Monday, September 30, 2013

New Release: Hussy by Selena Kitt

Love the attitude I"m getting off this blurb and excerpt! Enjoy!



The Eskimos may have over a hundred words for snow, but that doesn’t even come close to how many words the English language has for “slut”—and Lindsey has been called them all. “Hussy” is Lindsey’s personal favorite, given to her by her own grandmother, who likes to pat her on the hand and whisper, “Don’t worry, dear—a hussy is just a woman with the morals of a man.”

But Lindsey’s not ashamed of her reputation. She knows she’s earned it—and she’s proud of it. After all, you only live once, right? In fact, she goes out of her way to make it known to every guy she comes in contact with, she’s available for the taking—the rougher, the better.
That is until Lindsey meets Lieutenant Zachary Davis, a man who refuses to treat her like the trash she believes she really is.

But can Lindsey change her impulsive ways and learn to value herself the way the Zach does?

Warnings: This title contains graphic language and extreme sexual situations as well as a girl with a slutty attitude bigger than Texas covering a haunted past, and a sweet, hot man in uniform dead set on rescuing her from herself.

Note to Readers: This novel was previously released as “Falling Down.”

BUY LINK (Just Kindle)

Amazon US

Amazon UK


“You're a very pretty girl.” 

She shrugged. “Yeah? So?”

He adjusted his white hat, still meeting her eyes. “So you don't have to do that to get attention.”

Lindsey frowned, snapping her legs together and sitting straight up. “Do what?”

“You know what.” 

“What are you all dressed up for—a parade or something?” Lindsey squinted at him and saw he was wearing a name tag: Lieutenant Zachary Davis.

“I'm a recruiter.” 

“For what?” Lindsey snorted, looking him up and down. Even the man's shoes were white! “The Pillsbury Dough Boy?!” 

He raised an eyebrow in her direction. “The U.S. Navy.” 

“So you're... what... a sailor?”

“On a nuclear submarine, but yes.” He cocked his head at her. “Do you have any interest in the Navy?”

She rolled her eyes. “Only if we're at war.”

“We are.”

“Yeah, well... not here we're not.”


So what are you interested in...Lindsey?”

He'd obviously been paying attention. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “Sex... Zach.”

“Is that all?” 

“No...” She glanced over at the secretary, who was rifling through papers at her desk, but clearly listening to them. “I also like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.” 


Selena Kitt is a bestselling and award-winning author of erotic romance fiction and erotica. OVER A MILLION BOOKS SOLD! Her writing embodies everything from the spicy to the scandalous.

When she's not pawing away at her keyboard, Selena runs an innovative publishing company ( She does bellydancing and photography, and she loves four poster beds, tattoos, voyeurism, blindfolds, velvet, baby oil, the smell of leather, and playing kitty cat.

Her books EcoErotica (2009), The Real Mother Goose (2010) and Heidi and the Kaiser (2011) were all Epic Award Finalists. Her gay male romance, Second Chance, won the Epic Award in Erotica in 2011. Her FREE story, Connections, was one of the runners-up for the 2006 Rauxa Prize, given annually to an erotic short story of "exceptional literary quality," out of over 1,000 nominees, where awards are judged by a select jury and all entries are read "blind" (without author's name available.)

She can be reached on her website at

Facebook Fan Page:
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Yahoo group:
Linked In:


FREEBIES from Selena Kitt!
In the Barn
A Twisted Bard's Tale
Hannah's Choice

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Tamsin Flowers Interview!

The zombie apocalypse has been done many times, but how about the zombie erotoclypse? Today, I'm excited to welcome Tamsin Flowers to the blog. She'll be telling us all about the sexy side of zombies.

What was the first zombie story you wrote? Was it the same as the first sexy zombie story you wrote?

The first zombie story I ever wrote was The Joy of Zombie Sex, which appears in my new collection Zombie Erotoclypse—and I think you can probably guess from the title it was also the first sexy zombie story I wrote. It's about Alice, a freshly minted zombie who has no idea she's just joined the walking dead. Luckily for her, a more experienced zombie recognizes her for what she is and sets about showing her the ropes—eating brains and experiencing mind-blowing zombie sex!

Zombies are sometimes played for humor, sometimes for high tragedy, and sometimes for both. Do you prefer one of these approaches? Which shows up the most commonly in your work?

Generally I've tried to keep all the stories in the collection fairly light-hearted. One or two of them are romantic and the final story, Bar the Door, is a bit of a tear-jerker. I wouldn't say I prefer one approach over the other—my main aim with this book was to write them sexy.

I love your concept of the zombie flesh hunger being erotic as well as murderous. Can you talk a bit about how you develop that idea?

Well, I'm certainly not the first to have come up with the concept of zombies being sexual beings - there's already quite a canon of zombie erotica out there. However, there are a couple of reasons why I wanted to explore it in my stories. Firstly, it stands to reason that if the zombies retained one human appetite—hunger—they'd retain others and, as an erotica writer, naturally their sexual urges were of most interest to me. Secondly, it's rare for zombies to be portrayed with an internal life—most zombie fiction is about how the surviving humans deal with the zombie apocalypse. But hold on—zombies were once human too, and it crossed my mind that there must be at least a vestige of the original person left inside them—with all that individual's urges and desires. If their hunger is magnified to a murderous level, then what happens to their sex drive?

Are your zombies lovers fast or slow?

I'd say they're fast—born out of desperation! The sensations and the emotions these zombies feel are intensified but so are all the difficulties in finding someone to have sex with. In I Was a Teenage Zombie Virgin, the hero John not only has to deal with all the usual problems a teenager has, but being a zombie makes everything a hundred times more difficult. When these zombies find what they're looking for, get the chance to get down and dirty—they really go for it!

I often think of the modern age as the era of the zombie. The popularity of the walking dead seems to have gone up, even as I sense waning interest in vampires and the common monsters of the past. Do you agree? Why or why not?

