Remittance Girl: Erotic Fiction & Other Stories

Blog Restored and Moved

2009-08-03T18:15:00.002+07:00

After having my blog blocked and then restored without any explanation whatsoever,
I've decided to move over to WordPress permanently.

Please join me at
http://remittancegirl.com

Centre of the Universe

2009-07-31T15:00:00.002+07:00

Breathe
and know that
the butterfly in the garden
isn’t there for you.

God gave
his only son
to die on the cross
for someone else.

The earth
revolves around the sun
which revolves around
something else,
(I can’t remember what)
but it’s not you.

One day, we’ll be motes of dust
pushed on solar winds
and I’ll still be pissed off.

The temporary demise of www.remittancegirl.com

2009-07-31T05:39:00.003+07:00

My apologies if you are looking for my site. You'll notice that presently, my links to stories and series don't work. And, I'm missing a lot of images. This is due to the fact that someone launched a denial of service attack on my site.

Why?

I pissed someone off. I write nasty things. I'm sometimes acerbic in my wit. I'm not always very patient with moralizers. Who knows?

But I'm busy porting my writing over to http://remittancegirl.wordpress.com. It's not all there yet, please be patient with me. I'm having to copy and paste manually, but it will happen, I promise.

Because... I'm not letting some motherfucking bastard grind me down. It's not that my writing is all that great, it's that I HAVE THE RIGHT TO WRITE IT.

And the people who want to read it have the right to do that too.

Writing Site Down

2009-07-30T14:43:00.003+07:00

My writing site is currently down, since someone has decided to attack it with a whole bunch of bots. Cool, gotta love the effort some people put into shutting me up.

Really, you think they could choose to expend that energy on something like solving world hunger. It would be so much more productive.

Still lacking in fictional inspiration, a pillow book...

2009-07-29T13:05:00.002+07:00

Ten things that inevitably make me smile
	The chirrup my cat makes when he's hunting geckos.
	Little boys in silly hats.
	The first rambutan of the season.
	Graceful women wearing red.
	Gammelan Music in the heat.
	My coffee lady, Miss Mai and her perfect streetside coffee table.
	Beautiful architecture, viewed on a frosty day.
	Cantankerous old ladies.
	Things that have been abandoned.
	Strangers who recommend food.

What are your ten?

Butterfly Knife

2009-07-28T14:35:00.003+07:00

metal
mirror
cracks and
spreads open
shiny wings
slice through air

cutting the throat
of the moment
watch it
bleed
time
out

your edge
is edged
in edge

mine
dulled
blunt
against
your
lip

What Men Want

2009-07-26T07:12:00.002+07:00

In responding to my post on writing erotica for men, Sinner has written really good survey of the pieces of erotic lit that stood out in his mind, and a dissection of what made them good. Very worth your reading time.

Erotica and What Men Want, One Man's Theory

20 Films

2009-07-25T11:59:00.004+07:00

Yes, I realize this is a rather banal post compared to some of the others, but I was asked recently for my 20 favourite films, so I thought I'd post the list here. I don't feel comfortable ordering them, so don't let the sequence in which they're listed influence you.

http://tcp3.com/gv3n	Fallen Idol Directed by Carol Reed Written by Graham Greene B&W 1948 (UK) The opening sequence to this movie is one of my very favourite opens of all time. The relationship between the butler (Ralf Richardson) and the child (Bobby Henrey) is brilliantly chilling.
http://tcp3.com/vil5	The Night Porter Directed by Liliana Cavani Written by Barbara Alberti Colour 1974 (Italy) I have a soft spot for both Charlotte Rampling and Dirk Bogarde. This film, although very contraversial for its time, is pretty mild now. But I loved the way it examined the question of who is the master and who is the slave in a sadomasochistic relationship.
http://tcp3.com/wbsd	The Lion in Winter Directed by Anthony Harvey Written by James Goldman Colour 1968 (USA) A sublime portrait of the art of enduring the unendurable. This movie contains some of the most breathtaking dialogue writing of all time.
http://tcp3.com/s3yf	Suna no onna (Woman in the Dunes) Directed by Hiroshi Teshigahara Written by Kôbô Abe B&W 1964 (Japan) An amateur entymologist finds himself trapped with a woman in a house where the sand never ceases to encroach. I read this film as a brilliant series of metaphors: for the difference between gender, for fear of commitment, for how we are all trapped, if we choose to think we are. Also, brilliantly shot.
http://tcp3.com/umix	Twelve Angry Men Directed by Sidney Lumet Written by Reginald Rose B&W 1957 (USA) A jury retires to consider the murder charges against a young, hispanic man. An examination of the possible roots of prejudice. Great acting. No special effects. Just plain riveting all the way through, and because the casting is so perfect.
http://tcp3.com/aiqr	The Night of the Hunter Directed by Charles Laughton Written by Davis Grubb/James Agee B&W 1955 (USA) Robert Michum plays the religious psychopath to Shelly Winter's lonely widow. Brilliant expressionist sets, and some haunting cinematography. The only film they ever allowed Charles Laughton to make.
http://tcp3.com/dpk8	The Commedians Directed by Peter Glenville Written by Graham Greene B&W 1967 (USA) From another novel by Graham Greene, Burton is the owner of a small hotel in Port Au Prince, Haiti, who is defeated in his studied rejection of idealism.
http://tcp3.com/k2t2	The Year of Living Dangerously Directed by Peter Weir Written by C.J. Koch Colour 1983 (USA) Another tale of disappointed idealism, this time with one of my very favourite actresses, Signourney Weaver. I usually despise Mel Gibson, but I forgive him in this one. His Aussie accent makes him bearable. Plus the music, by Vangelis, is sublime. However, the most extraordinary part of this movie is Linda Hunt playing a male role as the photographer, Billy Kwan.
http://tcp3.com/l1zz	The Thin Red Line Directed by Terrence Malick Written by James Jones Colour 1998 (USA) My favourite war movie of all times. The cast is a little on the star-studded side, but they all behave themselves with modesty. One of the most touching visual poems to pacifism every put to film. And the music, by Hans Zimmer, is superb.
http://tcp3.com/h4nd	The English Patient Directed by Anthony Minghella Written by Michael Ondaatje Colour 1996 (USA) I loved the book, loved the film, have a serious wet-on for Ralph Fiennes and for Kristin Scott Thomas, and Juliette Binoche isn't bad either. This is one of those films that I don't allow myself to watch too often; it feeds a really sick romanticism in my soul. A couple of the most meltingly beautiful sex scenes on film.
http://tcp3.com/lbdu	Fa yeung nin wa (In the Mood for Love) Directed by Kar Wai Wong Written by Kar Wai Wong Colour 2000 (Hong Kong) It's hard to pick my favourite film by this director, because I really love them all. But I find this little story the sweetest. A man and a woman, both worried their spouses are cheating on them, form a bond. The whole film just has an amazing atmosphere - like most of his films do.
http://tcp3.com/b95s	Mississippi Burning Directed by Alan Parker Written by Chris Gerolmo Colour 1998 (USA) Two FBI agents, one jaded, one idealistic, are send down South to investigate the murder of an equal rights activist. Hackman and Defoe are both excellent in this, and, well, it's just a very satisfying little movie.
http://tcp3.com/fk3x	Brief Encounter Directed by David Lean Written by Noel Coward B&W 1945 (UK) Still, to me, one of the most realistic and adult portrayals of marital infidelity. No glamourised passion, no hateful spouses, no pledges of undying love. Really, just a guide to how grown-ups should act when they fall from grace and regain it. Nice counter balance to The English Patient.
http://tcp3.com/u800	Blade Runner Directed by Ridley Scott Written by Philip K. Dick (short story) Colour 1982 (USA) This is, unsurprisingly, on many people's lists of all time favourites. For me, the themes ofmemory and identity speak very strongly in this film. Another great film score by Vangelis and the only really creditable acting Rutger Hauer ever managed. Funnily enough, his monologue was improvised.
http://tcp3.com/mchs	Aliens Directed by James Cameron Written by David Giler Colour 1986 (USA) I bet you're wondering why I didn't pick the first one. Well, things blow up bigger in the second. Also, along with Sigourney Weaver, this second film has the one woman I'd cut off a limb to fuck: the boi-ish Vazquez. Trite? Perhaps, but her chin-ups get me wet. Also, it's just a damn good piece of ensemble acting - they worked brilliantly together, and even the child-actress was bearable.
http://tcp3.com/q02u	Das Leben der Anderen (Other People's Lives) Directed & Written by Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck Colour 2006 (Germany) The story of a member of the East German secret police who wiretaps suspected enemies of the state. He becomes intimately absorbed in the lives of one of his targets, a playwright and his lover. This is a story of exquisite moral compromise. I'm not going to cheapen it by telling you how good it is. Just see it.
http://tcp3.com/qwv0	The Devils (of Loudun) Directed by Ken Russell Written by Aldous Huxley Colour 1971 (UK) The Holy Inquisition comes to Loudun where a group of nuns seem to have been possessed by the devil. Oliver Reed plays the debauched priest who leads them all astray. Ken Russell, notorious for his surrealistic flights of fancy, is brilliant at handling the theme of sexual repression and he does it here with substance.
http://tcp3.com/cbl7	Ran Directed by Akira Kurosawa Written by William Shakespeare Colour 1985 (Japan) It was hard to pick a Kurosawa film for this list, and some of his smaller ones live in my heart a little more snugly, but if I had to recommend a single movie of his, this would be it. Ran is basically the story of King Lear, set in the Muromachi period, during which competeing warlords battled for control of the island, it is a piece of cinematographic brilliance.
http://tcp3.com/fvus	Blindness Directed by Fernando Meirelles Written by José Saramago Colour 2008 (France/Japan/Brazil) An allegorical film about a strange illness that sweeps the world and turns everyone blind, but a single woman. Very much in the tradition of Lord of the Flies, it examines the wafer-thin veneer of civilized behaviour and the burden of being the one sighted person in a blind world. Julianne Moore is brilliant.
http://tcp3.com/un1p	Babel Directed by Alejandro González Iñárritu Written by Guillermo Arriaga Colour 2006 (France/USA/Mexico) This is a film of four interconnected stories that take place in four different parts of the world. Morocco, Mexico, Japan and the US. Each are about misunderstandings of culture, language and values. It's a magnificent film spoiled only by the presence of it's two headlining stars Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchet who don't ruin it, but whose characters could have easily been played by less-well known actors. The real stars in the movie are Rinko Kikuchi, the deaf Japanese girl, isolated by her deafness and her father's preocupation, and Adriana Barraza, the maid who takes her two charges down to a wedding in Mexico.

