Saturday, December 22, 2012


I've been having a great time listening to erotic audiobooks lately. At first, I didn't like the idea. When I pick up a work of erotica, I often like to do it in bed because, well, I like the privacy in case I get really involved with the... story. While an audiobook would leave both hands free, I didn't think it would give me enough control. When I'm doing one-handed reading, I have to hunt for something that fits my specific kinks, and then I typically linger lovingly on the paragraph or two that really do it for me.

So, how did this change?

I've thought about (and written before) about reading erotica for non-one-handed purposes. And as I get more comfortable with my appreciation for the genre, I've found myself reading erotica at the breakfast table, or on my smart phone in various waiting rooms. This usually isn't about one-handed reading. It's about literary appreciation, the naughty thrill of accessing the forbidden in public, and the occasional delicious frustration when a story gets me really worked up in a way I can't satisfy in the current time and place.

From there, it was a short step to erotic audiobooks. If I liked reading erotica in a waiting room, why not listen to it in the car or while I'm at the gym?

Just writing that last sentence has me breathless, because it turns out that listening to erotica is way more awesome than I ever imagined it could be. There I am on the elliptical, looking completely innocent, while a voice purrs every filthy word into my ear. It's exciting even if I don't particularly like the story. If the story is well-written, it increases my appreciation a great deal. In audio, I find myself turned on by stories that definitely would not do it for me in print. I'm not in control of pace or content. Everything is a surprise. I can't flip forward to glimpse whether she's going to use a strap-on or just her fingers and tongue. Every turn is a delicious surprise.

If you haven't tried this, I would highly recommend it.

One ironic effect of immersing myself in the erotic is it's a little harder to get the sensation I remember from when I was young. Time was, I'd catch a little glimpse of the forbidden and be instantly panting, wet, and desperate. I still remember an erotic graphic novel I found in a Hong Kong laundromat. I glanced through it, but then felt too ashamed to steal it the way I wanted to. I didn't take it with me, but I'll never forget the fire that entered my body -- a sensation that didn't leave for hours, and that still comes back to me when I call up the memory of those images. These days, things rarely turn me on so thoroughly and achingly.

But I've been catching a glimpse of that lately when I take my erotic audiobook on the road. Not being able to act when I'm turned on has allowed several stories to build so much tension in me that I end my workout a quivering mass, hoping everyone thinks all that sweat is just from how hard I worked my cardio.

I started this trip with audio versions of Cleis anthologies. I've been having a great time, and can't wait to check out the rest of what's on offer.

Friday, December 21, 2012

Wicked Fairy Tales Out in Paperback!

I just noticed that Forbidden Fiction's Wicked Fairy Tales anthology is out in paperback. If you missed your chance to read the collection when it was first released in e-book form, now you've got a chance to take this set of naughty bedtime stories to bed. Includes my story The Three Wives of Bluebeard. Enjoy!

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Giving Back With The Six Swans

The Six Swans, my book with Coming Together: Neat, pays royalties into the micro-lending service Kiva. I promised to post updates about where the royalties were going.

I've just made a loan to Kristine, a woman in the Philippines looking to stock her store with electric fans, rice cookers, and the like.

Kristine caught my eye because she's used Kiva to steadily improve her business. This looks like her third loan with Kiva, and if you click to go back to previous efforts, you can see that she started with a direct sales service, no store. I think it's cool to see her using the system so well.

If you'd like to see more about the Kiva loans I've made, you can check out my lender page here.

If you'd like to read more about why I decided to publish with Coming Together: Neat, you can do so here.

The line has also been pretty active this year. You can see all the books in the Coming Together: Neat line here.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Best Bondage Erotica 2013 Is Out!

This week, I got my contributor's copies of Best Bondage Erotica 2013, which is now available. It includes my story, "This Is Me Holding You."

Here's an excerpt:

"I made this for you while you were gone this last time," Jun said. "Sometimes, I missed you so much I had to clear my head. I'd take Kendra to my parents' house and then go for long hikes. I'd walk and wish I could have tied you up and never let you go. I started gathering milkweed and bringing it home."

He slipped his index finger through the bracelet and tugged. "I cleaned it. I tenderized it. I twisted it into this rope." He pulled hard enough to make the rope bite her skin. "You're mine," he said, his tone much fiercer than his still-stroking hands. He circled her ankle with his fingers, mirroring the sensation of the rope. "I'm binding you to me. Do you feel how I'm holding you?"

Carin nodded.

Jun relaxed his encircling fingers, but yanked the delicate rope once more, making his point. "Do you feel how I'm still holding you?"


"That rope is just a little grip, like me holding your hand. But you never have to be without it." He slid up the bed and wrapped his arms around her torso again. "Now this is a big hug. This is me holding you."

Soon, his hands slipped into her clothes, loosening, unfastening, groping. The familiar sexual rhythm lightened the moment for Carin. "Just holding, huh?" She raised an eyebrow.

Jun smiled and kissed her on the tip of her nose. "OK, maybe this is me holding you and then copping a feel, undressing you, and trying to get into your pants."

"Oh. Makes sense." She spread her legs, grinning when he reached between her thighs.

"So long as we're being accurate."

Jun patted her cunt and peeled off her clothes. Carin closed her eyes and melted into his hands. The touch of his flesh soon became the kiss of more rope, the transition seamless, effortless, lovely. The new length of rope, thicker than before, lay so warm and soft against her skin that it seemed to live and breathe. "I made this one, too," Jun said. "This is me holding you."

The rope buzzed lightly against itself as he wound it around her torso, the vibrations passing into her body even as the strands pinned Carin's arms to her sides. Jun kissed her cheek, then caressed the side of her neck with a loop of soft material. "These are my fingers."

He bound her loosely, but the knowledge of what he'd put into the rope made its restraint seem more complete and secure than anything she'd felt before. Jun wove his fingers through the coil of rope around her torso. "They can send you to Afghanistan, or they can send you to Mars. I don't care which. I'll be holding you there."

A couple of the early reviews have mentioned this story along with "Steadfast," another military-themed story in the anthology.

You can pick up the full anthology here.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Music Mondays: "Dirty Love" by Ke$ha (featuring Iggy Pop)

"Pornos produce it, but Wild Child can do it better..."
--Iggy Pop

I'm not going to lie. I love Ke$ha a whole lot. And the last few days, all I've been able to do is listen to this song over and over again. It's everything I love about her -- wild, trashy, exuberant, and unashamed. Her hero worship of Iggy Pop comes through in a track with a ton of energy.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Playing Puppies

My story, "Playing Puppies," is up today at Oysters and Chocolate! As usual, it's worth clicking through for the art alone. This thing's packed with a boatload of kink -- shoe fetish, femdom, anal play, threesome, puppy play, and more. Here's a snip:

Dinah smiles and puts both her feet up on the ottoman. Even she can't resist a moment of awe at the shoes she's wearing. The bronze, Greek-style sandals tie with laces that wrap her shapely calves up to the knee. The shoes cup her feet with improbably detailed leather panels depicting Greek heroes, their perfect chests straining at the weight of the long swords they wield. The sandals sport wicked stiletto heels, four inches and counting, each twisted and filigreed to look like the horn of a unicorn.

"You can lick them, puppies," she breathes. She's almost ready to lick them herself. Both men fling themselves into the task. Brett wags his rear end and tongues the edges of the shoe, tickling her bare skin along the way. Jeremiah crouches, sweet and serious, licking and licking the same spot of her sole as if he can taste the dirt of everywhere she's walked.

You can read the rest here.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Lisabet Sarai's Nasty Business

Today, I'm pleased to welcome the fabulous Lisabet Sarai, here to give details and an excerpt of her latest book, Nasty Business!


All's fair in lust and business

Ruby Maxwell Chen, lovely and ruthless CEO of a huge British business empire, is used to getting her way. When she encounters the strangely charismatic American entrepreneur Rick Martell, though, she wonders if she hasn't finally met her match. 

From the trendy clubs of London to the Hollywood Hills, Ruby and Rick compete for ownership of a strategic factory in Malaysia. Neither has any qualms about using sexual wiles to smooth the path to success. Neither anticipates that their mutual attraction will turn into something far more intense and difficult to control.

As their struggle for dominance escalates, they draw their employees and associates into their outrageous power games. The stakes could scarcely be higher, as Ruby and Rick play for the ultimate prize: a night of total physical surrender.

Novel-length book includes “Shades of Red”, a bonus story about Ruby's introduction to BDSM!