I totally agree—zombies are hot right now, in the cinema, on television, in books…you'll find them wherever you look. People are even having zombie-themed parties and going to zombie events. October 13 sees the return of everybody's favorite zombie show and I, for one, can't wait.
The zombie seems to have become a metaphor for our times, in more ways than one—are the brain dead zombie hoards representative of a politically apathetic generation, a generation so wired into social media that they walk around in real life like zombies, or are they feeding on our fears of becoming zombies in old age? Or maybe you see them as indicative of fears of some future disease that our unmanageable populations will become susceptible to like mad cows' disease or bird flu but worse…? It's a classic fictional manifestation of our fear of the unknown—and by turning them into something that we can chop down with a machete, we're trying to put those fears to rest.
Who knew that an interview about zombie erotica could get so deep?

Anything else you want people to know about your collection?

The all important facts:
Zombie Erotoclypse is available at the bargain price of 99c or 77p from:

Amazon UK


Could I get a hot excerpt, please?

Of course! This is a snippet from the first story in the collection, Red Hot Zombie Cock.

Marsha has enough to contend with - a whole city full of zombies at the end of the pier where she's taken refuge - without having to put up with the antics of her cousin Skylar. So when he persuades her to visit a zombie sex club to celebrate her birthday, she knows from the get go it's a bad idea.

Two muzzled zombies are cuffed up to St Andrew's crosses and the club hostess calls on a member of the audience to come up on stage with them…

Mack steps forward and from where we're standing, slightly to one side, I can see that he's rubbing against the groin of his jeans with one hand. I can hardly believe what I'm watching and I almost forget to breath. After a couple of thrusts against his hand, the boy unzips his pants and wrestles his cock out through the slit, tangling with it until it's standing proud outside the denim. He makes a half turn to let the crowd see his impressive erection, a wide grin on his face.

"Jesus," I say and Skylar puts an arm round my waist. I'm not sure I want to see this.

"Fuck her!" yells a guy.

The kid turns back to the cross and puts a hand out to touch the zombie. He brushes it, quite softly it looks, across her breasts, making the zombie grunt and strain against her restraints. The grin has gone from his face and he looks completely fascinated. He runs his fingers down her torso, slowly, exploring the texture of her rough, grey skin. Under his touch, she bucks and the grunt becomes a moan that steadily increases in volume the further down he ventures. On the next cross, the male zombie seems to sense what's happening and starts baying as he, too, struggles to get free.

"Apparently zombies have an epic sex drive," whispers Skylar in my ear and I feel his hot breath on my neck.

"No way!"

"True," he says. "Just watch."

Mack spits on his index and middle finger and pushes them down between the zombie's splayed legs. It has an instantaneous effect, as if a jolt of electricity has been passed through her body. Her back arches and her head whips from side to side as she releases full-blooded zombie scream. In the enclosed space, it tears the air and reverberates in ears and chests. Mack looks back over the shoulder at the baying audience, his grin back in place. Then he takes his cock in one hand and uses his other hand to find a pathway into the zombie's pussy. He strokes his swollen head up and down between her lips and then I see his hips surge forward as he pushes himself inside. She screams again and the male zombie roars with her. When I look at him, I realize his cock's even larger now and he's pulling harder against the bindings at his wrists and ankles.

The crowd goes wild with catcalls and whistles as Mack pumps in and out of her. And despite my revulsion for what I'm seeing, I realize that between my legs I'm wet. Skylar pulls me back against his body and I can hear that his breathing has quickened. He grinds his hips against my ass and I feel the bulge of a nascent erection.

Author bio: Tamsin Flowers

Tamsin Flowers loves to write light-hearted erotica, often with a twist in the tail/tale and a sense of fun.  In the words of one reviewer, 'Ms Flowers has a way of describing sexual tension that forces itself upon your own body.' Her stories have appeared in a wide variety of anthologies and she is now graduating to novellas with the intention to pen her magnum opus in the very near future.  In the meantime, like most erotica writers, she finds herself working on at least ten stories at once: while she figures out whose leg belongs in which story, you can find out more about her at Tamsin's Superotica or Tamsin Flowers. Follow her on Twitter @TamsinFlowers or on Facebook Tamsin Flowers.

Friday, September 20, 2013

New Release: Life in the Land by Rebecca Cohen


The magic of the Sawyer family’s extremely green thumbs comes straight from the land. But Bobby Sawyer’s expected superpowers don’t become a reality until he kisses his best friend, Mike Flint. That kiss moves the earth—literally.

When Bobby moves to the city, leaving Mike behind, Bobby keeps his green thumb nimble by working in a garden center and uses his superpowers to help fight crime. He’s on a mission when a bomb explodes, leaving him seriously injured, forcing him to return to the family farm—the source of his strength—to recuperate.

While attempting to recover, Bobby realizes Mike is still the love of his life. But Mike is leery: Bobby left him once before. What if all Bobby needs is one more magical kiss?

Short Excerpt from Life in the Land

The distant hum of a tractor’s engine and a few notes of birdsong were the only noises, and once again Bobby’s chest filled with heart-clenching disappointment. His eyes prickled, and he tried to hold back the tears, but he couldn’t. Large, wet tracks raced down his cheeks, and he leaned forward and rested his head and arms on his knees as he sobbed, pent-up disappointment and salty worries splashing into the soil.

“Please don’t cry, Bobby.”

Mike’s eyes were large and imploring, and Bobby was so miserable at his lack of progress that he just wanted something to hold on to. He leaned forward and tentatively brushed his lips to Mike’s in the gentlest of kisses. With a soft sigh, Mike kissed back in the same chaste way.

There was a tremor beneath him, a mild shake that made his whole body vibrate. They sprang apart, both staring wide-eyed at the dirt as they tried to work out what could be causing the disturbance.

Bobby’s jaw dropped. Before his eyes two of the large roots pulled themselves free of the ground, clods of soil falling from the delicate rootlets as they reached out to him.

With an undignified yelp, Bobby fell backward and scrambled away, but a soft rumble from the oak made him stop. It was reassurance, a call for calm, and he knew then everything was okay.

Buy links:

Dreamspinner Press
All Romance

Author Bio

Rebecca Cohen is a Brit abroad. Having swapped the Thames for the Rhine, she has left London behind and now lives with her husband and baby son in Basel, Switzerland. She can often be found with a pen in one hand and a cup of Darjeeling in the other.