If I had to make my list again, next week, some of these movies would probably change, but on the whole, if I got stuck on an uninhabited island with a dvd player, I'd be happy to have these.

Your favourites?

Lux Aeterna

2009-07-24T14:09:00.003+07:00

The strings wind around you, a sonic brace to your spine, but each bowed note takes a wafer-thin slice of my skin.

As they join together, great swathes of tonal colour fill the dimness of the room. You breathe them in, filling your lungs with the volume of their swells. So sweet and heady, your eyes close, your chin angles upwards. You are enfolded in the swirling mass of rising sound. But the same whirlwind that lifts you off your feet bears down on me like a tornado, tearing the breath from my chest, eroding my exposed flesh like a million years of wind and rain.

Skinless and raw, I am burned black by the light, caught in the moment of an atomic blast, and my outline etched forever into the wall behind me. Not by the music, but by the turn of your head and the settling of your gaze.

The Mirage of Perfect Sexual Love: Smoke and Mirrors

2009-07-22T13:16:00.004+07:00

Smoke and Mirrors, written by Zander Vyne, published by Erotiqué Press is a short story in the great tradition of the golden era of erotic writing: the era of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller. It is a piece that is at the same time pastiche and homage, and it is no surprise that critics with an unequal education in the cannon of erotic writing might find it hard to perceive the depth and the literary merit of the work.

Smoke and Mirrors is a story of passionate self-deception and nostalgia for something that never was. Christian, a young student in New York, meets and is pulled like a satellite into the gravitational field of the older and very eccentric Monique.

In a small apartment on the lower West Side, the mysterious and sexually insatiable Monique has fabricated the myth of a Montmartre garret with Gauloises cigarettes and Edith Piaf records. She pulls him into her nostalgic bower, regardless of the fact that the original has never existed.

Christian eagerly plays the American in Paris to Monique’s Irma La Douce. He is utterly transfixed by her body, her hungers, her accent and her menagerie of manufactured memories.

This is a story about perfect sexual love and how, although never real, it is no less alluring or arousing for being a mirage. The memory of his time with Monique is perfect precisely because it is not reality. She has left him a gift that few women are willing to give: the remembrance of a flawless love.

Vyne’s artful use of imagery and careful language are what pulls the reader, like Christian, so quickly and completely into Monique’s Parisian fantasy. A recent critic’s accusation that the characters are not developed seems to have missed one of the central points of the story: they cannot be developed because both the characters are playing their respective parts as fictional archetypes in Monique’s fictional world.

It is a story within a story within a story, and Vyne gives the reader enough credit to ask the question of how aware each character is of the fictionality of what they are creating together in the act of playing out this fantastical love.

Smoke and Mirrors is available as an e-book through Erotiqué Press.

The Illustrated Teacher - Chapters 1 & 2 Podcasted

2009-07-18T22:50:00.002+07:00

I'm very pleased to announce that Amanda has kindly read Chapters One & Two of The Illustrated Teacher

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Or you can visit my Podbean Page and download them. If you'd like to read along, the series is housed here

Writing Erotica for Men

2009-07-18T07:15:00.002+07:00

I've been thinking, in the last few days, about the conundrum of writing erotica for a male audience. I did a poll once, some years ago, and found out that 78% of my readers were women, 22% men. My guess is that this is pretty average.

Although my writing is not to every woman's taste, in being one, I think I have something of an advantage on knowing what will make a woman surreptitiously allow her hand to wander down to her crotch while she reads something.

I have to admit to being not so sure about what that is for men. Obviously we are speaking here about erotica - yes, of course, men are visual, blah, blah, blah. But clearly 22% of my readers are men who turn up for something other than pussy shots. So, what is it?

I don't mean simply in my writing, but in all erotica. And how do erotica writers appeal to a male readership without resorting to cliched stroke stories? The essence of male arousal is pretty well documented, but what is the essence of male desire?

Your thoughts and opinions are most welcome.

Pattern Passion

2009-07-14T16:55:00.003+07:00

He was a three, I realized with a little shiver. A metal-legged spider scampered up the ladder of my spine and curled itself into a cold, tingling ball just beneath the back of my skull. A perfect, perfect three. As humans, we like threes, but rarely had I met such a dedicated one.

He got on at North Acton, travelling East at 6:33 every weekday morning and, as far as I could tell, he started doing this on the third of March. He chose the third compartment from the end of the train, picked the third seat from the door on the left hand side. He always wore a suit jacket with three buttons, and had triple-eyelet black oxfords on his feet. Nicely shined, I might add.

What clinched it for me was that, after watching him for several weeks, I noticed that when the third seat on the left hand side was occupied, his body language altered. He wouldn't sit elsewhere. He just hovered, waiting until it came free and then he'd snag it.

The days piled up, and I grew to anticipate the arrival of his threeness. As the train pulled into North Acton, adrenalin flooded my bloodstream, my nipples seized and my cunt started ticking like a clock. I'll admit that I attempted to lure him by exhibiting a bit of threeness myself, just to see if he'd notice. But he had an annoying habit of plunging into a paperback novel the minute he sat down.

After 24 days of consecutive, gorgeous, elegant workday threenesses, I was in love. In a bold move, I decided to take his seat.