As good as I am at this game, I'm finding it difficult. I know, intellectually, that ignoring her, pretending to honor my promise, will heighten her frustration and ultimately, weaken her defenses. If I came on to her, she'd resist. By seeming to hold back, I draw her to me.

I can feel the arousal emanating from the trim form strapped into the seat next to me. Her body language speaks volumes, though she struggles to silence it. She's dying to have me touch her, or to touch herself.

The problem is, I have to struggle myself not to reach for her. I have to resist this nearly overwhelming urge to slide that designer skirt up her slim thigh, exposing her smooth flesh. My fingers itch to stretch across the console and tweak those ripe nipples poking through her blouse. My half-hard dick presses uncomfortably against my zipper.

I watch the pavement twisting in front of my hood. I push the roadster a bit harder. Obedient, she races around the curves, graceful and powerful. An extension of my body, my will. Ruby's lips are parted. Her hair has come free from its clasp and flows around her face in jet waves. I want to control Ruby the same way I control my car. I want to feel her respond when I press the pedal a bit closer to the floor.

A sideways glance tells me that she's looking at me. I risk a few seconds of inattention to turn and grin at her lasciviously. "Take off your blouse, Ruby. Go ahead, you know you want to." The wind tears my words away, but I know she hears me. There's defiance in her eyes, mixing with the lust. "Come on. I dare you."

A contest, then. Briefly, emotions war on her face. Her lust wins. She smiles at me, provocatively.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Martell. You'll get us killed."

She's right. I switch my focus a second too late and barely miss grazing the inside guard rail. When I can afford another look, she's naked to the waist. Her fingers are torturing her plump, rosy nipples. Even in that quick instant, it seems that I can see them thicken and grow darker as blood surges into them.

Now Ruby cups her flesh in both hands, kneading, stroking. Her breasts are pale, perfect hemispheres tipped with flame. I would have thought the wind would blow her scent away, but no, her musk permeates the open car. My cock stirs and demands to be set free. I look back at the road, my heart slamming against my ribs as another curve whistles by.

My next glance shows me her parted thighs. She fidgets on the leather upholstery, though her hands are still massaging her tits. Crudely, I jerk my thumb upwards, then wiggle my middle finger at her.

She is already pulling up her skirt, not waiting for my suggestion. Looking me straight in the eye, she spreads her legs wide, pulls her panties out of the way, and sinks four fingers into her glistening cunt.

My dick jerks to full attention. I watch, fascinated, as she grinds herself feverishly against her hand, pummeling her clit, pinching those scarlet lips until they are almost purple. Her eyes are shut. Her back is arched, pelvis thrust forward to provide maximum access. She's a tiger, tearing at her own flesh in hungry fury. Her scent rises around us, drowning out the eucalyptus that always lingers in the southern California air. There's an ache in my chest that mirrors the one in my cock. I've never wanted anyone so much.

At the last minute, I swerve, barely avoiding the shiny Cadillac coming at me from the other direction. Adrenaline courses through me at the near miss. Ruby doesn't even notice.

There's a turn-out ahead. Hands shaking, I pull into the semicircular parking area and shut off the engine. Now I can hear Ruby as well as see and smell her. She moans and cries as she thrashes around on the seat. Her mouth is open, her teeth clenched. She sounds as though she is in pain. Her harsh grunts become rhythmic and rise in pitch as I watch her ascend the final slope to her climax.

I stroke myself through my trousers, in time with her climb. I'm back in control, turned on but pacing myself. I know that I'll get what I want eventually. Ruby twists and writhes. Both her hands are deep in her cunt. Her juices run down her wrists. It's unbelievable how hard she is on herself. I remember her flogger, wish that I had it with me now. She wouldn't even feel it, but it might help her over.

Then, without warning, Ruby screams and arches up off the seat. Her whole body convulses, then abruptly collapses. Little tremors continue to shake her frame for long minutes. Her eyes are closed; she seems unconscious.

She looks fragile, porcelain skin misted with sweat, tangles of hair stuck to her forehead. I suddenly want to take her in my arms, cradle her, brush those tangled locks away and kiss her eyelids until she awakens. At the same time, I have a perverse urge to loose my cock and sink it into her passive, defenseless flesh. To finally make her mine.

Buy Links




Bio: More than a decade ago LISABET SARAI experienced a serendipitous fusion of her love of writing and her fascination with sex. Since then she has published five single author short story collections and seven erotic novels, including the BDSM classic Raw Silk. Dozens of her shorter works have been released as ebooks and in print anthologies. She has also edited several acclaimed anthologies and is currently responsible for the altruistic erotica series COMING TOGETHER PRESENTS.

Lisabet holds more degrees than anyone needs from prestigious universities who would no doubt be embarrassed by her chosen genre. She loves to travel and currently lives in Southeast Asia with her highly tolerant husband and two cosmopolitan felines. For more information on Lisabet and her writing visit Lisabet Sarai's Fantasy Factory ( or her blog Beyond Romance (

Monday, November 26, 2012

Music Mondays: "Better Dig Two" by The Band Perry

"I told you on the day we wed, I was gonna love you til I's dead."
-- The Band Perry

This song is as creepy as it is sexy (an astute comment on YouTube suggests it would be excellent for a horror movie soundtrack). That said, it's mesmerizing, and full of obsessive passion.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

A Review and Character Interview

My werewolf novella, Not His Territory, got 4 sweet peas on Mrs. Condit and Friends Read Books!

Ms Leong is a creative writer who takes a well-known story and puts her own twist on it, producing something quite new and imaginative.

The site is worth checking out even if you're already familiar with the book, because I did an exclusive character interview that's only posted there:

Me: You look great for a woman who’s gone into hiding.

Chandra: I do? I haven’t thought much about my appearance lately, to be honest.

(Here, she dabbed self-consciously at a non-existent speck of mascara.)

Me: More relaxed than I’d expect. Have you been sleeping better?

Chandra: Sleeping? Oh God, is my face red? Raul and I definitely make sure to get a good night’s sleep. To go to bed early, anyway. I mean, we spend a lot of time in bed. Oh, hell. Can you edit that to make me sound less —

Me: Less madly in lust? Not a chance.

Chandra: I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this.

And, of course, you can pick up the book here.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Happy Halloween! I'm Hungry For Love...

Ah, Halloween, the time of year when you settle down with a collection of hot, horrifying zombie erotica... Wait, that's not what you usually do? How about giving it a shot this year by checking out Sommer Marsden's Hungry for Love, which includes a story by yours truly.

If this amazing premise doesn't convince you, here's an excerpt from my contribution, "Screen Siren," which describes a rather unusual casting call. B-movie director Sam Raymond sorts through a collection of zombie leading ladies, in search of his ideal woman:

How many times has he dreamt of being face to face with her? How many times has he had the shameful, clichéd fantasy about her and the casting couch? How many times has he envisioned her sharp and delicate face upturned and eager to please? He once went to see her in a play and spent the entire two hours staring at a bruise on the inside of her right elbow, wishing he too could mark her flesh, even if only for a day.

Deborah, his assistant director, is beside him again. "That one looks live, doesn't she? I'll give Tommy the signal."

"No!" Sam nearly shouts. "I want her for my lead." Jessica Savage. For a feverish four-year period, Sam had written a screenplay for her once every three months — though no one ever saw them. More recently, he has pounded away at a single effort, revising ad nauseam, hoping he can find some way to make it less awful and more worthy of her.

"Are you sure?" Deborah's voice is skeptical. "She has that look, don't you think? Her eyes seem too aware. I think we should shoot her."

Deborah is probably right. She is more than competent as an assistant director. If the world were fair, Sam would be working for her. And Jessica's pale, rigid face does seem a little sly. If this weren't Jessica, he would shoot her rather than take the
risk. Zombies, after all, are the ultimate disposables.

Sam cannot bring himself to pass up what will certainly be his last chance to work with Jessica, even if she appears now in this much changed form. "Let me get a closer look," he murmurs to Deborah. "Have someone hold the others back, will you?"

He steps closer. The allure of his mental image of her is so strong that he forgets the stench and takes a deep breath. He expects the cayenne chocolate smell she has in his fantasies — particularly in the one where he takes her to his mother's house and they all cook molé together before Sam and Jessica have wild, chocolate-smeared sex in his childhood bedroom.

She does not smell like molé or any food Sam would like to eat. He gags a little, but Hollywood has taught him to swallow his disappointments. He takes her hand in the gentlemanly way he always imagined. She surrenders it to him nervelessly. Flipping over her forearm, he checks her, finding the thick, perfectly round hole through her veins that is typical of a broker deal. She died for this casting call, for this moment with Sam here and now. The idea warms him. She chose him, even if she did not know exactly what she would get.