Thursday, September 19, 2013

Go Ahead and Make It Sexy

I've seen a lot of interviews with erotica writers who push back against the image of themselves writing while wearing leather corsets and fuck-me pumps. "I'm just a regular person," people like to say.

I'll confess that I do my share of regular-person writing—-at the library, say, where I get a little thrill out of typing naughty words while most people probably think I'm working on a paper for grad school. But sometimes, I go ahead and make it sexy. I've put on those fuck-me pumps at the kitchen table and typed while my pointed toe makes me feel like a sex kitten. I've stripped down to black satin underwear because it got me in the mood to write a hot scene. Sometimes, my dom puts on my collar and I sit down at my laptop to write while in the safe, warm bubble of his control.

It's nice to do that sometimes. I consider it a perk of the profession.

Don't get me wrong. I have line edits to do and commas to check just like anybody else. But for me writing erotica is an act of passion, and sometimes I like to get passionate about it.

I've had kinkier ideas for writing. I've thought about writing while wearing insertable sex toys, for example (though I worry my words would flow drunken onto the page). I suppose you could picture me writing while wearing sweatpants if you want to (it does happen sometimes). Other times, though, I put on a mini-dress with no panties and turn myself on so much that when my dom gets home from work, he can smell that I've gotten the juices flowing--creative and otherwise.

This is sex we're talking about, after all. It's got to be okay to make it sexy.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Out Today: Design and Scandal

My newest book from Ellora's Cave, Design and Scandal, is out today!

Here's the blurb:

Costume designer Kahala Lin didn’t get into her line of work to make clothes for tiny models. She dreams of creating high-fashion masterpieces for BBWs such as herself. When she’s hired to work on costumes for the science fiction movie Laser Sentinel, she passes up the opportunity to dress the film’s heroine and ends up with the hardest job on set—pleasing the demanding and devastatingly handsome star, James Corwin.

James is one of Hollywood’s best known actors, but he’s in trouble when he’s forced into working on this dud of a movie. James can’t relax and enjoy the shoot on Hawaii’s black sand beaches. He needs to prevent this film from becoming an embarrassment, starting with making sure he’s not shot wearing nothing but spandex, a headdress and a ray gun. His collaboration with the new costume designer starts out promising, but soon he’s so busy taking off her clothes that he’s hardly thinking about what he’ll wear at all.

The press, however, discovers their relationship almost before it begins, and the resulting scandal threatens both their livelihoods and James’ chances with Kahala.

A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

And an excerpt:

“You’re assigning me to work with your female lead?”

“I believe in delegating.” Costume designer Lawrence Marsh smiled tightly. “I’d planned to work with her myself, of course. I spent months drawing sketches for her. You’ll be following those, making adjustments as needed to the costumes I’ve started creating. I’d do it myself, gladly, but ever since I arrived on set I’ve had a certain problem that’s—James Corwin.”

“James Corwin?” Kahala echoed, confused. “That’s your problem?”

“Oh, James Corwin is about to be his problem, all right,” said a deep male voice behind her. Kahala jumped, turned, and found herself face to face with the screen idol himself, all six solid feet of him. James Corwin had played football in high school, and Kahala could see why. He had a linebacker’s build and muscle. He gripped the doorframe with big hands. His face wrinkled with distaste at the sight of Lawrence Marsh, but as his gaze settled on Kahala, his expression changed. His famous golden eyes focused on her and she caught the subtle flicks he used to check out her body below the neck. Kahala’s face heated and James smiled slowly, his nostrils flaring. His dark skin seemed much warmer in person than it did onscreen. The red tones in it caught the light so he almost gleamed.

“Hello,” James Corwin said, dragging the word out to two syllables and lifting his eyebrows with appreciation.

“Um, hi.” Kahala was relieved that her voice didn’t squeak.

Lawrence dropped a hand onto her shoulder. “I’m impressed again, Kahala. That’s the first civil word I’ve heard come out of this fellow’s mouth. Even if it reeks a bit of the chauvinist pig.”

James Corwin grinned. A slight gap between his front teeth marred his perfection just enough to make him convincingly real. He didn’t take his eyes off Kahala. “I can be nice if given reason.”

“Well I’m afraid I don’t have DD reasons,” Lawrence shot back.

Kahala bit her tongue before she could add that she wished they were just DD. Bra shopping would have been so much easier if Lawrence had been right about her size.

“Lawrence, that’s crass,” James said. He leaned in toward Kahala, his voice dropping and turning conspiratorial. “Don’t think I’m not a gentleman just because of the way I’m looking at you. I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the full package, but I also enjoy learning about a beautiful woman’s personality.”

A thousand red flags went up in Kahala’s mind. This man was trouble. It couldn’t have been clearer if he’d tattooed the word on his forehead in capital letters and accentuated them with glitter. Unfortunately she could be as circumspect about this as she wanted inside the sanctuary of her own thoughts, but that didn’t help to control her glee at the movie star’s compliments. He’d still made her grin like a fool.

James winked, mischief pulling one side of his smile higher than the other. “Well? You didn’t sound shy when you were talking with just Lawrence a minute ago.”

“I’m not,” Kahala admitted. She saw his challenge and raised him. Surveying his body frankly, she allowed herself a wicked grin. “I can’t make a call on your full package yet. I haven’t seen enough of it.”

James liked that response, clearly. He moved even closer. His fingers twitched against the doorframe as if they wanted to move to Kahala’s frame instead.

Lawrence broke into the moment before she could see where it would lead. “Whoo!” He fanned himself and continued with high-pitched sounds of appreciation. “It’s gotten very, very hot in here. Almost as if you two are forgetting the full workday we have in front of us.”

Kahala blushed. She’d gotten so caught up in coming up with cool responses to James Corwin’s flirtation that she’d forgotten to act professionally. “Sorry.” Instinct told her to leave the two of them to their business, but she couldn’t see a graceful exit out of the cramped trailer. Whether she ducked left or right, any attempt to leave would involve an intense negotiation between her body and that of James Corwin. She stepped back instead, then looked to Lawrence for direction.