When he boarded the train, the subtle but perceptible physical tension caused by my disruption of his pattern was thrilling. By the time we reached Notting Hill Gate, I nearly relented and relinquished the seat, but I clenched my teeth and held my ground, learning to enjoy the sharp spikes of anxiety that forked off his body like a Tesla coil. Just before we pulled into Bank - the station he got off at - his eyes met mine with a look of such pure hatred, it sucked all the air out of the train compartment. I almost came right there on the tastefully patterned grey upholstery.

Although it was normally my habit to ride the underground for a further two hours, I couldn't hold out that long. Alighting at my usual stop, I ran home, and spent the rest of the morning producing imaginary porn in which he stroked his cock in increasingly frenzied sets of triplets. I frigged myself raw, matching his waltzing bouts of masturbation. Of course, I could have stopped at three, or six, but nine orgasms seemed the most appropriate number, a celebration of the triptych in the most sincere sense.

The next morning, my heart raced all the way from Ealing Broadway to North Acton. I usurped his seat and waited, trying to tamp down steamy visions of him pulling out his cock and ejaculating on me in a fit of pique. The minute he boarded the train, he noted the occupied seat with an audible huff. He caught my eye again, this time with a more measured expression of grave disappointment, and tried to pull my gaze, with exaggerated urgency, to the empty seats on either side. I pretended not to notice.

After some minutes of intense glaring, he bent a little forward and, in a low, gruff voice, said, "Would you mind moving one seat over?"

What I really wanted to say was: "I love your threeness, please fuck me!" But I didn't. "Not at all," I replied, trying to sound breezy, and shifted to the right, melting between the legs as he settled next to me.

Did he know he was a three? I wondered. Pulling the ubiquitous paperback out of his briefcase, he began to read. I closed my eyes, letting the train rock me, allowing my mind to plunge, over and over and over, into lewd pools of explicit threenesses. My reverie was only interrupted when his arm brushed mine, as he bent forward to put his book back into his briefcase. His stop was next.

Gathering up my courage, in the middle of the tunnel, as I heard the train begin to brake for Bank, I touched his arm, purposefully, three times. He looked confused, slightly embarrassed. I didn't say anything, or look at him. Diligently, I stared ahead at the mirror that pretended it was a window in tunnels. As it turned back into a window, sliding into the station, I watched him get up and leave the train.

That day, I didn't allow myself escape. I rode the train as usual and tried to look for other patterns. I spotted lots of other threes, but fours and fives and sixes eluded me. Only then did I realize I'd become so obsessed with his threeness, I had stopped being able to recognize any others. This, I admit, was disconcerting.

It took three more morning encounters before he touched me back. In the tunnel approaching his destination, with his nose still buried in his book, he moved his thigh until it touched mine and pressed it three times. The incident was so powerful, I got off at Liverpool Station, quivering, and availed myself of the privacy of a stall in the ladies public toilet.

The following day, before we'd even reached Marble Arch, he crossed his arms over his chest and, holding his book in front of his face with one hand, touched my arm three times with the fingertips of the other. My pussy flooded. Just before Bank, I responded, nudging his leg with my knee.

Unable to hold my tongue anymore, I turned and whispered, "You're such a three."

His eyebrows rose as he carefully closed his book. For a moment, he had difficulty speaking. Then he swallowed and said, "I take the 4:20 train home."

Enter Flesh

2009-07-13T13:02:00.002+07:00

Words
enter flesh
melting into pores
puncturing plumped skin
seeping through swollen folds
insinuating themselves between
clutched fingers
pursed lips
crossed legs.

One
word
unlocks
all those
closed places.

I
was sure
I'd locked up
tight for the night
but I was wrong.

"The Other Side" Podcasted & Smutty Stories by EllaRegina

2009-07-12T23:16:00.006+07:00

Nobilis Read, of Nobilis Erotica Podcast, has made an animated and very entertaining version of my erotic satire "The Other Side."

If you'd like to read along with it, the original story is here.

Please take the time to listen to some of Nobilis' other wonderful pieces of audio erotica. He's got a special touch when it comes to erotic sci-fi. I do recommend the "Cheese", from the Awesoment series.

* * *

Also, this week, since I seem to be woefully unable to produce any smut of my own, I'd like to introduce you to another erotica writer, EllaRegina, who defines her work as "literary erotica, often with a surreal element. Quirky, filthy yet refined." This is actually a very accurate description of it. There are a number of pieces of her writing on her blog.

She won the Rauxa fiction runner-up prize in 2007 for "The Lonely Onanista", which is truly quirky and brilliant. And the story of how the story got written is a delight in itself and she recounts it in her interview over at Sex, Food and Writing.

1:01 PM: I walk down to the river

2009-07-08T17:55:00.006+07:00

Past the old buildings, through the grove of tamarind trees stirring in the midday silence. Across the broken paving stone path by the hibiscus bushes. They hiss with drowsy insects and weep their choking sweet scent to invite more.

Now, in the brutal heat, the cricket field is deserted. Grasshoppers leap in the wake of my strides across the acid green grass leading down to the river’s edge. I drink in the hot, humid air that smells of fertility and rot until my lungs are bursting.

And then I scream.

And scream.

And scream.

And scream until my throat is bloodraw and my chest threatens to implode.

Here in this vacuum.

Here in this killing jar.

Here on this specimen board, stabbed through the thorax with a pin of my own making.

I scream until my body knows it is useless, until the thing that is screaming isn’t me anymore. The river snatches it away and carries it off to the sea.

One morning, a few years hence, you will turn on your tap and, in that first spray of water, hear the faint sound of a woman's cry. You’ll dismiss it as a figment of your imagination, and wash the sleep from your face.

Burn Me in Effigy

2009-07-08T10:45:00.000+07:00

On the other side of the thick safety glass of time and space, her skin smolders like mine. Her mouth is firestarved, her singed fingers clutch in the superheated air. Regard the node of each segment of her reptilian spine arching with desire, curling in your heat.

When it feels like no amount of saliva, of wetness, of blood can quench this beautiful and terrible conflagration.

Please, burn me in effigy.

Shadows & Mirrors

2009-07-07T19:50:00.007+07:00

How do I begin to tell you about Bangkok? Well, the Thais don't call it Bangkok; they call it Krung Thep. It's hot and hideously overcrowded. It can be brash and intensely sleazy one moment, and heartbreakingly poignant the next - often it's both at the same time. I can't really explain the place. I have to paint it for you in a series of vignettes.

* * *

It's dusk. I sit at a tiny outdoor cafe in a narrow alley. Across the street the katoeys (ladyboys) are crowded in and around the salon, getting their make-up done. I've never seen so much beauty, so much vanity and so much existential angst in one place. 'Candy' sits with me, glossing up her slutpink lips.

"I have new breasts," she says, giving me a smirking grin. "Wanna see?"

"Yes, sure."

"Good, because it take a girl to know if they look good." And with that she unbuttons her skimpy shirt across the table. The breasts are petite, perfect for her. Beautiful, with happy, nutmeg-coloured nipples. "Touch them."

"Ah, they look great. Wonderful." And I mean it. I'm just a little shy about invading her space.

She grabs my wrist and splays my palm over one new breast; her feral colgate-white smile flashes in the dying light. "Squeeze."

I give it a hesitant one, then a bolder caress. "It feels beautiful. Just right." And politely withdraw my hand. I can tell she's pleased with my reaction.

"You have a nice touch. You don't squish them. Western men make them hurt."

"Maybe because I have breasts myself."

"Are you a lesbian?"

"Only occasionally."

"Now?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm free this evening. We could go to your hotel."

I smile but shake my head. "I'm sorry. I've got things to do this evening." I don't, and it's not as if she doesn't appeal to me, but there's something sad about her eyes; it's an infectious sort of sadness. Tonight, I don't want that.

"I have a cock, too. But not for long."