Sam peers into her dark, empty eyes. He agrees with Deborah that there is more to them than there ought to be. Jessica Savage might be in there somewhere. His hand tightens around hers.

The rational part of Sam's mind knows this means he ought to step away and signal Tommy and Dave to riddle her with bullets. But the likelihood that she is somehow still Jessica — even if this version of Jessica would tear him limb from limb with her molars if given the chance — appeals deeply to the part of Sam that has longed for Jessica Savage since he came to Hollywood, the part that made an obscure aspiring actress into a private obsession and deeply held fantasy.

Hollywood has taught Sam one thing: You can't have what you want, so you take as much as you can. "She's fine," he calls in a steady voice. "She's our lead."

Read the rest, as well as the other authors' stories, by picking up a copy at your preferred Internet vendor:


All proceeds from the anthology go to the American Diabetes Association

Friday, October 19, 2012

Release Day For Not His Territory!

That hot cover is for my new release from Breathless Press, Not His Territory.

Here's a blurb:

Werewolf investigator Raul Silva has always followed orders, but the latest might be one too many. Can he really resist his target's hot ex-wife?

After a devastating encounter with an illegally shifted werewolf, a wounded Raul Silva slumps on Chandra Williams's doorstep, begging for refuge. As an investigator for the legalistic Werewolf Council, Raul's been sent to look into instability in the local pack. Chandra's presence makes him want to succeed at his mission for personal — not professional — reasons.

The Werewolf Council disapproves. Chandra is strictly off-limits for Raul according to both the traditions and laws of the werewolves. But after a life devoted to upholding principles, Raul's instincts and desires are boiling to the surface. Can Raul resist Chandra, or will he break with everything he stands for to pursue a woman who is not his territory?
And a short excerpt:

"Can I take off his marking? I'm glad it kept you safe, but I'm not his territory. It's not his house. I pay for it."

Raul's eyes took on a strange weight. Chandra shivered, too aware of his body. "I wish it were that simple."

"Why isn't it? I can buy spray paint and cover up his mark."

"A territory dispute must be resolved on the full moon in the ancient way."

"The ancient way?"

"A challenge. A battle for control. It's done in fully shifted form."

"Well, I'm not a werewolf. What am I supposed to do?"

"We're set up to be self-policing. Your ex shouldn't be behaving the way he is. Marriages to humans are somewhat frowned upon and are supposed to be done with full knowledge and consent on the part of the human. This obviously wasn't how he did it with you, since you know nothing of our customs. A human has good reason to be wary of marrying one of us, though. Werewolf law often resorts to the ancient way for final arbitration. A human is at a disadvantage in any dispute with one of us. It's much easier when we keep to ourselves." Both of Raul's hands gripped the tablecloth now. Chandra wondered what part of this upset him so much.

"So you're saying he shouldn't have married me."

"Not if he planned to treat you this way." Raul's voice came out as a snarl.

"I mean, because it breaks werewolf law."

"It's not that a werewolf can't be with a human," Raul said. His emphasis on the words "be with" sent a chill down her inner thighs. "It just needs to be done properly." Now Chandra grabbed her own handful of tablecloth. She needed to figure out how to get free of her ex, not become distracted wondering what Raul would consider the "proper" way to be with a human.

"Okay, well." Chandra's voice shook. She forced herself to look at a spot on the wall beyond Raul. If she looked directly at the man, she'd be off on another fantasy before she knew what hit her. "Since that's water under the bridge at this point, isn't there any way to dispute his claim on my house?"

Raul's hand brushed hers. Chandra jumped. "Another werewolf could dispute on your behalf. I could do that for you. If you wanted. I owe you my life as it is."

Chandra waited for him to move his hand away. He did not. She went on speaking anyway, despite the bolts of arousal shooting through her lower belly. "And what then? Am I—I mean, my house—is my house your territory if you win?" Her arms trembled. The idea of being his territory sounded medieval to her brain, but her body loved it. Enough that she involuntarily crossed her legs and squeezed them together, further igniting the heat between her thighs.

"In theory," Raul said slowly. "I suppose so. In practice, only if you want it to be." He smiled. "I'm a werewolf, not a caveman."

You can grab it from Amazon, or from the publisher's site.

While you're over there, check out the new release, One Wild Vegas Night, from my fellow Ravaged author SJ Thomas.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

The Last Dream

Circlet's Erotic Shakespeare collection, Like A Midsummer Night, released recently, and it contains my first published m/m story, "The Last Dream," which pairs Mercutio with Tybalt.

I had a lot of fun writing this. I used many bits of dialogue from the original play, and, when I had to write my own, I tried to maintain Shakespeare's blank verse. It felt supremely arrogant at times -- the first thing I do in the story is finish Mercutio's interrupted Queen Mab speech -- but I love pastiche and how imitating another's style ultimately sets me free.

Here's a short excerpt:

That hag Mab, spinning her dreams of passion and punishment, has tricked him well. Long has Mercutio avoided the entanglements of sentiment. Physical love holds no charms worth boasting of. His trysts to date have all the splendor of sending laundry to the washerwoman. Needs sated, a body cleaned and restored, and a thanks and farewell to all involved.

And now Mercutio makes a fine picture, as part of a little group largely unknown to each other. Romeo, beanpole lover of all that lies between a woman’s thighs—so long as he neither sees nor touches the treasure—skulks about sighing first for Rosaline, then for any maid young and foolish and possessed of duel-seeking relations. Skulking after Romeo comes Tybalt, drunk on his own rage, his deadly grace too pleasing to Mercutio’s eye. Mercutio—himself now a skulker in turn, all thanks be to his new lord Cupid—gazes upon Tybalt with desire and trepidation, and mocks himself for looking at all.

This strange attraction, this proof of cocky foolishness and his body’s brazen disregard of self, promises danger as heady as it is certain. The trouble lies not merely in the brash carriage of his eye’s new fixation, but rather in the strength of the pull. Never before has Mercutio failed to control the object and timing of his affections. Never before has Mercutio skulked.

Besotted Romeo, far beyond considering the consequences of being seen, makes love to Tybalt’s cousin with his eyes, and shoves through the crowd to bump his hand against her hand. Mercutio sneers and Tybalt explodes, breaking out of the shadows to hiss at the elder Capulet. The old man waves him off, and Tybalt returns to the domain of the skulkers, the sun-darkened flesh above his brilliant eyes gathered like a fist about to strike. He talks to himself, the words soaked up by Mercutio’s eager ears: “I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall, now seeming sweet, convert to bitt’rest gall.”

No good for Romeo in that, but does Wandercock care? He is busy, pressing swelling lips to the yet-unspoiled hand of Tybalt’s young cousin. And there, if nothing else, lies an illustration of which Mercutio should take heed. A man so locked in love’s pursuit that he neglects the half-drawn sword at his back, a weapon which will surely swing ere break of day. Mercutio cannot help glancing over his own shoulder. But there is no one there, and Tybalt has gone, taking with him all the evening’s threat and thrill.

If you'd like to read more, or check out the other authors' stories, you can pick the book up here on Circlet's site or here at Amazon.

Sunday, September 30, 2012


And yet another forthcoming story:

"Loyalty," coming soon in The Honey Trap: Sexy, Seductive Spies from Sizzler Editions:
A corporate spy trapped by years of debt servitude dons a synthsuit to seduce information out of Stella Swansea, the CEO of a prominent designer drug company. Unfortunately, the dossier she used to prep for the job failed to mention Stella's history with the man she's impersonating, and no outsider knows the true secret of the drugs her company sells.

I'll post more about this forthcoming gender-bending SF story as it becomes available.

Friday, September 28, 2012

More Erotic Altruism On the Way!

The inestimable Sommer Marsden is editing the latest anthology from Coming Together, and it'll be hot and good for the braaaaiiin. That's right, Hungry For Love is a charity anthology of zombie erotica (set to benefit the American Diabetes Association), and I've got a story in it!

"Screen Siren" is a zombie romance set in Hollywood. The main character, Sam, has patched together a career as a second-rate director, using resources real directors wouldn't touch. This includes zombie actors. When the woman of Sam's dreams shows up undead, he has to live by the one rule he's learned in his punishing film career: You can't have what you want, so you have to take what you can get.

Keep an eye out for this and the rest of Ms. Marsden's chosen stories -- Hungry For Love is set to release on Halloween.