Lawrence drew himself up even taller, so his Adam’s apple poked prominently out of his long, thin neck. “Before you arrived, Mr. Corwin, I was in the middle of delegating loads of work to Kahala here. She’s going to take over dressing Miss Marin for me, all so I can devote the bulk of my time to satisfying your demanding self.” His words sounded light and irreverent, but Kahala caught a strain of sincere irritation running through them.

Corwin must have picked up on that too, because he scowled in response. “I don’t know if I want any more of your attention, Lawrence. That’s what I came to talk to you about.” He sighed. All the playfulness he’d shown with Kahala had gone out of him. He seemed tired and far less glamorous. “The studio’s leaning on me to be here, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’ll be professional, I’ll do as I’m told, but I won’t tolerate being made to look or behave like a fool.”

“No one’s trying to make you seem foolish,” Lawrence replied. He held his hands out before him as if trying to reassure the actor that he wasn’t armed. “Believe me, all of us want you to look good. We want the teenage girls to swoon over you and spend billions of dollars going to see Laser Sentinel dozens of times in the theater. We want the boys to dress like you for Halloween.”

“I’m not wearing spandex. I’m not wearing stupid headgear. I’m not wearing a ray-gun that makes me look like I’m trying to compensate for something.”

“And no one’s asking you to do that.”

“Lawrence, since you made my costumes, I’d expect you to have seen them. The uniform I’m supposed to wear for most of the film has all three of the things I just named.”

“Headgear is what they call the thing they give kids to hold their braces on. Your costume has a headdress. That’s different.”

James Corwin noticed Kahala again and lifted his eyebrows in appeal. “You see why I’m looking for a second opinion?”

Lawrence waved his hand, looking even more annoyed. “You’re stuck with me, buddy. If the talent’s not happy, I’m the one who’s responsible. You and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other until we come up with something everyone can live with.”

James stepped further into the room. Everything about his body spoke of size, power and animal magnetism. Kahala needed to catch her breath, and all the man had done was walk a little. “This is the fourth design you’ve shown me, Lawrence. I hate them all. We start shooting all too soon. If I’m not going to be recorded for all posterity wearing one of those ridiculous getups, we’re running out of time.”

“Believe me, Mr. Corwin, I’m barely going to sleep or eat until you’re satisfied.”

James Corwin pursed his lips. His eyes drifted toward Kahala again. “There are so many people I’d rather hear that from.”

She knew she shouldn’t respond to the line but couldn’t help quirking another smile. She grasped the serious subtext to the debate, but between James’ innuendo and Lawrence’s funny mannerisms, Kahala struggled to restrain giggles as they continued to argue. She let her mind wander from the conversation, instead simply enjoying the sight of James Corwin, alive and in the flesh, not three feet away from her.
Kahala’s attention jerked back to the substance of the discussion when James’ big hand suddenly landed on her wrist. “Let me have her, then.”

“Excuse me?” Kahala blinked.

He continued to address Lawrence. “I want a fresh eye. She can work under your direction, right? If you were going to trust Madison to her, she’s got to be capable of working with me.”

“Right,” Lawrence returned. “Because you’re so flexible and not at all the kind of guy who could drive any designer insane.”

“I promise I’ll behave,” Corwin said. However, the lustful gaze he raked up and down Kahala’s body made entirely different promises.

“I don’t think Kahala wants to do men’s—”

Kahala needed to speak up quickly. “Lawrence, it’s okay. Really. If you trust me to do it, I’m happy to work with Mr. Corwin.” She softened her expression and gave the lead designer a knowing smile. “You sounded really excited about dressing Miss Marin.”

She could see that Lawrence wanted to give in by the longing touch he lavished on a nearby dressmaker’s form. He cast an impatient look at James, then clicked his tongue and shrugged. “It’s your funeral, girl. If you think you can put up with him, be my guest.”

James grinned. “We’ll get started right away.”

So far, the book is available at Ellora's Cave, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, and Amazon.

Also, be sure to check out the entire Curve Appeal theme series, which features books devoted to Rubenesque heroines!

Monday, September 16, 2013

Music Mondays: "When I Get You Alone" by Robin Thicke

"When I get you alone... When I get you, you'll know, babe." -- Robin Thicke

Holy heaven, all this talk about the "song of the summer," and I did not realize that this song was performed by Robin Thicke. He's long-haired, dressed as a bike courier, and strangely a lot more charming than the current hit makes him seem to me.

And, yeah, we need to give a nod to Darren Criss for his smoking hot performance of this song:

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Risk Rider and Dare Take the Con

This awesome anthology, edited by Beth Wylde stands up to bullying in one of the coolest ways imaginable: with hot sex. Packed with stories written to an anti-bullying theme, proceeds will benefit Planting Peace - Equality House, which brings bully prevention programs into K-12 schools and raises awareness about LGBTQ discrimination.

I'm beyond stoked to have a story in it. It's called "Risk Rider and Dare Take the Con," and I wrote it about the bullying that can go in at geek conventions (see fake geek girls and stories of harassment of cosplayers, for starters). I often turn myself on while writing, but I don't often get myself mad. When I wrote this story, I did both. I'm incredibly proud of it, and so pleased to be part of another excellent Coming Together publication.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Adolescence of a Story

I'm often struck by how stories hit an adolescent period. The story that previously seemed so sweet and full of promise becomes sullen and difficult, forcing me to wrangle it through a lot of uncomfortable changes. This usually happens around the time I hit between ten and twenty thousand on my word count. The first ten thousand words often come relatively easily, and later, particularly once I round the bend of thirty thousand, I often find myself on a roll. When I'm just at the point that a story's getting long, though, I often find myself wondering why I thought this thing was such a good idea in the first place.

I've learned a few tricks, though, for dealing with a recalcitrant adolescent story:

-- Go ahead and slow down.
Part of the difficulty is that the story is truly taking form, expanding to occupy its full vista. It's okay to take time to shape that carefully.

-- Hang on.
Much as I might want to abandon this difficult thing, it's important to have faith that I thought the story was a good idea for a reason.