"Who's paying for your operation?"

"The man who squeezes my breasts too hard. Come on, I know you're not busy."

"I am. I'm sorry."

She gives me a smile, the sadness in her eyes has run down her cheeks and painted her smiling pink lips with ennui. "I'd like to use it. Just once more, before it goes."

* * *

'Do Ya Wanna Funk' is blasting out of massive speakers hung from the low matte black ceiling. The long oval stage is empty but for the confetti of a thousand tiny coloured light spots that jump and swirl. A broad winding staircase at one end of the stage is packed with men in tight white boyshorts. They are talking to each other, giggling, emptying their water bottles onto each other's chests and crotches. Some are masturbating themselves to tumescence. As the music changes, they stand and, in some sort of choreographed regimentation I'm not clear about, they stream onto the stage, toes to the edge of it, facing outwards.

Each man has a small red plastic lozenge pinned to his shorts: order by number manflesh. Some dance sinuously, some just look down at the people in front of them and smile invitingly.

Most of the audience is male. This, after all, is "Dream Boys" and the clientele is primarily gay. But across the stage from me sit three Japanese women in a pastel palette of twinsets; their strings of Minamoto pearls gleam like passive teeth at their neat necks. Next to me is a sweet-looking, curly-haired blond man from Iowa.

Even over the throbbing music, I can hear him chanting, "Fuck, I'm in heaven. I'm in heaven. I'm in heaven."

The men on stage move every minute or so, and the view changes: bronzed and muscular, coffee-coloured and tattoed, slim and sinuous and...oh, quite clearly cut. I know this because he's kindly taken his cock out to show me. I stare for a bit and then look up at his face.

"Want me?" he yells over the music. "Number 28."

I blush and look at the Iowan. He laughs and pats me on the shoulder. He leans close to my ear and explains that the bar fee - the money you must pay the bar to take the man for the night is 4,000 Baht - about $10 USD. Then, he explains, you pay the man about 5,000 Baht on top of that for his services.

"I...I can't do that," I stutter back. But even as I spit the words out, I'm wondering if I could.

The male wheel goes round and I am faced with number 46. He has a cobra tattoo, its flared hood and red eyes stare at me from between flat, coffee nipples. It's tail is looped and coiled over the man's taut belly and continues down below his.... yes, oh dear, down go the briefs, thank-you; that's elucidating... ends at the root of his cock.

For a brief moment I imagine his inked body undulating above me. That flare-hooded cobra writhing and dipping. Without my knowledge, my hand reaches for my gin and tonic and feeds it to me; it's only when I taste the juniper on my lips that I realize.

The parade goes on and on and on. They're all erect and either pretty, or muscular, or brandishing a bit of rough - sometimes all three. It's like standing if front of the jam display at the supermarket. There are just too many choices and breakfast is over.

The parade snakes back up the stairs and the floor-show begins. There's some Thai classical dance performed in drag and a strange comedy routine that is conducted all in Thai, but it doesn't matter because the two hostesses are a cross between drag queens and demons - they're raucous and broad gestured and most of the jokes are filthy. The hand gestures really say it all. After the katoeys from hell leave, a bevy of the beautiful boys come down and soap each other in onstage showers while artfully performing unproductive fellatio. It's funny, sexy and culturally contextual, all at the same time.

The Iowan and I are fast friends by the time the floor is squeegeed dry and the parade of manflesh starts again.

"Are you going to have one?" I ask.

"Yup. Number 63."

"Why did you choose him?" I don't even remember a number 63, but then there were a lot of erect cocks winking at me and my memory is jumbled.

"Hairless chest, pierced nipples, kind of slim, long hair."

"Oh." Now I remember. "Yes, he was definitely very attractive."

We all pile out of the bar at the same time, into the riot that is Soi Twilight. Me, the Iowan, and the beautiful bought boy. Well, he's not really a boy. At a guess I'd say he's about twenty-five, but he's definitely bottom material.

"Have a nice night," I say to the couple.

"Come with us. I'll do him, and then he can do you. It won't cost much more."

The long-haired beauty nods his head and gives me a lopsided grin. "I like girls."

"No. Thanks. But thanks."

"You shy?" asks the Iowan.

"No. I just... I've never thought about buying sex," I lie. "I'm not sure how I feel about it."

The Iowan laughs and grabs my hand. "Come on! It'll be fun."

"Can I just watch?"

"Sure."

So I go with them. The Iowan's hotel is swank; it's just off Sukumvit and must cost more than $200 USD per night. The room is cool; the traffic outside whispers its urban presence. There is no hesitation of the part of either man. No awkwardness. Just plain, straightforward lust. They suck each other off for a while and then the Iowan, whose name is Sam, fucks Son, the Thai man, with cheerful abandon. It's all really very jolly. Everyone comes, condoms are disposed of, kisses are exchanged and, by two o'clock, I'm standing outside the hotel on the quiet street with Son.

"I like girls," he repeats, looking at me as I look for a taxi.

"I know you do. You said so before."

He slides his arm through mine. "We go back to your hotel."

I don't feel like fucking. I especially don't feel like fucking a stranger. But the warmth of his skin feels good. Not horny good, just human good.

"Just to sleep? Will you come just to sleep?"

He laughs. "Okay. 1,000 Baht."

"4,000 Baht. No sex, but you have to eat breakfast with me."

He shrugs at the madwoman. "Sure."

So we do.

Thought Crimes & Clarifications

2009-07-07T07:00:00.002+07:00

It has become clear from some of the reactions to posts I've made in the last few weeks that I need to clarify my positions on a number of issues. I get tired of repeating myself on this, so I'm writing this as a reference post that I can direct people to.

1. I think there is a WORLD of difference between what people fantasize about and what they actually do.

2. If you have a difficult time understanding this difference, you should not be reading my work.

3. I don't hold an opinion what proclivities may or may not be considered 'mental disorders'. I do know that homosexuality was, until very recently, assumed to be and classified as a mental disorder and, because of this, I question the reliability of these designations.

4. I do NOT condone the making, posting, downloading or viewing of child pornography. I condemn it - both morally and legally.

5. I do not condone rape. I condemn it. The stories that I have written that include rape - sometimes eroticised, sometimes not - are fiction and fantasy. It does NOT follow that I am ambivalent about forced sex or rape in reality. I condemn it (again.)

6. I assume, if you have clicked past the warning page, that you have reached the age of majority in whatever place you live, and that you are sane enough to take responsibility for your actions.

7. My stories are not intended as how-to manuals, life-style guides or psychology textbooks. I am not a psychologist, sex therapist or anything else that would qualify me to suggest how you should live your life.

8. If you read something in my work that you find offensive, please be responsible enough to stop reading. The appeal of my work is not universal nor is it intended to be.

9. As a woman, I have inherited the burden of thousands of years of social, religious and sexual oppression. My understanding of self, my agency, my language and my sexuality were born, molded and twisted by that oppression. I am happy to have a discussion on why I write what I write, but I will not tolerate being told what I can or cannot write about.

10. I am not perfect and I do not exercise perfect judgment. If you assume I am, or that I do, please leave.

Some of you may find this post very patronizing. I apologize for this, but I thought it was important to make myself extremely clear on certain issues.

Beautiful Losers - Ongoing

2009-07-06T08:56:00.004+07:00

For those of you waiting another chapter of Beautiful Losers, fear not. I have not stopped writing it - it will continue and will end. In fact, some of you were insightful enough to sense it is coming to a close pretty soon. It is, and I want it to be good. This is why I'm taking my time with it. By my estimation, there are three chapters left to go. No, I won't rush it. I did that with The Waiting Room, and consequently I find the ending too abrupt. I won't be making the same mistake again.

Other People's Kinks

2009-07-06T07:02:00.002+07:00

There is a very good essay over at Kristina Lloyd's blog on The Pleasure of Degradation. It got me thinking about other people's kinks - you know, the ones you don't have. It's funny how viscerally we react to a sexual kink that isn't our own.