In the meantime, take a look at some of my other charity writing, featured in Coming Together: Arm in Arm in Arm (tentacle erotica, benefits Oceana), Coming Together: As One (menage stories, benefits ONE: the campaign to end global poverty), and The Six Swans from Coming Together: Neat (fairy tale erotica (benefits Kiva).

Thank you!

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Beginnerʻs Luck

Iʻm pleased to announce that my femdom bondage story, "Beginnerʻs Luck," will appear in the Bound and Bonded collection forthcoming from Mischief Books. This publisher has one of the most beautiful websites Iʻve seen, and I highly recommend you spend some time clicking around.

"Beginnerʻs Luck" is a story about a woman out to take control of her sex life. Rachel has always been a rope bottom, but the delicious Jeremy tempts her to make a special exception and try acting as a top. Once she starts, Rachel canʻt stop -- she displays Jeremy in an effort to catch the attention of a statuesque blonde across the room.

Bound and Bonded isnʻt out yet, but if you canʻt wait, I highly recommend you check out the other collections Mischief has published. You can browse them here. As a tip for U.S. readers, U.S. editions of Mischief Books can be had from Kobo, and you can read them using Adobe Digital Editions, which is free to download.

Monday, September 24, 2012

Freedom For A Small Part

Coming Togetherʻs awesome charitable erotic anthology of tentacle sex is out! Coming Together: Arm in Arm in Arm, edited by Nobilis Reed, released last month, and includes my story, "Freedom For A Small Part." As with all books published by Coming Together, all proceeds will go to charity -- in this case, to Oceana.

Nobilis Reed is a man concerned with story, and I have high expectations for this anthology -- Iʻm sure it will deliver as much in terms of plot and character development as it does in orgasmic prose.

To whet your appetite, hereʻs an excerpt from my story. The heroine, Natalie, is living in a dorm known for the tentacle monster that lives in its plumbing. This scene takes place after an attempted hazing that teaches Natalie that the creature might not be all it seems.:

Natalie started showering in Wesley, paying no mind to the teasing that came from the Hentai Girls. They seemed to think of her as one of them now, which improved her living situation a great deal. The creature poked its tentacles out every time she turned the water on. Natalie had learned that it liked when she stroked her hand firmly down the length of its exposed flesh — or had she trained it to like that? She started a notebook where she tracked its behavior and what she observed about it.

A few times, she started conversations with other girls in Wesley, trying to figure out what they did with it. For all the innuendo about the creature, no one seemed willing to talk specifics. Donna, for example, a tall, slim volleyball playing blonde who lived down the hall, rolled her eyes when Natalie raised the subject. "I think you know what we do with it."

"I mean, what specifically?" Natalie pressed.

Donna shrugged. "It grabs you and fucks you. You know that."

Natalie had trouble believing no other girl had discovered how responsive the tentacles could be. She waited in a bathroom stall late one night, hoping to get a chance to watch how someone else interacted with the creature.

She didn't have to wait too long. Cora came in, stripping off her clothes as soon as she passed through the door and heading straight for the showers. Natalie waited until the water started, then stepped out of the stall as quietly as she could. The school always skimped on shower curtains, probably in an effort to save money, so Natalie had an easy view of the redhead almost to the knee. A clutch of tentacles wound around her calves, and Cora gripped them with red-manicured hands, urging them up.

"Come on," she muttered. "Don't get sluggish on me now. You were never shy before." She hauled the tentacles higher up her body, squeezing them so hard that bloodless patches spread out from around her grip.

Holding her breath, Natalie lowered herself to the floor, working soundlessly to find an angle where she could get a better view of Cora's shower. She crawled on her belly until she was just outside the shower stall, hoping Cora would be too occupied with the tentacles to notice her there.

Natalie peered up. The redhead stood, legs wide, tentacles wrapped around all four limbs. Many more had come up for Cora than ever had for Natalie. They crammed through the shower drain in what looked to be a painful squeeze. Cora tugged them upward almost maniacally, guiding them around her waist, her upper thighs, and her bare breasts. She squeezed them hard and they squeezed her back, but she didn't seem satisfied. Cora wrung one tentacle with both hands, and the creature responded by tightening all around her. Her nipples stood out as her breasts protruded and reddened.

Cora sighed and rocked within its hold. Natalie noted the rocking, wondering if that effectively signaled the creature to perform a different action. Whatever the impetus, a tentacle unwound from Cora's thigh and probed her slit. Natalie blushed and wanted to look away, but she reminded herself of her scientific curiosity and kept her gaze fixed on the redhead.

Tentacles peeled loose from her waist and arms and joined their fellows at Cora's entrance. The girl rocked harder and faster, the muscles of her thighs straining to spread as wide as possible. Four thick tentacles, studded with fleshy knobs, charged into her cunt, and Cora threw back her head in ecstasy, her mouth open in a cry that was choked off by another tentacle pressing between her lips. Powerful rings of muscles contracted rhythmically to power the appendages that worked within Cora.
Natalie watched wide-eyed as Cora and the creature played out every move in an incredibly complex symphony of violation. If her training theory was true, the nuance of the creature's behavior with Cora seemed an incredible feat.

Not wanting to press her luck, Natalie retreated as rapidly as she dared. Only later, when she returned to her room to make her notes, did she realize how aroused she'd been by Cora's display. Furtively, Natalie slipped one finger into her panties. She drew it out covered with juices. For a moment, she wanted to lie in her bed and linger on the image of the creature with Cora, to rub herself until she shuddered in ecstatic oblivion the way Cora had.

She resisted the urge. Pleasure was for Cora and the others. Natalie wanted answers.

To read the rest of this, along with the other stories in the anthology, you can get the book here!

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Dear Kim

I've signed a contract with Circlet Press for Like a Chill Down Your Spine, a collection of erotic ghost stories. My contribution, "Dear Kim," is a multi-generational lesbian romance in which discoveries about the fate of lovers past increase the desire and desperation of lovers in the present.

Watch for more information as it becomes available!

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Right Message, Wrong Man

My contemporary BDSM story, Right Message, Wrong Man, is out from Forbidden Fiction. Here's the blurb:
Lila texted a come-on to her sometimes hook-up Jason, but instead it wound up going to her boss, Jaron. Afraid to upset her sadistic superior, Lila follows through when he responds with excitement, only to discover that Jaron knows how to hurt her in exactly the way that she needs. (M/F)

And an excerpt:

The sensible thing to do would be to explain my mistake and hope we could both move on from the embarrassment. But what then? He’d just confirmed his interest and sent a lewd text back to me. I’d seen how Jaron reacted when he thought he’d been hung out to dry. Hell, he got mad the time I asked if he wanted coffee and then forgot to go out and get it. How much worse would it be if I offered him a blow job and then made him feel like a fool?

I lifted the phone and made a few attempts to write an explanation. So sorry. That text was meant for this guy I’m seeing, whose name is a lot like yours. I can’t believe I did that. I deleted it. You will not believe how similar your name is to this guy I’m seeing... I deleted that one, too.

Wishing I could throw the phone, I looked at his texts again. Nothing could possibly be a suitable response to his line about his cock and my mouth and the alley out back—especially not after my line about wanting to get his big cock down my throat. I tried one last message. Yes, I typed. I can be there in 45. My heart pounded as my finger hovered over the send key.

I tried to talk myself out of it. Was giving my boss a blow job in an alley really less humiliating than explaining my stupid texting mistake? The boss who made me miserable every single day at work with his unreasonable demands and total lack of empathy? I pictured his unsympathetic, ex-marine face, his hands like iron around the back of my head, his cock driving down my throat harder than I’d ever had it. But the image wasn’t unappealing—on the contrary. I couldn’t imagine Jaron accepting anything less than a full deep throat, and the idea was about to make my panties melt. I really did need someone to make me forget all my stress.

The real question, I decided, was whether blowing my boss would be less humiliating than accepting yet another sympathy fuck from a guy who rejected me afresh every time I saw him. And actually, it seemed like it was. The idea of Jaron seemed hotter by the minute. I pushed send and headed for the bus that would take me to his neighborhood.

If you'd like to read more, you can buy the book here!

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Wicked Fairy Tales Month

August is Wicked Fairy Tales Month at Forbidden Fiction, and there's still time to get involved. Head over to the home page and tell the editors which fairy tale you'd most like to see redone as erotica -- you'll be entered in a drawing to win a free e-book at the end of the month.