-- Don't be afraid to make needed changes.
If something isn't working, it often shows itself at about this point in the word count. It's okay to go back and rework--something I resisted for a long time because of writing teachers telling me to just lay down a draft. This is still relatively early in the process, and if whatever it is that's bothering me is going to stick around for the rest of the draft, I might as well go back and fix it.

-- Skip ahead if necessary
If everything is feeling lackluster, I'll go ahead and skip forward to a scene I'm really excited to write. Then I can go back and connect the dots with a bit more sense of excitement.

-- Take it a little at a time
Around the time a story hits adolescence, I start wondering why I've signed up for such a huge undertaking. Things seem a lot more daunting to me post-10K than they do when I'm facing a blank page. At this point, I narrow my focus and just try to make forward progress. The end is too far away to think much about it .

-- Walk away if I need to
If I'm really stuck, I'll write short stories until I get my mojo back. Again, this runs counter to a lot of advice I've seen, which tells you to stick with your project until it's done. There's merit to that advice, and I don't think I'd let myself start a new novel. However, I find short stories fun and inspiring, and sometimes I need that jolt to be able to slog forward with the long, hard work of a novel-length project.

And, yeah, the thing I'm working on is in its teens right now. I'm going to accept that I'll be mired in that for a while, and employ these tips myself.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

"I Never Apologize, and I Never Explain"

Notice the quotation marks above. Much as I wish I'd been the one to say that, I certainly wasn't. I'll never forget the moment I heard it, though. I was at a poetry reading, and the guy running the event introduced a woman, a poet friend from out of town. As soon as he finished the introduction, she said, "I never apologize for my work, and I never explain it." She said it with a smile, as if she knew that demands for apologies and explanations would be coming very shortly. Then she launched into her poem. I don't remember any of the specific lines (I went to this reading more than fifteen years ago), but for the rest of my life I'll remember how intensely uncomfortable it made me. Those things people say about squirming in your seat were literally true for me. Her poem was angry and dark and sexual and as unashamed as her introduction to it had been. I remember my face heating, the desire for nervous laughter bubbling up within me, and, underneath all that, the most intense admiration and envy of her confidence.

It's been many years, but I can still hear her voice as clearly as if she sat beside me. That's still what I wish I could say about what I do, though all too often I wind up apologizing or trying to explain myself anyway. But there's an important way that, sometimes, she gives me permission.

From here on out in this post, trigger warning for rape and incest.
For this moment, I'll eschew further introduction and explanation, and share the link, blurb, and intro for my latest release, "The Good Brother."


In the second book of Samuel, the tragedies of the children of King David unfold. Tamar is raped by her brother Amnon. "The Good Brother" imagines Tamar, Amnon, and Absalom in a modern-day setting, and tells the story of Tamar's halting, stunted attempts at recovery after Amnon's attack, including her troubled & sexually charged relationship with Absalom.


Coming Together: By the Book is a collection of stories which depicts relationships as they are portrayed in the Bible. Slavery, stoning, virgin daughters... it's all fair game. This anthology was inspired by the vehement ranting of anti-gay preachers who profess to know how their Lord wants us all to behave by citing a couple isolated lines of Leviticus from the Christian Bible.

Sales proceeds will benefit Darkness to Light, which works to end child sexual abuse.

Here's the opening to the story:

I. Dress

Tamar wore a salmon-colored dress the day her brother raped her. She had decided to buy it at the mall the weekend before, as she stood in the dressing room at the store, pleased to see she did not have to suck in her belly to make the dress's lines appear smooth and sleek on her body. The garment had made her feel delicate and lovely. Because of its crinoline lining, the skirt puffed out and floated around her as if she were a ballerina fairy princess.

She had worn this dress to her brother's house that day because it reminded her of childhood. In that color, in that skirt that made her want to spin around, she remembered playing in the yard with Amnon when they were little, tackling each other and giggling, too young to worry about grass stains, or to even know about them. Maybe she had worn it for him.

Had she worn it for him?

In the days afterward, the thought made her shudder.

After Amnon raped her, Tamar managed to drive, very slowly and carefully, to her other brother Absalom's house. She knocked on the door and went inside, and the first thing she did was shut herself up in Absalom's bathroom and take off the dress. Her mind burned with clinical precision. She noted every tiny tear in the crinoline, and each of the little bloodstains that had leaked out of her and onto the skirt because she had been on her period when Amnon forced her. She felt nothing, and she knew this was bad because, until that moment, she had loved the dress with innocent passion that now seemed to belong to a completely different woman.

The worst thing, perhaps, was that she thought she could repair the dress. Peroxide could wipe away the blood. A little needlework could fix the tears. Then no mark would be left proclaiming what Amnon had done to her.

Tamar did not fix the dress. Instead, she bunched it into a very tiny ball, then squeezed it until it grew tinier still, then ground it even smaller with so much effort that she had to clench her teeth. She took the trash bag out of Absalom's bathroom wastebasket and wrapped it around the dress, keeping everything tight and neat. With grim satisfaction, she watched through the clear plastic as his discarded razorblades pressed against the dress.

She stepped out of the bathroom naked, holding the bag, ignoring Absalom's cry of alarm. When he came toward her to wrap her in a robe, she went still for a moment, wondering if Absalom, too, wanted to fuck her, and wondering if she would like it with him more or less than with Amnon.

Tamar went limp and curious in Absalom's arms, just as she had with Amnon. It would have been nice if her mind was blank, but really it roiled with guilt, disgust, arousal, and fear. She let Absalom take her into the guest bedroom and put her on the bed. She spread her legs once she got there, and did not recognize what flashed through Absalom's eyes before he turned away. "Who did this to you?" Absalom whispered, and the ache in his voice broke Tamar's heart.

Now she sobbed. He held her. He must have thought she cried for herself. Absalom repeated his question.

Amnon's name now felt too private to say.

Absalom waited. When she remained silent, he kissed her on the forehead, took the bag containing the dress, thrust it into the closet at the very bottom of the laundry basket, and promised, "I'll kill him."


The rest of the story is available here.