It's not like food: "Oh, you like mashed potatoes? Hmm... Not me." Or taste in movies: "I love films where things blow up." "Eh, not so much."

Very often and, for a lot of people, their reaction to a kink that lies outside their own sexual portfolio is: "Fuck, that's disgusting, wrong, perverse." And it doesn't just stop there. We start making judgments on the whole of someone's character based on what they like to do in bed. Of course this isn't new. It wasn't long ago that a great proportion of the population was convinced that every gay man was a dangerous pedophile, a coward in battle, and generally unreliable.

I'm going to own that I am, in my less lucid moments, gripped by the same capacity to make these really stupid judgments. I tend, after my initial jolt of non-understanding, to force myself to think neutrally, and eventually I do work my way into an interest, intellectually at least, of what the allures of said alien kink might be. But it certainly isn't instantaneous, and for that I am ashamed.

What I love about erotic fiction is that it gives you time to grapple with the heat of that initial repulsion. If it's well-written, the writer will offer you some insight into what makes the kink erotic. I find a lot of fetish writing I come across very annoying. It reads like masturbation, not an invitation to the dance, because the writer assumes you have the same proclivity as they have. And this completely locks out anyone without that fetish, and pretty much ensures you aren't likely to develop a taste for it. Bad fetish writing doesn't tell you the story behind the fetish. Good kink and fetish writing, however, can draw you right in. I posted a story the other week about watersports that I felt was a perfect example of this. It is still very unlikely that you are going to rush out and find someone to try it with, but in the play-space of the mind, it does give you a larger pallet for your fantasies.

The other thing Ms. Lloyd writes about is her feeling that a rejection of the kink she's writing about is a rejection of her own kinks. I have read Ms. Lloyd's "Asking for Trouble." It's a very well-written exploration of a need for sexual humiliation and degradation. This wasn't a kink I came to the book with, and I haven't left with it either. Nonetheless, the attraction of it, the mechanism of the sense of freedom it triggers, the thrill of the transgressive are all very, very well painted. I 'get' the eroticism of it even if it doesn't quite hit and sit at cunt level.

Meanwhile, I have my own set of kinks with their attendant set of social judgements. I'm an addicted voyeur, have a huge taste for non-con and a bit of an ageplay fetish. The last two have brought some rather strident criticism down on my head. There's a certain breed of feminists who seem to think that my non-con kink somehow validates the actions of rapists and violent men. The age-play kink got me on Australia's banned internet sites list and some extremely nasty emails accusing me of promoting pedophilia. Funnily enough, the voyeurism doesn't seem to bother anyone. I gather that's because I'm female; if I were male and admitted to it, I'm sure I'd be in for a barrage of shit.

I guess I wanted to make two points with this post. First, a book about a certain kink is not an instruction manual; it's a piece of fiction. You can like it or not, keep reading or close the book / screen/whatever. But the responsibility for the consumption or non-consumption of the text lies with the reader. Readers need to understand that they are responsible for what they consume.

The second point is that making assumptions about the the character of the writer based on the kinks they are writing about is just plain unfair. The vast majority of us are law-abiding, socially conscious and responsible individuals who have lives that are larger and much more complex than might be reflected in our fiction, and it's a big mistake for a reader to assume they are looking at the entirety of a persona in by opening the covers of a book.

Head on over to Oh Get A Grip!

2009-07-05T09:26:00.003+07:00

I have a guest post over at "Oh Get A Grip!" on the subject of "Killing your Darlings".

Hence no posts this weekend.

Words on the Wire

2009-07-03T21:56:00.003+07:00

I've never actually done a blogpost shitfaced, and after all the 'hiding behind fiction' I can now reveal myself to you in all my splendidness:

You are real.
With real lives.
Husbands, children, lovers.
When you walk through air, it moves.
You touch and are touched.
You scream and pray and whisper
into someone's ear.
And they are there
in all their corporeal glory
to hear you, in all yours.

I am
just words
on the wire.

Wow, too

2009-07-03T14:00:00.003+07:00

I rarely do this. I'm not terribly visual, but I got a twitter notice from Kristina Lloyd and so I nipped over to her site to see what she was about.

Oh, I'm terrible with names and I found that this is THE Kristina Lloyd. The one who wrote the very, very hot "Darker Than Love," which gave me many hours of masturbatory amusement. Her villain was cruel, raunchy and delicious - I highly recommend the book.

In any case, she had THIS on her site. I just had to share.

Yes, I know he's beautiful and usually that puts me off, but it's the mode of congress that did it for me.

Mm.

Hope you enjoy it too.

Okay, Have to Say It.

2009-06-30T20:21:00.004+07:00

I've held my tongue long enough. I've been understanding. I realize that writing erotica is NOT everything (well, I have played with the idea intellectually, at least). But it's a fucking, crying, bastard of a sin that Mike Kimera absolutely refuses to write any more erotica.

Yes. I know this post will piss you off, Mike. I know you'll feel it's an embarrassing dishonourable act of impoliteness that I simply can't respect your wishes. But you know what? Fuck it. In this regard, I have no shame. You are the best erotica writer I have ever read. No matter how hard I work at it, I know I will never write half as well as you. It just fucking kills me to think of all the stories you might have written that will only ever exist like stillborns floating in the formaldehyde on my imagination. (How's that for a bit of purple prose?)

For the rest of you, who have not read Mr. Kimera's work, take some time to read through the linked stories and THEN tell me I'm an impolite bitch for kicking up a fuss about his retirement.

Nadica
(Scroll down the page a bit)

In Jack's Hands
(Scroll down the page a bit)

The 'G' is Silent

Fucking Ugly

Paying For It

The Last Taboo

Soft Option

Other Bonds than Leather

I Want to Watch you Do It

There's more out there. And, whatever you find, you will never be sorry you took the time to find it. Not once. He has also published a considerable number. His site has links to where you can purchase them on Amazon.

The Bell - Tales of the Mumbai Coven

2009-06-30T00:18:00.002+07:00

This is the continuation of the story of Calum McNeill. I do hope I don't need to warn you that the story contains violence. Vampires aren't nice people.

The tears, of which he'd seen an ocean's worth, seized his feelings in an unpleasant and unfamiliar way. "Run along," he said, a little more tersely.

"I'll do you for free," she said softly, stepping closer to him. "I ain't got nowheres to sleep. The cheapest doss is full."

Calum could not understand why he hadn't walked away already, but something kept him. "I've just given you sixpence. That should get you some place warm."

She tightened her lips, giving her the aspect of a small child finding courage, and glanced sideways. "That goes to the landlord for letting me catch you up at the bar," she whispered, one fat tear sliding over her reddened cheek. She sniffed. "Buy us another gin, won't cha? I might be ginger, but I'm nice and tight where it matters."

It was the desperation, the pointed frankness and the fear she kept so well hidden beneath the waif-like exterior that made his cock twitch. Walk away, he thought, there are a million like her, but the steady pulse in his groin didn't agree.

Continue reading: The Bell : Tales of the Mumbai Coven
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The Semiotics of Semen

2009-06-29T14:37:00.006+07:00

A post over at AlexSuze on Bukakke got me thinking. Semen is semiotically heavy - especially in erotica. Yes, come on, admit it! Cum isn't just cum. The load, to put it coarsely, is loaded.

I've heard some men be very disingenuous about this, and it annoys me. "It's just semen!" they wail. Either they're so stupid to have given it no thought, or they're being nauseatingly coy.

I'm not going to get into the actual physical components of semen. You can read that here, if you're interested. But it is the prime carrier of male genetic information. That in itself makes it powerful, symbolically. All the accumulated genetic details of all your ancestors just ended up on someone's tits. Don't pretend that doesn't matter.

It gets more interesting from a cultural perspective. The Old Testament rates semen on the same level as blood in terms of problematic fluids. Problematic because they are at once life-associated, and can render a person ritually unclean for performing sacrifice in the temple. Plus there are the strict prohibitions against wasting it on fallow ground. And yes, no matter how beautiful they may look to you, my tits are definitely fallow ground.