You can also check out interviews with authors whose stories are featured in the Wicked Fairy Tales collection, including yours truly:

The unknown is erotic, and fairy tales are all about the unknown. What's in the cave? What's beyond the edge of the forest? What happens if you break the rules? What happens if people aren't who they seem to be? What would you be if you could be something else, or if you were forced to be? These questions become very sexual very easily. Beyond that sense of magical roleplay, however, fairy tales in their original form have a deep sense of eroticism. Many of them are about marriage, which means they're about sex. They're about risk. People do strange things, and some of those are sexual. In the original version of The Six Swans, for example, the mute princess for some reason climbs a tree and throws her clothes down to the king's servant a garment at a time. I've never understood quite what she was up to, but it's an undeniably erotic action, and it's there in the original version.

You can read the full interview here.

Be sure to check out other interviews while you're over there, and enter the drawing (the main post is here).

The Wicked Fairy Tales anthology is available here. Enjoy!

Monday, August 20, 2012

Music Mondays: "Picking Up The Pieces" by The Milk feat. Idris Elba

"You're looking at a fighter." -- Idris Elba

Yet again, I'm relying on the fundamental sex appeal of the blues. Idris Elba also makes the video easy to watch...

Repeated viewings helped me get through the rough final stages of a recent project, so I owe the song a debt of gratitude.

Friday, August 17, 2012

Fighting Spirit: "New Low" by Middle Class Rut

"I did my time in a windowless box, like it or not. All I got now is today; tomorrow ain't here, and yesterday has gone dead on me anyway." -- Middle Class Rut

This isn't one of my usual "sexy music" posts, hence the mid-week appearance. I like this song's fighting spirit, and have been listening to it a lot lately.

Despite the song's title ("New Low"), I feel hope and defiance from this song. The quote I posted above feels like a punked up version of the day at a time cliche. The song's narrator has been through a lot, but he hasn't given up. The failures of the past don't matter, and he's determined to make use of the resources he does have.

When I learned a little background on the band, the song's sense of struggle took on a deeper meaning for me. These guys are far from an overnight success. They've been pounding away in pursuit of their art for well over a decade. I can't help but hear the song as an anthem to continued commitment, which I really respect.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Music Mondays: "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack

"The devil makes us sin, but we like it when we're spinning in his grip."
--Massive Attack

(Warning: Video NSFW)

This is, of course, a great song -- and it's been in scenes on True Blood, as well as in the recent movie Savages. But I just discovered how much I love this video, perhaps most of all for the added interview with the old woman. I'll confess that when I was searching for the official music video and saw the old woman's face, I thought, "That can't be the right video." But that turned out to be wrong -- and evidence of my internal prejudice that sexuality is the province of the young. Watch the video for the old woman even more than for the song.

Here, for example, is her definition of orgasm:

An orgasm is that point in time that can't be measured. A mystical instant that can't really be measured in this dimension.
I like that. Enjoy!

Friday, August 10, 2012

Modern-Day Sexy Bibliographies

If you're into the stuff I've been blogging about the last few days -- the mysteries of old forbidden books -- I must draw your attention to Scissors and Paste Bibliographies, which compiles information about old erotic books, such as a catalog of books published by the German Olympia Press.

You can pick up a lot of interesting detail there on the history of erotic publishing. See, for example, the fascinating page on Brandon House Library Editions, where you can see covers for books with excellent titles such as Clit Clique and Maidenhead Stories, as well as pick up some interesting historical notes on "the effective collapse of censorship [in the United States] in 1967."

A hat tip, as usual, to Geoff Nicholson's Sex Collectors, for alerting me to the work of Patrick J. Kearney, who maintains the site.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

And An Index Can Be Sexy, Too

Did you think it was just bibliographies? Geoff Nicholson's Sex Collectors presses the case of the sex appeal of the index as well:

Actually, there are times when I think the book's index is the best part of, and possibly even an excuse for, the whole enterprise [referring to the Victorian sex history, My Secret Life]. You might, for instance, look up "Spending" and find the following citations:

my first
on writing paper
on a silk dress
on silk stockings
against a looking glass
against a door
in a woman's hand
baudy ejaculations when
is the most ecstatic moment of life
happiness of dying whilst

This makes me think fiction ought to have the index, too. I suppose there's something similar going on with tags -- which I have certainly used to explore sites such as Oysters and Chocolate. On the other hand, the list puts things in a much funnier format. I'd love to see one of the erotic novels I love gifted with an index like this.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

The Sexy Trail of Ownership

One thing I appreciate about Geoff Nicholson's book Sex Collectors is that it reminds me of the thrill of the chase of erotic objects -- the way it is when they have to be physical and they have to be found. With the exception of a few serendipitous volumes (such as a copy of Best American Erotica 1996 that I found at a library book sale when I was, ahem, probably a little too young for it), I started reading erotica online because I could actually handle buying it online.

It still makes me nervous to buy a physical copy of a Harlequin romance novel, or to be seen in public with it, though I force myself to do these things occasionally as a sort of private political statement. A lot of my erotica is electronic, partly because a lot of it is published in e-book only form, but also because it's a lot easier to buy Women Who Love Wearing Leashes Volume Three (*) when only me, my credit card company, Google and whichever technology companies are currently tracking me are likely to know about it.

But Nicholson is reminding me of how cool a physical object can be -- not just because it's nice to have something you can manhandle a little, but also because it can be sexy to think about who else has manhandled that very item.

See, for example, his discussion of My Secret Life (**):

published between 1888 and 1894, the great Victorian eleven-volume, two-and-a-half-thousand page, infinitely obsessive and detailed account of one man's genuinely extraordinary sex life.

Patrick J. Kearney ... says that My Secret Life "is probably the most collectible and desirable of erotic texts, but certainly not the rarest." It was first published in Amsterdam, though the book itself claims to have been published in Belgium. ... Previous owners of examples from that first edition are said to have included the Satanist Aleister Crowley, silent comedian Harold Lloyd, movie director Josef von Sternberg, and George Mountbatten, the second Marquess of Milford Haven. It's perfectly possible that some of these people, especially the Hollywood crowd, owned the same copy at different times. Today I believe there are copies in the British Library, in the Kinsey Institute, in the private hands of Karl-Ludwig Leonhardt, and in the library of the late Gerard Nordmann.

While it can be kind of disgusting to think of who might have pleasured him or herself with whatever sex book or object you're holding, in this case I find the trail of ownership pretty sexy, mysterious, glamorous, and so on. The forbidden nature of the object makes knowing about it or owning it feel like being part of an exciting secret society.

I don't think this is just about anonymously written Victorian literature. I once moved into an apartment that came with a stack of sexy romance novels left by the previous tenant -- the kind that, at the time, I'd never have had the courage to go buy at the store, but was very interested in reading. The mystery of the discovery, and the physicality of the experience, added to the appeal of the books. I've often wondered about that previous owner, who in my head was a knowing teenager with some idea of how much those books would be appreciated by a fellow.

I love e-books, not least for their convenience and the publishing possibilities they've opened for many writers today. However, passages like the one I quoted make me remember why the smell of paper can be so exciting.

(*) Not an actual book, as far as I know. Though go ahead and write or publish it if you want, because I probably would buy it.
(**) For those with a healthy sense of irony, My Secret Life is available for the Kindle, here. I also found a few copies of the paperback Grove Press edition of the book.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

If You Thought Bibliographies Weren't Sexy...

Check out these bibliography titles -- they're lists of erotic books compiled by the Victorian collector Henry Spencer Ashbee:

Index librorum prohibitorum: An Index of Forbidden Books (1877)
Centuria librorum absconditum: A Hundred Books Deserving to Be Hidden (1879)
Catena librorum tacendorum: A Chain of Books Which Should Not Be Spoken Of (1885)

As usual, the forbidden sounds quite delicious. If some publisher wants to start a line called, "A Hundred Books Deserving to Be Hidden," I think I will buy a subscription to the whole series. It makes me want to read every single one.

Hat tip to Geoff Nicholson's Sex Collectors, which is my current ongoing source of interesting sexual errata.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Savages Offers Little Resolution

A bit late to the party, I went to see Savages over the weekend, an uber-violent Oliver Stone film that intrigued me mostly because the primary romantic relationship in the movie was a menage. While I was pretty sure the menage was there for titillation, I was really interested to see how menage would be portrayed in a film currently out in mainstream release (obviously, there have been other films that included menage -- Doom Generation and Threesome spring to mind, and I'm sure there have been more). Though it's been done before, I wanted to see what I could glean about possible current societal attitudes toward sex. (Note: I'm going to talk freely about the movie, without regard to spoilers.)

