, oil all over his face. I’m sitting here, pissed. Another trip screwed over by his insistence we take one of his precious project cars. He’ll pay. Soon his smiling face pops up in my window.

“All fixed!”

I say nothing. Just glare at him.

“I’m sorry honey. That hose needed replacing but I hadn’t gotten to it. Good thing I had extra with me.”

“Yes, good thing.”

He goes back to gather up tools. I step out, look around. Traffic is thinning with the coming dark. Headlights cast shadows as I bend down and pick up a piece of hose. Just long enough, I think, flexing it.

Tommy comes around the side of the car, sees me with the hose and gets this look.

“Come here.” He does.

“Hold onto the mirror.” He does.

I take the hose and wrap it around his wrists and the mirror.

“I’m really sorry honey.”

“Shut up.”

He knows what’s in store. Maybe. I rummage in his tool box until I find something suitable. A rubber belt of some sort. I don’t know car parts. But it will do. Then I yank down his board shorts, exposing his ass. I kick his legs apart.

“What if the cop comes back?”

“Shut up.”

The belt thwaps across his ass. His yelps are drowned by passing trucks. It’s too dark to see his cheeks redden, but I’m wet and wanting to fuck him so bad I can taste it. I reach around and feel his hot rod.

Hissing in his ear I tell him “You better make me come in record time.”

Not long after, the trooper returns just as Tommy starts the car.

“Looks like you got her started just in time. I was about to call the wrecker.” He looks over at me. “ And Ma’am, you have the patience of a saint.”

I smile at the officer.

So where's the fucking erotica?

I've been posting lots of ... don't know what the hell I've been posting lately. But nothing sexy, that's for sure. Like I said, I'm in the summer doldrums. I just got a rejection notice - for poetry that I'd submitted months ago. Typical form letter - just plug my name in. And so I'm feeling kinda down - doesn't help that it's gray and rainy again. And yeah, I just published my own chapbook and did a reading, but rejection still sucks.

So I thought I'd post a few things - flashers that I'd done for Alison's contests. And yeah, I've fallen behind in posting these to the point where I don't know which ones came first and I know there's some missing, but what the hell. These are the ones I was happy with. I'm also trying some of the other fonts because I'm sick and tired of the one I was using. If anyone has a suggestion, I'm open. And then after I post these I think I'm going to make myself a pot of tea and do the post I've been avoiding.

The four flashers are in order: Impenetrable Night, Rewind, Unlaced, Unwashed Denim. Hmm. I wonder what's up with all the "un" things I do.

*****

Impenetrable Night

Headlights switch off, and we plunge into darkness. New moon. Overcast conceals any starlight. Far from the tiny town, and late, so most lights are off. Pitch-black and I can't see a damn thing. But I feel your hand on my thigh.

Our eyes try to adjust. The shrubs just dark shapes as we slowly make our way. We follow our noses towards the vaguely sulfurous pool. Our clothes come off and are piled together so we can find them later. The air is warm on our skin.

We don't speak. We enter the water as if by instinct. It's deep. We swim towards what we think is the middle. I stop and tread water silently, listening to the liquid lap against your skin as you circle me. Then silence as you dive.

Your hands clasp my ankles and pull. Underwater there is no up, no down. The darkness, the silence even more complete. You move against me, find my mouth and kiss. Your hands swim my body, find my spring.

The sound of our breath is thunder as we break the surface. I grab your cock and pull you towards shore. I kneel in the muck, take you into my mouth and taste the mineral tang clinging to your skin. Your hands on my shoulders turn me, press me forward, hands in the dry sand. You mount me in one swift move. Straining against each other we see stars against our eyelids. In the distance a coyote howls.

*****

Rewind

She types the name of an old lover, hits search on a networking site. None of the results are him. She does a general search, adds the last profession she was aware of. There, near the bottom of the results. She's sure it's him. Calls up the page. Finds his email address.

Rewind. She talks to a old friend, one who also knew him, but wasn't aware of the illicit relationship. Her friend laughs as she recounts stolen moments, reveals details never before admitted out loud. She wonders, what if they were to meet again? Now?

Rewind. She writes in a journal. Describes in lascivious detail all their encounters. Rubs against the chair as she remembers. Their bare skin together. Their mutual fantasy. His whispered suggestions in her ear.

Rewind. She buys a card and remembers one she got him. A large shiny red (heart) and lame you're the best lover ever inside. She'd slipped it under his door in a moment of wantoness. He'd smiled. Rewarded her later.

Rewind. She finds an old college notebook while cleaning the basement. From the class she took with him. She turns the pages, looking for evidence of his then overwhelming presence in her thoughts. Feels his lustful stare again. Hears his voice again.

Rewind. She finds a picture of her old car. The one they stood next to for half an hour talking, then kissing. The one they then steamed up the windows of.

Rewind. She meets him.

*****

Unlaced

Unfamiliar atmosphere. Flashing lights, pounding music. Bodies in motion, pressed against each other. Don't normally frequent places like this, but I'm here at your invitation, looking for you, hopefully not in vain.

When I see you, relief rushes through me like an orgasm. Even though your back is turned, I'd know that ass anywhere. Clad in skin-tight black leather, moving in time to the music, it's enough to take my breath away.

As I approach through the crowd, I notice your shirt. White lace, nothing underneath but tanned skin. Tight across the back to show shoulder blade, waist. Long sleeves cling to your shapely arms, ruffles drape your wrists. I want to kiss the pulse hidden there.

Your thick black hair sways with your body. I reach and push it aside, kiss your neck. You don't turn, but I hear your greeting deep in your throat. My finger traces your spine from collar to leather edge, feeling the glimpses of skin. You press your ass back at me. I reach my arms around you, find your nipples poking eagerly at the fine open fabric, pinch them.

This sends a jolt to my clit. My hands roam across your chest and find the lacing that carefully holds the shirt closed. Slowly I loosen the strings, letting fingers stray to hot skin. Lower and lower. I find your navel, slowly sink into that puckered hole. Lust gets the better of me. I grab at leather, find your cock hard.

*****

UnWashed Denim

Feet. Bare feet. Legs. In denim. Legs. More legs. Even more legs. Velvet. Sofa. Legs. Denim. Faded. Legs. Rumpled. Legs. Cut off. Bare legs. Rolled up. Legs. Arms. Skin. More skin. A shirt. Unbuttoned. Arms. Skin. Closed eyes. Bare feet. Ankle bracelet. Arms. Navel. Nipple. Hair. Short. Hair. Long. Arms. Hands. In hair. On back. Neck. Skin. Lips. Parted. Closed. Meeting. Skin. Denim. Undone. Soon. Skin. Fingers. On zippers. On skin. Lips. On denim. Wet. Hands. On skin. In denim. In. Around. Hard. Skin. Legs. Around. Under. Over. Lips. On navel. On navels. On nipple. On nipples. Around skin. Soft skin. Hard skin. Smooth. Denim coming off. Smooth. Legs. Around arms. Around lips. Pressed. Lips. Into. Legs. Together. Into. Skin. Wet. Around. In. Pressed in. Closed eyes. Tight. Pressed tight. Into. Fingers. Pressed into. Here. There. Here. Again. Hard. Hard skin. Pressed into. Here. There. Again. Wet. Skin. Again. Wet. Velvet. Again. Wet. Denim. Wet. Lips. Wet. In. Arms. Legs. Lips. Denim. In pile. On floor. Again.