With the rise of Christianity, it got stranger. If sex for anything other than procreation was lust, then the more permanent physical manifestations of it must also be wrong. What is that sperm doing outside your wife's womb? Put it back in, immediately! Disgusting!

The only reason why Christians don't have the same hang-ups about female effluvia (lubricant) is because most priests knew fuck all about it. In fact, you just try and google the components that make up girl juice: good luck. You'll have problems even pinning down a search word.

But... back to the topic. If semen is ritually unclean, an artifact of lust, and the bearer of your genetic identity to boot, then buddy, it matters. And where and how you use it matters too.

Semen plays a significant semiotic role in many of my stories. I chiefly use it the way most erotica writers do, as evidence of desire sated. But I also love the purely sensory aspect of it: that hot, wet streak that hits skin at the height of passion, or the rip of the flood tide buried inside. In the scene, I envisaged it as a physical thread of desire between Alex and Sophie.

Shudders took her over as the pleasure washed through her. In the midst of the neural storm she heard him grunt, and she glanced down to watch as he came: hot pulses of fluid spurting onto her neck, her chest, running down over her breasts as he squeezed himself, his body convulsing. (The Waiting Room, Chapter 1)

In Divestiture, which some of my very old readers were unfortunate enough to read, I used it as a mark of membership:

He pulled her back a little and smiled, bringing his other hand up to her neck, wet with his cum. He laid his wet fingers there and slid them down into the hollow of her throat, leaving a trail of it in the wake of his fingertips, she felt it chill and go tacky dry on her skin in the air.

"I mark you, little bird."

I also use it more subtly in Gaijin as a form of female rejection (a sort of love me, love my cum in reverse):

The first time, he shuddered. The next, he made a little sound and jerked. It only took a few more swallows until he grunted, his hands balled into fists around her hair, and he erupted into her throat.
The initial spurt caught her by surprise and made her gag. Salty, hot fluid flooded into her mouth as he pulled out of her throat. She let it seep from her mouth around his cock while he kept coming. (Gaijin, Chapter 1)

And again,

Jennifer's breathing slowed as the adrenaline born of fear and sex ebbed. As the roar in her ears died away, she could hear him breathing - evenly - as if nothing had happened. As if he were just a normal person lying down for a rest. She made as if to speak, but she could think of nothing to say that would make any difference to him, as if there was no language to bridge them, as if he were another species of animal. Something with teeth and claws lying beside her, with its own impenetrable reasons for the violence it wrought.

Feeling the wetness between her legs, a visceral disgust crept up her spine until the thought of having this man's fluids inside her for one more second would, somehow, like a venereal disease, leave her permanently insane. (Gaijin, Chapter 4)

What I have never done in any of the erotica I've written is use semen in humiliation. Not because I don't acknowledge that it could have that function, erotically, but because I've never written a character, male or female, who was so ashamed of sex that they'd see being marked with it as humiliating.

Desire

2009-06-29T13:11:00.006+07:00

I write a lot about desire; every erotica writer does. Desire, not the getting, but the yearning, is what separates erotica from porn, I think.

The beauty of desire is that it carves its reflection into the skin of a character. It animates them, but it can also be repressed, sublimated, substituted, mutated, rerouted. Like the different aspects of a single god, it can be plot, setting and character.

Many of my characters are based on people who think they know what they desire, get it, and find out that it was only a shadow of another, buried desire they were too vain, or inhibited, or insecure to know or admit they had.

Watching people, and you know I am an addicted watcher, I notice that very few of them are honest about what they want. For instance, most people don't really want money - they want what money will buy them: the admiration of others, freedom of choice, power. But they'll rarely admit it. Money is just so concrete and easy to understand.

In the same way, I've noticed that some people don't actually want the person they say they want. They want to be loved by that person, because their lover's regard will validate them. Or they want to be seen to be with that beautiful or rich or powerful individual, so they can be the envy of others.

I'm giving this a lot of thought as I progress through writing Beautiful Losers, because it is all about sublimated and misdirected desire. I don't offer a lot of answers in the story, because I don't have them myself. I only invite my readers to ponder the problem with me.

In the last couple of weeks, a surprising number of people have told me that I hide behind my fiction so as not to reveal myself. This has come from so many different quarters that I am sure they are quite right. So, in the spirit of honesty, I have to admit to having an almost pathological desire for knowledge. Not just book knowledge, although I like that too, but intimate knowledge - the knowing and the understanding, a desire to understand the meaning of what I see. That also includes an understanding of the experiences of my readers.

I have no idea if this is a surface desire that is hiding something else or not. I don't have the objectivity to be a good judge of that. But it probably is. In the end, it's almost always about feeding the ego.

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 25

2009-06-28T20:45:00.002+07:00

My clothes were still packed haphazardly in my bags. I had to rummage through stuff, and eventually gave up and settled on an identical pair of black combat trousers and a badly creased t-shirt. My hand shook as I put on my eyeliner. I had to wipe it off and start again.

On the third try, Sebastian strolled into the bathroom looking pleased with himself. I glared at him in the mirror.

"You're not in my good books," I mumbled, steadying my hand against the counter and closing one lid.

He stepped behind me, snugged himself against my ass and slid his hands up the front of my t-shirt. The nice neat black line was no more. It trailed jaggedly over my temple.

"Oh, FUCK! Sebastian!"

"Mm... yes please. Don't be mad at me Shirakins," he said in a mock whimper. "This way, everyone who is involved gets to see what it looks like before it runs live. And you do look good with your make-up fucked up like that. Quickie?" He punctuated the word with a thrust.

Continue reading: Beautiful Losers - Chapter 25
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Gone - Flash Fiction

2009-06-27T17:33:00.001+07:00

All the flirting, the teasing the innuendoes, caresses, kisses, muttered words of exhortation or ecstasy. The single, studied fingertip that travels down from my throat to my pubic bone, pulling a trail of shivers in its wake. The change in the scent of his skin as he gets hard. The position he pulls me into, the leg that parts mine and holds them spread. The sharp, sweet pain of a tugged nipple. The first breathless plunge of penetration. The second and the third.

All gone as I come.

But when I watch him with someone else, I remember everything.

(100 words)

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 24

2009-06-27T17:04:00.003+07:00

At first I couldn't identify the sound that woke me. I had been dreaming of a hallway full of doors, each of their handles twitching and turning as I walked by them. Opening my eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the dim light that sliced through the darkness from the partially open bathroom door on the far side of the bed. Someone was moving in the room.

"What is it?" I murmured. Jean made a little soft groan in his sleep and turned onto his stomach beside me. "Sebastian?"

"Sh... Go back to sleep, Shirakins."

I shivered, pulling the sheet over me and sat up. "What are you doing?" I whispered.

Continue reading: Beautiful Losers - Chapter 24
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In Response to The Rex Hotel

2009-06-25T21:31:00.001+07:00

Scarlet wrote a response to my post about The Rex Hotel. It's beautiful and haunting and here.

The Rex Hotel is Filled with Ghosts

2009-06-25T00:03:00.001+07:00

In every room, the secrets of men have leeched into the plaster on the walls and, no matter how many times they repaint, it never stops the leakage. It will be here until they tear the place down. Even then, some poor bastard will take the used bricks to build a house at the edge of a paddy field somewhere, and wonder why he has nightmares.

The ceiling fans have drawn years of sweat up into the air, atomizing terror, regret, disgust, love, guilt, hatred, lust, despair. Every emotion but joy. But then, I didn't come here for joy, did I?

I came to lie on this bed where whores have worked hard, where violence has been wrought, where nightmares have been born and died, where souls have been dissected. I came to the party a quarter of a century too late and only the faint scent of spilled scotch remains. And, of course, the ghosts.