The film definitely played the titillation. Though I don't find menage shocking, I suppose I was there for the titillation, too.

The reason the female narrator gives for the menage is that, between the two men, she nets one perfect man (summarized by lines like "Chon fucks. Ben makes love."). There are some cringe-inducing lines (such as, about war-veteran Chon: "I have orgasms. Chon has wargasms."). But overall, the premise seems to be these are three wounded people who need each other to be whole. They are all home for each other.

She acknowledges societal attitudes ("I know what you're thinking: Slut."), but then justifies her actions somewhat defensively with the argument about wholeness and home.

Soon, this female narrator is kidnapped by a drug cartel, and her two men are desperate to rescue her -- to the point that they get their hands dirty in ways that go far beyond any of their previous misbehavior.

The main problem I had with the movie was that it didn't really settle most of the questions it raised about the relationship. In a scene that I think was supposed to be significant, Salma Hayek's character, Elena Lopez, leader of the drug cartel, tells the narrator, "There's something wrong with your love story, baby." She goes on to say that the two men can't really love her as much as they love each other -- "or else they wouldn't share you." The way the scene was shot, I believed this raised questions for the narrator, maybe even shook her faith in her way of life. However, it's never spoken of again and never clearly resolved. To be clear, it's OK with me if the narrator ultimately decides to shake off the question. But the shot didn't read confidence to me. It read confusion, and then it was dropped.

The ending is even worse. What I first saw seemed like a classic punishment ending to me (where everyone dies in a sort of metaphorical and spiritual payback for their effort to live outside of society, sinning with respect to both sex and drugs). After Ben is mortally wounded in the process of trying to save the female narrator, the narrator and Chon kill themselves so they don't have to leave him. This happens amid carnage in which pretty much everyone else dies, too. I was a little annoyed by the punishment ending, largely because it seemed like a huge copout -- a way to not address, for example, the issues raised in the scene above (or raised by Ben's fall from innocence over the course of the movie, or raised by the female narrator's rape during her imprisonment, or any number of things).

But this proved to be a minor annoyance in the face of the utter copout to come -- because that wasn't the real ending. The narrator says that ending represents the way she imagined it would go down, and then the audience is presented with a fantasy ending -- one where everything works out fine, the three end up hidden away on an island somewhere, and everything rings equally false and is left equally unresolved.

This is one way to handle controversial material, I suppose -- use it for titillation, and then avoid making any sort of statement about it. I was pretty disappointed that the film pretended to engage with some sexual issues, but ultimately turned away from the debate. By providing two endings, Savages essentially provided no ending.

Music Mondays: "Sweet Sour" by Band of Skulls

"Sour by the minute, but you're sweeter by the hour."
-- Band of Skulls

How do blues riffs manage to sound so sexy? This song also has that achingly slow rhythm that's super-hot.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Given the Right Partner and Circumstances...

I wish it felt more acceptable to disclose kink -- it would save so many later incompatibilities.

For my part, I suffered in a vanilla marriage in part because I didn't take my need for kink seriously. I did disclose my kinky experience and thoughts at the outset of that relationship, but in a tone of contrition, along with promises to "get over it" and "not give in to that behavior anymore." I feel this was mostly because I didn't have any sign at the time that it could be acceptable to be kinky, given the right partner and circumstances.

Problems like this seem pretty widespread to me. I recently came across the following passage in Geoff Nicholson's Sex Collectors:

Henry Spencer Ashbee was part of a coterie of Victorian bibliophiles, collectors, and sexual adventurers who shared a theoretical and practical interest in flagellation. ... The idea of this group of rich, serious, outwardly respectable Victorian men getting together to discuss flagellation, no doubt in a bookish, scholarly, high-minded way, strikes me as infinitely depressing. It may have struck Ashbee's wife, Elizabeth, in much the same way, though no doubt she took it a lot more personally. In his introduction to Prohibitorum Ashbee tells us that flagellation "has caused the separation of man and wife" and I suspect there's a deliberate ambiguity there about whether he means its occurrence in books or in real life. ... Having a husband who's obsessively interested in flagellation may not be the recipe for a happy marriage, regardless of where he keeps his collection.

After reading this, all I could think was that having a husband who's obsessively interested in flagellation might be the recipe for a very happy marriage, given the right wife. I'm glad for kink events and sites like Fetlife and anything that can help kinky people find each other, thereby sparing themselves and prospective vanilla partners from the pain of this incompatibility.

I still think there's too much shame floating around. There's all kinds of titillation going around about Fifty Shades of Grey, but from what I've observed, there's still a heavy aura of shame about it -- shame directed at people who are turned on by the book, as well as shame within the book directed at the character of Grey himself.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

More on Sexual Disgust

In yesterday's post, I wrote about being troubled by the idea that "women tend to be specifically more disgusted by sex than men are," as described in Rachel Herz's book That's Disgusting: Unraveling the Mysteries of Repulsion. A couple points she makes a bit later in the book shed some light on what might be going on when it seems women are more disgusted by sex than men.

The main study Herz cites found that female college students shown pornography were more disgusted by it and enjoyed it less than their male counterparts did. I already raised the question of whether the presentation of sex acts was disgusting to the women, rather than the sex acts themselves. I wonder if the women felt the pornography presented sex in a degrading rather than pleasurable way.

But there could be more to it than that. Herz writes later:

The faces of anger and disgust are most likely to be confused for each other throughout our lives, which ... has some intriguing implications for understanding what "moral disgust" really might be.

I wonder if the women's disgust had more to do with anger than disgust at the human body and its natural functions. Obviously, there's an interpretation I'd prefer to make, but this seems like a reasonable question.

I also suggested the women might have been disgusted because they were socialized to be disgusted (i.e. "good girls don't like that"). This passage suggests this could certainly be a factor:

There is not one disgust, but many disgusts that vary from simply and physical to abstract and complex. The emotion of disgust is probably universal but it is not innate; disgust has to be learned and is subject to a myriad of influences. Our age, our personality, our culture, our thoughts and beliefs, our mood, our morals, whom we're with, where we are, and which of our senses is giving us the feeling, all shape whether and how strongly we are able to feel disgusted, both as a personal predisposition and in the moment right now.

Clearly, sexual disgust is a complicated issue. I'm convinced this isn't just a biological or hard-wired neurological thing. I think that if women are in fact typically more disgusted by sex than men (I also questioned the cited sources in my original post), there is likely a constellation of societal factors operating to promote the effect, ranging from what girls are told as they're raised to how sex is typically presented in society.

I'm still planning to get hold of the paper that seems to be Herz's main source for the claim.

Friday, August 3, 2012

Looking for the Ravaged Promo Blog Hop?

Are you here to check out interviews with Ravaged authors and win prizes?

We've got you covered. Follow the links below.

Summary and instructions

Mickey J. Corrigan interview

Heather Whittington interview

After you're done here, don't forget to visit the other participating blogs:

Good luck and enjoy!

Can't wait to be Ravaged? Buy the book here.

Are women really more disgusted by sex than men are?

I've never liked the stereotype that men like sex and women don't. It seems so patently false to me, both because of my own experience and because of things like the apparent success of publishers like Ellora's Cave, Harlequin, and all the rest.

There does seem to be some kind of scientific backing for the stereotype, however. Here's a bit I came across in Rachel Herz's book That's Disgusting: Unraveling the Mysteries of Repulsion:

Closely connected to our repulsion at animality is our disgust at sexuality. ... Sex is among the most brutish behaviors we engage in, and though all cultures have rules for "proper" sex, we cannot escape the fact that sex itself is raw and physical and that we make the beast with two backs quite literally.

Besides being more generally squeamish than men, women tend to be specifically more disgusted by sex than men are. For example, in the first experiment to investigate differences between the sexes in response to sexually explicit films, female college students rated pornographic movies as 20 percent more disgusting and less enjoyable than men did. Many subsequent studies have corroborated the finding that women are more disgusted by sex than men are.

When I read things like this, I always wonder if the disgust the female students are reporting is truly biological or neurological or the result of a lifetime of being told that women don't like sex. I'm also curious about how the specific pornography shown influenced the female college students' response. Are the women more disgusted by sex, per se, or are they more disgusted by something about the way the sex is presented? This seems a significant distinction, though it's all too easy to conflate the two.

For those interested, a nitpicky analysis of the footnotes to the paragraph quoted above:
I want to get hold of the study cited in this paragraph -- D.L. Mosher, "Sex differences, sex experience, sex guilt and explicit sexual films," Journal of Social Issues 29 (1973), 95-112 -- I imagine it may answer some of my questions. But right off the bat, I have to note this study came out in 1973. If female disgust at sexuality is socially based rather than biologically based, then I'd be really interested in an update.