I don't think I'll be able to resist doing some explaining eventually, because I do have things to say about this story, and the Bible story it's based on, and the line of stories it's part of, and the issues it raises. I'll let it stand alone for now, however, at least for today.

Monday, September 9, 2013

Music Mondays: "Miss You More" by DeVision

Won't you come alive and take me down the trail?
(I miss you more than home).
Hold me close before it's too late.
-- DeVision

This is becoming the theme song of my WIP, but I'm superstitious about talking about my WIPs, so that's all you get for now. :)

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Cover Reveal: The Big Book of Orgasms

Somehow, I neglected showing you this hot cover, too! This book will be released Oct 15, but you can preorder it now! It includes my story, "All You Do Is Play," about orgasm through music.

Saturday, September 7, 2013

One Flesh

Storm Moon Press will be releasing my story, "One Flesh," about a lesbian couple who seal their wedding night with one of the most deeply intimate and emotionally intense sexual acts possible: fisting. I'm very excited to share more details when I've got them!

Friday, September 6, 2013

Just Wow: On Shanna Germain's "Shattered"

Every now and then, I read a story that moves me, turns me on, and sets me free as a writer by reminding me what a broad range of human life we have to explore. Shanna Germain's "Shattered," which appeared in Kristina Wright's Duty and Desire: Military Erotic Romance, is all that and more. It's written in a literary style, the sex scenes are brutal and uncomfortable but also hot, and the whole thing builds up to a devastating conclusion that's also a powerful exploration of love.

Here's a tiny snippet, from the beginning, when the narrator is explaining why she didn't cheat on her husband while he was deployed:
The truth of it is that men asked me and I was afraid. The truth is that other men tried to touch me and still I loved him. And as time went on, I became afraid that the only reason I loved my husband so much was because he had not yet come back to me.

I'm going to stop talking now and exhort you to pick up Duty and Desire, which is excellent overall, and turn immediately to Shanna Germain's story so you can read it in its entirety. It's a rare and special story that floors me the way this one did.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

On 'Throwing Like a Girl'

Recently, I was playing a tabletop role-playing game, and my character wanted to throw something. I rolled for it, and the dice didn't go my way. "You throw like a girl!" said the gamemaster, not once but four or five times, seeming to need to repeat the phrase as he reached the conclusion that my character had failed.

I smiled, but my chest burned. For years, I would have let that one slide, or nodded to it with a sense of shame, but these days I've learned a lot more about feminism and how to be a nice person, and I was angry at myself for letting him get away with that one.

I grew up about as far from feminist as possible. In my family, it was totally cool for men to tell women to go get them a glass of water, not as a joke, but as a command. Pretty early on, I decided that the way to deal with this was to avoid being seen as a girl as much as possible. I was not naturally talented at the activities traditionally associated with guys, but I tried really hard. I was jealous of the girls I'd read about who were just so good that they became pitcher of the boys team, or some such. I wanted to be a tomboy, but there were so many ways that I never felt I could really cut it.

I never got anywhere close to good, but I persistently beat my head against that wall. I played baseball, soccer, volleyball, basketball, and touch football. I was the first girl to ever attempt to participate in a game at my school called "beaming," which was an anarchic form of dodgeball that involved getting control of a rubber ball and throwing it at a random person as hard as possible. I was picked last for teams, was made fun of by boys and girls, and sweated out my recesses working damned hard to acquire skills every (boy) around me seemed to have been born with.

This behavior lasted all through elementary school, middle school, and early high school, pretty much until I discovered sex, at which point I became occupied by doing something else with the boys. I tried to have sex like a boy, too, but that's a post for another time.

Looking back, I don't know why I didn't go off and do something a little easier for me. I think I did like things about what I was doing. It was nice to be outside, nice to run around rather than attempting awkward conversation with the girls, nice to use my body even if it didn't always seem to take to what I was trying to do. For a very bookish girl, I think it felt great to feel strong, whenever I could manage it. I'll also never forget how it was whenever I wrested some accomplishment out of sports, such as the first time I threw a football with a perfect spiral.

It used to bother me that I wasn't great at sports because I wanted to prove people wrong when they said girls couldn't play well. The truth, however, is that I often could not prove that. I wasn't in the top 10 or even the top 50, and I probably never could have been. I was, however, not the very worst player, and I was of course far better than people who never played at all. Once, in college, the music class I TA'd for had a pickup baseball game, and I discovered I was the best damn player on the field, mostly because I knew which hand to put the glove on and how to swing a bat (my college was pretty bookish, what can I say).

So this was a big issue for me for a lot of years. For so long, I fought and fought against "playing like a girl" or "throwing like a girl" or even being a girl, really. But when the gamemaster told me my character threw "like a girl," this time I wanted to take him outside and see how he handles a football. My character may not have known how to throw well, but this girl throws like a person who worked really hard at something that didn't come naturally. Other people throw with talent, or like a person who never went outside, or who knows what. These days, I like being a woman and being seen as one, so I don't need to be good at sports to deny my femininity. On the other hand, I take deep offense to being told I'm not good enough just because I'm a girl, as well as to having all that hard work treated as if there's no possibility that it could even have existed.

I wish I'd spoken up then, but it makes me feel a little better to speak up now.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

A Writer's Fantasy, Fulfilled

"It's like rain on your wedding day — a day and place you chose because it's known not to rain." -- from "It's Finally Ironic," the corrected version of the famous, and famously incorrect Alanis Morissette song.

Eliza Hurwitz and Rachael Hurwitz have recorded a new, corrected version of Alanis Morissette's puzzlingly non-ironic song, thereby fulfilling the secret fantasies of writers everywhere. A heartfelt thank you to them both.

"Irony" seems to have been a popular and difficult subject in the 90s. Here are a couple of cases in point:

And I can't find a version of this that I can embed, but this is the clip from Reality Bites when the main character gets shut down while searching for a job.

Ah, nostalgia.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Interview with L C Wilkinson!

When I heard about L C Wilkinson's book, All of Me, I was fascinated by her themes of celebrity and passion. She was kind enough to answer some questions on the thinking behind the book. I'm pleased to have her here today!