There is nothing about me that deserves crucifixion, you understand. So I can't write you about that. I have never been a big enough sinner, or a big enough saint. I can only write of the crucifixions of others. Of the young officer who shot his superior in the head while out on patrol because he had seen enough death. Of the man at the supply depot who watched his leg disappear, day-by-day, not from anything with a satisfying name, but because here nature eats everything and took a particular liking to him. Of the working girl from the delta who spoke no English and did not cry out when someone tore into her ass, because she hoped against hope that he would marry her afterwards.

There are many martyrs, but I am not one of them. I'm just a chronicler and, for the most part, the phantoms keep me company enough. Still, it would be nice to have you here, to lie beside me and listen to the ghosts, to tell me you can hear them too.

Updates: Write something

2009-06-24T22:50:00.003+07:00

I've had a number of emails from people worried that my most recent post of Beautiful Losers was the last. It's not. I promised you an ending - a proper one, and you will get it. But not for a little while. I will post the next chapter on the weekend.

It's the beginning of a new semester for me, and things are hectic.

Besides that, I am, for the first time in my life, writing with someone else. This was something I had grave doubts whether I could ever do. But it seems I can, and it's teaching me a great deal: hopefully to be a better writer, to get my ego out of the story, to find a balance between caring about my characters and being taken over by them.

It is also helping me understand the way other writers think and this is illuminating, because it is a process I've never had the honour to be privy to. My father was a writer, but he was very private about it. It has not been a matter of thinking, 'Wow, they do it just like I do.' In fact, they don't. They have a totally different process. I've always thought I didn't plan enough before embarking on a story, but now I'm wondering if I plan to much.

It may all go completely wrong tomorrow. And even if it does, I've come away from the experience much richer.

One thing it has underlined for me is that writing is a truly glorious pastime. If you read me, please write. It doesn't matter what you write; just write something, today. Language is the only tool I use proficiently and, I have come to realize that I adore watching other people use it, too.

So, if you don't write already, please do. Write something.

Comments on beautiful losers

2009-06-21T10:57:00.003+07:00

One of the main reasons I post my work on the web is to run interference with Barthes' literary theory of authorial privilege. In non-academic wank-speak, it means that I enjoy the fact that readers can interact with writers and comment on/discuss/make meaning of the work being written, and express those ideas in the same place that the text resides.

For this reason, the comments on my fiction are important to me. I read them quite diligently. I'll admit that I tend to not pay a lot of attention to the ones that contain nothing but praise because, although they are gratifying, they don't give me a whole lot of insight into what the reader is thinking. My favourites are the ones where readers wonder about a certain part of the text, or examine it critically, or relate something in the text to their own experiences. However, from time to time, I get comments like this:

Psychology: D-
I’m glad you don’t have kids.
Posted by wolf at 18:22 20/6/2009

Would it be convenient to ignore this? Undoubtedly. So why is it I feel I have to address it? Because it brings up a number of interesting issues.

In the first place, it's obscene. That any piece of adult fictional erotica should, might, or could be associated with the caring for or raising of children is entirely inappropriate. And it says a great deal about the person who seeks to associate them that is disturbing.

Secondly, it assumes that the writer of a text holds the same views or participates in the same lifestyle as the characters in a fictional story. This is an alarming comment of the inability of schools to teach good critical reading skills. But to state the obvious: I am not my characters. And not only do I not necessarily share their worldviews, but I often write characters with diametrically opposed worldviews to my own. I do not, for example, hold Sebastian's views on sexual orientation. They were views I heard expressed by someone else and found interesting.

Thirdly, why is it that there is a plethora of fictional best sellers out there that pose all sorts of problematic moral paradigms - Armageddon, serial killings, racism, sexism, religious extremism, just to name a few, and yet no one seems to associate the fictions being presented there with the personality of the writers? Why only in erotica? Does anyone ever write to Stephen King, advising him not to have children because his imagination is so dark?

Back to critical theory. It says much about our society that we seem to be able to maintain incredible emotional distance from fictional accounts of violence, cruelty, injustice, etc. but seem to be unable to emotionally separate ourselves from fictional accounts of eroticism. Michel Foucault was a very smart man, for all his personal issues

Beautiful losers - Chapter 23

2009-06-18T23:31:00.001+07:00

"Jean," I said, moving closer, letting my fingertips glide over his cheek. His eyes had lost their focus again. "I know how much this scares you, but unless you use your safeword, you don't get a choice in this. Sebastian is going to fuck you, because I'm going to make sure he does."

Yet another whimper emerged from Jean's lips and I trailed my tongue across them to let him know that I knew, I'd heard. "No matter how much you struggle, or scream, or tense up. It's completely out of your control."

I was momentarily distracted by the slow, wet sounds Sebastian was making between Jean's legs, administering long, lazy licks to Jean's semi-erect cock. Equally distracted, Jean craned his neck to look down his body with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension.

Continue reading: Beautiful Losers - Chapter 23
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Beautiful losers - Chapter 22

2009-06-18T18:09:00.003+07:00

"You didn't enjoy it?" He sipped from a glass he'd poured for himself. "I got the impression that you did," he said, sounding droll.

"I didn't say I didn't enjoy it. I just still don't really know what it was."

"But you felt it, didn't you? When he turned?"

"Oh, I definitely felt it. It was quite strange."

"And you responded," Sebastian couldn't keep the smile off his saturnine face, "very naturally. He was very happy." He stooped to kiss me. "So now I need you to help me."

Jesus, the scheming never stopped. "Help you do what?"

"Help me make him feel safe."

I cocked my head and locked gazes with him. "Safe about what?"

Sebastian took another sip of wine. I heard Jean's footsteps on the stairs. "You know what," he muttered.

Continue reading: Beautiful Losers - Chapter 22
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Women Can't Write About Sex

2009-06-16T19:28:00.002+07:00

Or so says Kate Copstick, the new owner of the U.K's Erotic Review.

Erotic Review is a sometimes published, always struggling erotic magazine that has been described by some as 'middle-class porn.' Their tag line is: "Entertainment for people who can still think with their clothes off... " It is now owned, apparently, by a woman who can't think with her clothes on.

Copstick says: "Women get all wishy-washy and focus on emotions rather than the engorgement of blood vessels." Of course, she sees herself as the only exception to this statement. How delightfully modest.

She goes on to say,

"It's almost like writing about food ... Ladies who lunch, should not really write about food because they don't really love food. They don't salivate at the thought of a great steak."

I'm assuming she's telling us that women don't really like sex. They've just been pretending. One has to wonder who all those vibrators are being sold to, then - romantics and emotionalists who use them to soothe aching muscles?

As a magazine, Erotic Review has been struggling for years. I can only think this ridiculous statement is an attempt on the part of Ms Copstick to get free publicity for her recently acquired publication. Either that or she's a piss poor editor who has no concept of the current landscape of the genre. The stereotyping of women erotic writers burying good sex under a blanket of emotion was old when Anais Nin penned her work, and embarrassingly archaic now.

However, beyond the vitriol, I'm hoping that her controversial proclamations will bring more male writers to the genre. For the last 10 years, the erotica and sex-writing genres have been dominated by women, both as readers and writers. So if this does anything to encourage more men to write and publish erotica, that will be a good thing.

It's not that men and women write about sex differently. I've read male erotica writers who are all about context, all about emotion. I've read women writers who are about nothing more than scratching the itch. Every writer brings their own understanding of sex to the table when they write about it. The best ones can suck you into a glimpse of their sexual space and turn you on there.

Dinosaurs like Copstick need to go away. This isn't about gender, and it hasn't been for years. And that the magazine doesn't even has on online edition of its own speaks volumes about the stuck-in-the-seventies mentality resident there.

A somewhat wasted weekend

2009-06-15T07:51:00.001+07:00

I've mostly recovered from my rather harrowing wrench with Blogger. You'll notice, if you click the blog button above that I'm still maintaining a blog there because it generates an RSS feed.