Herz cites another study (in a footnote after the sentence about how many studies have corroborated Mosher's finding), but when I checked out that citation, I wasn't sure how relevant it was. (D.M.T. Fessler and C.D. Navarette, "Third-party attitudes toward sibling incest evidence for Westermarck's hypothesis," Evolution and Human Behavior 25 (2004), 277-94.) It was a paper about how third parties respond to sibling incest, which found women reacted with stronger disgust. Saying women are more disgusted by incest than men are seems pretty different from saying women are more disgusted by sex than men are.

Given my dissatisfaction with these footnotes I wonder if the problem here is that Herz is buying into the cultural stereotype that women don't like sex. If those two citations are the best she's got, I wonder if there really is scientific evidence to back up her statements about women's disgust at sexuality.

Ravaged Author Heather Whittington Talks Encantado

Ravaged author Heather Whittington shared a few insights about her contribution to the anthology. Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a free copy of the book (and include your e-mail address so we can contact you if you win)!

What is your story in Ravaged about?

“Encantado” is about a young man who meets a mysterious woman at a party. Derek sees
her hooking up the with host during the shindig. When the host's body is recovered from the ocean, Derek wonders if the woman had anything to do with it, despite his intense attraction to her.

Where did you get the inspiration for your story?

I was looking for a different sort of shapeshifter, one that hasn't been done many times over. I came across the legend of encantado during my research. Meaning “enchanted one,” the encantado are usually dolphins who shift into human form. They are particularly attracted to parties and sex.

Favorite line?

Hard to pick one. Guess I'd have to go for this bit: "It's my day off, Chris. My only day off this week. You think I'm gonna waste it by getting up early and accomplishing

Now for a little about yourself. How long have you been writing, and how did you become a writer?

I've been a published writer for about a year and a half now. I've been writing since high school at least. When I met a friend at the theatre a few years ago (I was auditioning for a musical), she saw I had the Nanowrimo banner on my blog and invited me to join her writing group.

Have you got anything else out/due out?

I have stories printed in anthologies by Pill Hill Press, Wicked East Press, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and SNM Horror Magazine. Several stories are available in several of SNM Horror's online magazine. I also have a stand-alone story with Breathless Press called “Bordello Secrets.”

Top tip for writing/publishing?

I always thought Nike had the best advice: Just do it.

And a few questions just for fun. If you were a shifter what animal would you change into?

A cheetah. Though any feline animal would do.

Favorite food and drink?

I love fresh strawberries in vanilla yogurt, and I love chocolate milk.

Favorite movie?

Way too many of these. But the tippy-top of the list would have to be “Serenity.”

Boxers or Briefs?


Finish this sentence: I have never...

been drunk in my life. Though there are a lot of people who would buy tickets to that epic event.

Find more about Heather Whittington here.

Can't wait to be Ravaged? Buy the book here.

Want more from Ravaged authors? Check out the full set of interviews at the links below, and don't forget to comment for a chance to win (include your e-mail address so we can contact the winners)!

Ravaged Author Mickey J. Corrigan Talks Internal Savagery

Ravaged author Mickey J. Corrigan shared a few insights about his contribution to the anthology. Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a free copy of the book (and include your e-mail address so we can contact you if you win)!

What is your story in Ravaged about?

"Internal Savagery" is the story of the frightening yet alluring transformation of Bradley's lover, Melissa.

Bradley is a graduate student who studies the socialization behavior of gorillas. His story begins in the office of a therapist, where Melissa cries and rages while Bradley attempts to defend himself against her charges of infidelity and neglect. He can't understand why she refuses to acknowledge their wild passion, their hot lovemaking. He also wonders why she has changed. Melissa does not seem to understand her own transformation. She's angry and confused.

Melissa is full of a new deep rage. She hits Bradley, pounds the couch between them. She even looks different: her body is bigger, thicker, her forehead wider, her jaw more prominent. She is very unhappy with her appearance, but Bradley is strangely turned on. He loves Melissa, her fiery nature, her animalistic behaviors. Now he has to find a way to prove it to her.

With humor and pathos—and some hot sex scenes—"Internal Savagery" explores how
much we are willing to change to fulfill our lover's desires. Melissa wants Bradley to love her, so she becomes what he loves. Isn't this what real love requires?

Where did you get the inspiration for your story?

Hey, I've been in therapy. And, well, it wasn't fun. It was hard. Painful. But transformation did occur.

Couples therapy can be helpful and insightful. But it is also a torturous process. You need to reveal parts of yourself you would rather not look at or share. And you need to be willing to strip down your ego to its most naked self. Sometimes a therapist can suggest a way to see yourself that is very revealing. In Internal Savagery, the annoying couples counselor does just that.

I set the first half of the story in the therapist's office to see where the stress and anxiety would take the two lovers. I knew what was happening to Melissa, but Bradley didn't. I wanted to hang out with him while he found out what it would be like if his girlfriend became exactly the kind of lover he craved.

Since Bradley was passionate about gorillas, the direction of the story unfolded in some interesting ways. I used modern technology to help Bradley and his girlfriend discover just what was happening for her. And exactly what was going on between them.

I especially enjoyed revealing Bradley's thoughts as he was being emotionally scoured by the therapist. It is a lot of fun to tell a love story from the man's point of view, and to share what guys really think when women are asking them what they really think.

Favorite line?

"The truth shall set you free. But only if somebody else believes it. There was more to share about their sex life, but Bradley didn't want to go there. The doctor would question his sanity."

Now for a little about yourself. How long have you been writing, and how did you become a writer?

I'm new to the genre, although I've been publishing for a long time under another name.

Have you got anything else out/due out?

Dream Job, a cyber-romance novella, was released by Breathless Press a few months
ago. Professional Grievers, a quirky romance featuring a couple who attend strangers'
funerals, is currently in press. And a novel about college girls who work as professional girlfriends is due out in January. I also have two novels with a literary agent, which means my fingers are stiff from remaining crossed all the time.

Top tip for writing/publishing?

My top tip for writing is simple but not easy: Go lock yourself in a room and write. Stay there for as long as it takes: days, weeks, months, years. Like Rapunzel, let your hair down occasionally to allow your lover to visit. Otherwise, hide yourself away and get it done. The successful writers are the ones who stay locked in the tower until the darn thing's written.

As for publishing, it's a world of options. Once you come out of your tower with a
manuscript in hand, you should be able to find a willing publisher. Ebooks are fast and fun. The New York publishing houses take longer, and they can be brutal. You will have less input on the final product. Personally, I'm enjoying the world of ebooks. When I'm not locked in my tower.

Find more about Mickey J. Corrigan here.

Can't wait to be Ravaged? Buy the book here.

Want more from Ravaged authors? Check out the full set of interviews at the links below, and don't forget to comment for a chance to win (include your e-mail address so we can contact the winners)!

Ravaged Promo Blog Hop

The Ravaged Promo Blog Hop starts now!

To celebrate the release of Ravaged this weekend, the authors featured in the anthology have put together Q&As for your reading pleasure. Friday, August 3, through Monday, August 6, hop through the five blogs below to learn the stories behind the stories in Ravaged, and a few details about each author.

Each of the five hosting sites will post two interviews. If you comment, you have a chance to win one of 10 PDF copies of Ravaged that the authors have on offer.

Be sure to check out these participating blogs this weekend:

Can't wait to be Ravaged? Buy the book here.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Sex Marks You

This passage from Geoff Nicholson's Sex Collectors shocked me:

Sex and travel: in one model, what they might be considered to have in common is a kind of invisibility. You emerge from sex with, at most, a few scratches and bite marks. You return from your travels with a suntan. Sooner or later they all fade away. But not everyone wants this kind of invisibility. When sex and travel are over, you may still wish to have a keepsake -- a ring, a locket, a tattoo in the case of a sex partner; a model of the Eiffel Tower or a pack of lewd playing cards bought at the Musée de l'Érotisme as a souvenir of your travels. And very likely you will have photographs: pictures of the loved one, pictures of what you did on your holidays. These are ways of preserving the traces of a potentially all-too-traceless experience.

Overcome, I wrote in the margin, "Only a man could write this paragraph."