Actress Flick Burrow’s career is in the doldrums. Dumped by long-term boyfriend at the altar and nudging forty she escapes to Italy touring with a theatrical company.

Orlando Locatelli is a successful businessman. He’s rich, clever and drop-dead gorgeous.

When the two meet, the attraction is instant. But Orlando is 15 years Flick’s junior; he’s the controlling director’s son; his stepmother is possessive and destructive. He’s trouble and he’s determined to have her.

Sparks fly when a tour romance turns into something altogether more dangerous, threatening to reveal pasts, and desires, both lovers are keen to bury.


Me: I was drawn to this story partly because it picks up on a lot of themes I find fascinating and problematic about celebrities, particularly the role of appearance and the vulnerability that comes with being looked at all the time. What got you interested in celebrity?

LCW: In my 20s I worked as an actress and even did some – bottom of the range – modelling and though I didn’t make it anywhere near celebrity status I think, perhaps, it gave me a stronger than usual appreciation of the strain of a life in the public eye. At auditions you are constantly judged on your appearance – acting ability seems to have little to do with much of the casting process, certainly in the early stages – and in the daily business of doing your job you are watched constantly, of course. However, I’d say that most women are vulnerable to this and, it seems to me, increasingly so. We are all expected to match up to some mythical ideal, the images of celebrities plastered across the magazine covers, and it is impossible to attain because it’s an illusion. The camera lies all the time, especially since the advent of Photoshop and the like. Even the models and actresses don’t look like this in real life. And as a society we are obsessed with celebrity; you only have to look at the magazine shelves in WH Smith. It’s almost impossible to ignore.

Me: Are there particular figures or stories that inspired you as you created the world that Flick and Orlando inhabit? 

LCW: For Flick: not really. She’s a soap opera star and I don’t watch soaps. I am a huge film fan though and I do tend to mentally cast the characters in my stories. I had a young Linda Fiorentino (as she appeared in The Last Seduction) in mind for Flick, though I’m sure readers will picture her differently. Orlando is so divine I couldn’t think of an actor to play him, though there are some perfume models that fit the bill! There are so many stories of people in the public eye being hounded; venerated or berated, that I couldn’t honestly say that I drew on any stories in particular.

Me: I can’t resist reading stories about celebrities, and at the same time am aware of how difficult it must be to live in a glass house. Did writing from Flick’s perspective affect how you feel about that issue or how you read celebrity news? 

LCW: Oh, I find celebrity gossip irresistible too! I think – hope – that I am sensitive and generous when reading and commenting on the lives, loves, looks of those in the public eye. When I was younger I thought I’d like to be famous; I know now that I would loathe it.


So far I’ve focused on celebrities, but I think everyone has a public appearance and a different, often conflicting, inner reality. Do you think it’s possible to conduct a passionate love affair without dropping the facade?

LCW: Ah, good question. I think that you can have a passionate love affair without revealing the inner ‘you’, but it will be purely physical. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Great sex is great sex. Perhaps lust affair is a more appropriate description. But for truly deep emotional engagement you have to drop the mask and peel back the layers, and the sex is even better because the heart and soul are engaged then too. Or perhaps I’m a die-hard romantic…

Me: There’s a significant age difference between Flick and Orlando. If I were in Flick’s position, I’d be very afraid of my glamour inevitably slipping in front of a handsome younger man. Does she feel that way, or is she more confident about their attraction? 

LCW: Flick is very aware of the age difference and what that means physically as well as mentally. Nudging forty and without any surgical enhancement, she feels that Orlando cannot find her mature body attractive. She takes some persuading! And because she is not a classic beauty, she feels threatened by the women (young and otherwise) he must encounter in his part-time, occasional role as a fashion model. She feels that she cannot possibly measure up to these goddess-like creatures. The irony is that Orlando loves Flick because of her so-called flaws, like the bump at the top of her nose – the result of a childhood accident.

Me: On your blog, you mention that you’re working on a sequel. Do you plan this to be a continuation of the romance between Flick and Orlando, or a story of new characters set in the same world?

LCW: At present I’m playing around with various ideas while writing another, completely new, romance. I have ideas to follow Flick and Orlando to New York, where Flick is working on a US TV series and where new pressures on their fledgling romance might take their toll. It would be interesting to see how they cope with them and how being catapulted into the A league changes Flick, if at all. In the States the pressure on Flick to remain ever-young (or at least look it) would intensify and how will Orlando react? And will Maria have her revenge? There are so many possibilities; it’s very exciting. I have also thought of bringing minor characters from All of Me centre stage – similar to Grace Marshall’s Executive Decisions trilogy. I’m interested in what happens to Johnnie and Emma for instance.  

Me: I saw that you’ve also published a book in a different genre, under a different name. What made you want to write a romance? How did your previous experience help you or hinder you?

LCW: Alongside fiction and raising my boys I work as an editor, principally for Literary Consultancy, Cornerstones. Last year I edited a few erotic romances – they’ve been a not-so-guilty reading pleasure for ages – and I realised that I wanted to have a go at writing in the genre myself. A story that had been buzzing round my head for years had found its home and I had so much fun writing the book I didn’t think it could be any good. Alongside my other published novel I have written another two; one might remain in the virtual bottom drawer; the other is nudging towards a contract, so when I came to writing All of Me I understood structure, point of view, dramatic tension and other basics. But at the end of the day, it is characters that drive story, that make or break a book, regardless of genre, and by my fourth novel I knew how to build convincing, empathetic characters – I think! That horrid writer’s insecurity is always lurking…

Me: Thanks so much for your time, and I wish you all the best luck with All of Me!

LCW: Thank you so much for having me and for asking such great questions.



Mr Hot led me through to a brightly lit room, the light scorching my eyes after near darkness. He pulled up a wooden stool and gestured for me to sit. I did as I was instructed. Row upon row of bottles of oil, condiments, herbs and spices lined shelves that covered an entire wall. It was a store cupboard, and the strip lighting was harsh; every fine line, blemish and open pore would be visible. Inwardly, I cursed my lack of foundation once more. I felt exposed, stripped right down, and vulnerable. I shielded my eyes, allowing my hand to drop low enough to conceal most of my face.