I generally enjoy Geoff Nicholson's writing, but for me this really underscored a key difference between male and female sexual experience. As a woman, unless I'm having lesbian sex, the idea of pregnancy is always looming. The sentence, "You emerge from sex with, at most, a few scratches and bite marks" seems absurd to me, because, at most, you emerge with a baby nine months later. Now, I spent my teen years in the South, and there were probably a lot of good conservative dollars put into educating me about the dangers of being a slut and the permanent life consequences thereof.

Let's also not forget about STDs, because you could emerge from sex with a life-threatening illness, too -- and that's something that also affects men.

To be fair, I understand where Nicholson is coming from. I've had the urge to mark someone, to claim that person, or to be marked by them. I've been aware of how only air held us together, some series of choices that could easily be revoked. I know what he's talking about.

But for me, this experience has always been fraught with tension, because on the other hand I'm aware of what a high-stakes game sex can be. How many times after a one-night stand did I simultaneously wish I could hang onto the person and worry that I'd collected some permanent and unwanted souvenir of the event.

I've never had a child, but I'm aware of the sexual allure of the idea of producing a life from a sex act -- in fact, a key part of the heterosexual sexual experience. It's stunning to me that Nicholson could forget that.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Sex Is Not Just Fun

Geoff Nicholson in Sex Collectors, writing about The Sexual Life of Catherine M.:

What I like best about the book is that at no point does it ever suggest that sex is fun. Sex is far, far more serious and important than that.

As an erotica writer, I can attest to how much work it can be to make sex fun, especially when I'm going for just fun. Some of the best-paying erotica publishers talk about wanting work that tells a story and has something at stake for the main character, while at the same time emphasizing pleasure.

This is indeed a tricky proposition. Leaving aside the issue of poor writing, which just makes sex feel fake, sex can often become heavy, sad, angry, regretful, uncertain, or poignant. I'm interested in sex in all its forms, so I like writing about it of all types. I like reading a fun sex story, but I also like reading a dark exploration.

Nicholson's assertion becomes particularly interesting to me when I think about what sex is like for me personally. I know how much art it takes to make sex sound fun when I write about it. How often is it fun in practice?

I would say that the times that are really fun are special, but there's also usually a lot of other emotion swirling around on the side. I remember once getting on top of my partner and riding him for a long time in a wild, sweaty way, using my full strength and stamina. It was incredibly fun. I came a lot, and I think he was really into the idea of my being so unstoppably turned on by him. It's a fun memory, but when I think back to it, I also think about the role of shame. I was really worried he would think I was weird, because of the faces or noises I was making, or because of what I was doing. He didn't, and so along with the idea of fun, the memory feels liberating and poignant to me.

I think this is the sort of thing Nicholson is talking about. Feeling liberated from deep personal shame is serious and important, not just fun. Erotica often has this subtext, and I love it for that. Holding out the promise of pleasurable fun is also really important, because to make it work and feel real, you have to be able to write characters who are truly capable of enjoyment, which often means characters who have moved beyond deep personal shame.

(Incidentally, I had already planned to read The Sexual Life of Catherine M. after I finish Sex Collectors. I will likely post a few things about it, too).

Ravaged Authors on the Prowl Starting Friday

Five blogs, 10 authors, and 10 copies to be won!

To celebrate the release of Ravaged this weekend, the authors featured in the anthology have put together Q&As for your reading pleasure. Friday, August 3, through Monday, August 6, hop through the five blogs below to learn the stories behind the stories in Ravaged, and a few details about each author.

Each of the five hosting sites will post two interviews. If you comment, you have a chance to win one of 10 PDF copies of Ravaged that the authors have on offer.

Be sure to check out these participating blogs this weekend:

SJ Thomas
Erin O'Riordan
D.F. Krieger
Silvia Violet
And, of course, right here.

And if you can't wait to win a copy of the book that inspired the hot cover above, you can preorder one here.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Originality is Overrated

I've worried about repetition, or things growing stale, in a lot of ways. As a writer, I don't want to be seen as writing the same kind of story all the time. As a partner, I don't want to use the same turn-ons and techniques every time. And sometimes I worry about whether I'm stunting myself horribly by using the same go-to masturbation fantasies for, like, my entire life.

Here are some reassuring words from Geoff Nicholson's Sex Collectors:

A moment's consideration suggests that a sex life consisting of never-repeated wonders would be as bizarre as it would be exasperating, to say nothing of impossible. The whole point of sex, surely, is that it's all about repetition. We know what we like, what gives us pleasure, and so we repeat those things. There'll be variations and novelties, there'll be inventiveness within the form, there'll probably be a few surprises, but the idea that every sex act might be some previously unexperienced and then unrepeatable form of escstasy is just plain silly. If it's any good, why wouldn't you want to repeat it?

It's a good point, and well worth remembering. Let's not underestimate the classics, or forget the pleasure they hold.

Monday, July 30, 2012

Music Mondays: "I Touch Myself" by Divinyls

"When I think about you, I touch myself."

This one is such a classic, I can't believe I haven't thought to post it before. I used to hang out with this gorgeous blonde who loved to bring down the house at the karaoke bar by performing this song. Imitate her with caution -- the technique was quite effective.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Erotica in the Open

J. Blackmore asks on her blog whether erotica writers have become a community of people writing for each other, somehow losing touch with the mainstream world:

I'm not sure if, in a post-Fifty Shades world, we can afford to be that insular. That book is decidedly not OK with the BDSM sexuality of its, uh, hero, and yet it's being held up as a stunning success in the markets of kinky and erotic fiction. This makes me think that a lot of people are not finding us, don't know what other stuff is out there, or how to find it. That makes me incredibly sad.

The frenzy over Fifty Shades is bewildering to me. As people have commented before, Fifty Shades is not the first erotic book aimed at women to sell a boatload of copies (see, for example, Nancy Friday's My Secret Garden, and, um, the entire Harlequin catalog). To some degree, I think this is a media event -- people at various media outlets feel they have to follow each other writing articles about the inexplicable success of this sex book (sarcasm here), and that feeds more articles and more sales. Why this book? Who knows? -- it happens that way sometimes.

But is erotica insular? I do think things that are specifically erotica concentrate in small press editions, dark corners of bookstores, and e-book publishers who of necessity market to the tech-savvy. A big thing Fifty Shades has going for it is massive publisher support, cross-platform availability, displays in stores including the supermarket, and so on.

If Fifty Shades encourages more mainstream publishers to get into more erotica, that'll be good, I think. It might pull the erotica section out of those dark corners.

I think there's also a packaging issue going on -- Fifty Shades doesn't have a red cover on it, or a picture of a shirtless man, and I think some of the shock is that the book sells anyway. But this is part of a larger trend that's already been happening. Harlequin has its Luna line, which is fantasy romance. A lot of fantasy books for a lot of years have been full of explicit, erotic scenes, BDSM included (see, for example, Jacqueline Carey or Terry Goodkind). I respect Fifty Shades' sales, but it doesn't really seem unique to me. Sexy books have been selling well for quite some time, I think it's just that a lot of the world didn't realize what was going on.

I'm holding out hope that this will increase people's willingness to go looking for the erotica tag, rather than sticking to books that have a lot of sex but are being marketed primarily as something else (say, fantasy).

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Who's Reading All This Erotica, Anyway?

People so frequently seem uncomfortable with the idea that someone is reading erotica, and I've seen lots of disingenuous attempts to identify who is doing all these reading. Most recently, this has come up in relation to Fifty Shades of Grey, with all kinds of weird speculation about "mommy porn." But it's an old conversation, it's often about shifting shame onto some group that the speaker doesn't belong to, and it usually sounds pretty silly. Here's a great example from Geoff Nicholson's book Sex Collectors.

[Gershon] Legman tells us in The Horn Book that collectors of erotica are either the "inexperienced young" in search of information and education or the "old and impotent...searching in books or pictures for the reviving of their drooping sexuality." "Few collectors exist between these limits," he says, and he reckons the young are in the majority. This seems so transparently untrue and such a downright weird thing to say that you have to wonder what his agenda is. When he starts talking about "these children, with their hopeless pornographic pamphlets, grotesquely illustrated as often as not with smeary photographs of old time pimps and whores in pointy shoes and torn stockings," his scholarly credibility seems to be sprinting rapidly toward the exit.

The quoted language sounds patently absurd, and you have to wonder where these assertions are coming from. I suspect a lot of the "mommy porn" speculation is going to sound just as absurd in a few years.

People read erotica. Which people? Plenty of people.

(And for those following along at home, I've indeed quoted several times recently from Sex Collectors. It's a really interesting book, and I'm likely to do it some more. It's on the Kindle if you want to check it out for yourself.)