‘Better here, fewer people. Can I get you a drink? Cup of tea?’ he said.

‘Something stronger might be better.’ I attempted to cover my embarrassment with humour. He did not laugh, or even smile. ‘Water would be great. Wouldn’t do to be seen drunk. Imagine what they’d make of that,’ I added quickly.

Through a gap in my fingers I watched him push open swing doors with considerable force and sashay out, revealing the bustle of a hectic lunchtime kitchen; he barked out an instruction in a language I couldn’t quite place. Italian probably, possibly Spanish. This was no ordinary waiter in more ways than one. He returned moments later.

Despite his blistering good looks, or maybe because of them, I wanted to get the hell out of there; I gulped down the water. ‘Thank you. Can you show me the other way out now please?’

‘It’s not too soon?’

‘I have to be somewhere.’

At the exit, he paused and looked into my eyes, the hazel fading to black as his pupils dilated. He ran his tongue over those sensual lips. I couldn’t breathe and for a moment I thought I might pass out. The attraction I’d felt was mutual; he was devouring me with his gaze; his desire was palpable. Had it been a movie, or an episode of the cheap drama I’d been in, we’d have thrown ourselves at each other, kissed passionately, before being interrupted by an angry chef brandishing a meat knife. I coughed; it broke the spell.

He leant forward to grab the door handle, the bouquet of his aftershave mingling with a distinct, very masculine aroma. I was soooo tempted, but this was real life, and my personal life was enough of a mess. He opened the door, leant forward to look up and down the street before turning back to me and nodding that it was clear. Neither of us knew what to say. I had no idea if he knew, understood, or even cared why the press were hounding me, and I wasn’t inclined to explain.

I held out my hand. ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’

He took my hand, but rather than shaking it, as I had intended, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed the back. A charge raced up my arm, exploding in my mouth and groin. ‘It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same.’

‘Thanks anyway,’ I gasped. I had to get out of there, and quick. My internal red light was flashing: danger, danger, danger.

I stepped into the street and, unsure which direction to take, turned right and walked; the skin on my hand still thrumming from the touch of his lips. I wanted to look back, and tried desperately to resist the urge. After a few metres, I gave up and turned my head. There was no sign of him.


All of Me is published by Xcite in paperback and e-book formats. You can buy the book here and here.


About L.C.: I grew up in north Wales and now I live by the sea in Brighton with three fellas (my ginger sons and my husband) and a cat called Sheila. After many years working as a journalist, copywriter and editor of, I write fiction and work part-time as an editor for Cornerstones Literary Consultancy. All of Me is my first romance for Xcite. I hope that it is the first of many.


To find out more about L. C. visit her site – – for news and freebies. Or follow her on Twitter: @ScorpioScribble

Monday, September 2, 2013

Music Mondays: "How Beautiful You Are" by The Cure

"I turned to look at you to read my thoughts upon your face, and gazed so deep into your eyes, so beautiful and strange, until you spoke and showed me understanding is a dream." -- The Cure

Somehow, I have allowed more than a year to go by without featuring a song by The Cure. I listen to them so much that I think I hold myself back from posting them because I don't want to overdo it. I'm correcting that right now.

This song was inspired by a Baudelaire poem, which makes it dark sexy, sad sexy, all that stuff. But you already knew that, since this is The Cure we're talking about.

Every time I hear this song, I get an ache in my chest.

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Remembering My Father, and a Tribute Offer

My father died a year ago today, and I'm going to try to write about it a little.

I have a lot of trouble with self-disclosure. Things come out when I'm writing fiction, but it's very hard for me to say them straight out, so when he was dying I talked only to my very closest friends about it, and certainly didn't post anything to the blog. I did find that, when I sat down to write Not the Leader of the Pack, I couldn't help putting a dying father into the book, and having the major conflict be about the heroine's efforts to reconcile the things her father asked of her before he died.

As anyone who has lost a parent knows, it's a huge deal. Suddenly, you are without origin. I had all sorts of wild feelings, such as the urge to have a baby right that very moment in some sort of evolutionary attempt to replace what I had lost. I'm still about thirty seconds away from tears whenever I talk or think about my dad. The loss hits me at very weird moments, too. For example, I sobbed through almost all of Kickass 2 because lost fathers are actually a major theme of that movie. I don't think I will ever "get over" this, and it's been nice for me to just own that, to go ahead and cry and miss him and know that nothing can actually fix that he's gone. That's not to say I'm not going on with my life--I've done lots of writing in the past year, gotten married, traveled abroad, cooked food, folded laundry, and all the rest--but I'm not going to try to force this huge feeling into the background just because that would be a more comfortable position to take.

Anyway, I've been thinking about him a lot lately, remembering what it was like to watch him go through his last days. I didn't actually get to speak to him--he didn't actually make any final requests of me--because he had a heart attack that left him brain damaged until he actually died. For about a month last year, I watched that, and cleaned up his things, and did a bunch of other stuff that was hard but also incredibly important.

I decided to write this post because of a tribute I read that someone else had written. I realize that I'm not actually saying anything about my father's personality and life, and am talking about my feelings instead. That's partly because my dad liked his privacy, and I'm not sure he would be happy about me telling a bunch of people he didn't know about who he was. I really miss him, though, and it seems best to leave it at that.

I do want to make some sort of tribute to him, however. I'm going to make a donation to the hospice that helped him in his last days. If you'd like to join me in making a charitable donation in his honor, I'd appreciate that. Your donation doesn't need to be large--mine's not. Here are some suggestions that seem appropriate: The American Heart Association, your local not-for-profit hospice organization, or an organization that supports veterans.

As a thank you for joining in, I'll send you a copy of Not the Leader of the Pack, or another title of mine if you've already got that one. If you'd like to participate, e-mail annabeth dot leong at gmail dot com, tell me what you donated to (I don't need a receipt--this is the honor system), what e-book format you prefer, and, if you're requesting an alternate title, which one you're requesting. I'll keep this going through Sept 4.

Thanks for reading, and best wishes to all of you!