My plans this week include crafting some wordpress templates and paying someone to do the coding. I finally got my head around the Blogger template just before it bit me, and I just don't have the time to do the same again for wordpress - but I'm really missing the flexibility of a blog format on the front end of the site.

I have, however, in digging through my server folders, resurrected an old novella - the Waiting Room - so it's up online here.

Meanwhile, I've had a lot of inquiries as to what I will be continuing. Obviously, Beautiful Losers comes first. I'd like to aim to finish it by the end of June. The Mumbai Tales requires some serious time with the books - I have to research the Goddess Kali - and that's going to take time till I'm comfortable enough with the original texts to see how I can translate it into the story. I have noticed that my short story section is becoming sadly depleted, so I need to work on some new ones.

I've also been doing a bit of co-writing, with both Zander Vyne and Daemon at Sadistic Excess. I'm learning it's hard to keep my ego out of the process, and reliquish control of the story to another writer. So this is good for me. I'm not sure when our efforts will bare presentable fruit, but you'll know it as soon as they do.

To Sofia Gucci

2009-06-14T21:10:00.002+07:00

Sofia Gucci began to follow me on Twitter. As is always the case, I popped along to her twitter page - you can too, in fact please do - to take a look at why Miss Sofia would want to follow me.

It annoys me that people who have no idea what I do, or what I write decide to follow me. It especially annoys me when it is clear they are marketizing what has been a very nice piece of technology, which is now being eaten up with people selling stuff, including themselves.

I have no problem with sex workers. But it IS a business and it wants to ply its trade and use me to do it, when Sofia begins to follow me on twitter, hoping I'll follow her back.

So, I said a rude thing. I told her I had no idea why she was following me, but she should find her own corner on which to do her business, bitch. Actually, I meant the 'bitch' part to be funny. But it seems she was hurt.

She posted this message to the comments area of my blog:

"Why has the mistress of words such a foul mouth? Why do you pick on total strangers instead of simply banning and staying polite?"

My first response would be - why do you want to follow me if you're a total stranger to me. No one who reads my writing considers themselves a stranger to me, nor I to them. We have a very intimate relationship, they and I.

But I also said it because I'm tired of having every piece of technology that I touch turned to someone's profit. It bothers me that I get notified on twitter that I'm being followed by people who want to sell me: insurance, viagra, stocks, real estate, computer consulting and... now...sex, it seems.

Could I be wrong? Could poor Sofia just be a misguided innocent has mistakenly represented herself as a mid-level online sex worker? Perhaps. You can all judge for yourself.

And, those of you who might perhaps be prospective purchasers of Sofia's services, may you enjoy your purchase.

And Sofia - I have way more people following my blog than my twitter. So you can thank me now.

My Very Great Apologies

2009-06-14T19:12:00.003+07:00

If you are subscribed to get my blog posts by email, I deeply apologize for yesterday's strange and lengthy email.

Apparently, when rescinded the domain pointing to Blogger, it took revenge on me by spitting out a huge collection of old posts.

Again, I really apologize.

RG

Site & Blog Repair

2009-06-14T01:52:00.002+07:00

Okay, well, I'm having to use Blogger for my blog posts at present, but I've done a lot of recoding and the site, as you may have noticed, still doesn't come to this page.

I was something of a trauma to not be able to figure out what happened with my custom domain and blogger - and it changed in the middle of the night, so it isn't as if I BROKE anything.

In anycase: www.remittancegirl.com is working, and it has a new design because I thought - what the heck, while I was at it.

I'm going to get wordpress installed on my server, and hire someone to do the template for me, because I bloody hate scripting. I'll just give them the photoshop layouts.

In the meantime, everything is working and over the next couple of days, I'll be tweaking this template so that it looks a little more like my domain.

Apologies for those of you who were waiting for a new chapter of Beautiful Losers - I had a day from hell and got no writing done at all. As soon as I can, I promise.

Problems with My Domain Name

2009-06-13T10:19:00.002+07:00

I seem to be having some problems with my domain name and domain name resolution.

You can always get to all other parts of my site by using http://www.sscserver.com/rg/stories/index.htm and then navigating around from there.

Hope to have the problem resolved very soon.

Hugs,

RG

On Writing

2009-06-12T08:42:00.004+07:00

I've had the pleasure and the challenge of having a few long discussions about writing with a friend. Being asked questions often forces you to reflect on what you do and how you do it. I appreciated the opportunity to think about it and have to define it. I've also had a number of letters from people asking about my process, so I thought I'd do a quick post on it. Some of these headings came from questions that arose in conversation, others from emails I've received.

That being said, what follows is not - repeat, not - a suggested framework for anyone else. I think that as you write, you develop your own processes and rules, and all that matters is that they work for you. There is no right way to write other than to do it, and do it a lot.

Do you structure your stories before you start writing them?

I'm going to be absolutely honest. It shames me to say that I don't really (well, not fully). Ironically, I teach writing and I teach students to structure first - because that's what everyone tells you to do.

When I first started writing, I didn't structure at all. It got me into terrible trouble and you can see the proof of it in some of my unfinished series. I got to a point where I just didn't know where to go with the story. No structuring at all cost me very dearly.

However, when I figured this out, and tried to write whole and tight structures, I found that, by the time I'd finished the structure, I had no motivation to go back and write the damn thing. Part of the delight of writing for me is the mystery of finding out what is going to happen.

So, in the past year or two, I've settled on a middle ground: one that still affords me the mystery I need for my motivation, and the end goal I must point myself towards in order to actually finish the thing.

What I do is start writing. I'm conceptualizing the characters, I'm visualizing the scenes and the situations, the interchanges, etc. When I get to a point in the story where a change in direction is going to make an ending inevitable, I stop, walk away from the story for a while (perhaps a week or two) and make a decision on how it will end. I don't decide how to get to the ending - just what the ending will be. It takes me a while, because I have to convince myself that this is a believable ending for the characters involved, but once I get to that point, I've got something to head towards.

What I don't do is decide all the steps that will get me to the ending. And this is what allows enough mystery to remain so that I can explore my way there.

Character or plot?

For me, character comes first, because if you really craft your characters, situations will inevitably arise from their propensities to act or react in certain ways. I believe that plot can grow out of the dynamics of your characters, but I'm not sure if characters can develop out of plots.

Setting as character?

Yes. A thousand times yes. I see the settings of many of my stories as an additional and very powerful character. The environment acts, sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically, on the mindsets and behaviours of the characters. Who hasn't done something totally wild and out of character on holiday and then come home and said: Fuck, I can't believe I did that!

Who are your characters - are they invented, or real?

All my characters are real, inasmuch as I always model them on people or a merging of a few people I know well. And this is why my character types reoccur again and again in my stories. I have a number of personal archetypes I like to play with.

For instance, Shira, in Beautiful Losers, is a type of character I have used often. She's modeled on a number of women I know and like very much: sane, quite healthy psychologically, with a nice balance between her emotions and her intellect. Some people who have read BL assume that I'm Shira. Sadly, I'm not anything like her. Both Jean and Sebastian are based on individual people I know very well.

Shindo, from Gaijin, is a character based on a person I met who scared the piss out of me. I was fascinated by the combination of a huge ego and a massive chip on his shoulder. This combination seemed to create a truly frightening person. The real person who this character was based on exposes a real flaw in my own personality. I seem unable to have good judgement when I get really fascinated by someone. They scare me, as they should, but I can't stop watching them. I hope this particular little additction of mine doesn't end in my untimely demise ;-P

The couple in The Dinner Party, are really faithfully based on a couple I know. Gilles and Carmen are both fascinating and revolting to me. One of the reasons I wrote the story was to try and understand the dynamic of their relationship. The character of Isabel is very much a Shira sort of character - level-headed but adventurous. She makes a good mirror through which to reflect the other two.

Are you a character in any of your stories?

Because all the characters are created in my head, of course, they will all have a little of me in them, but generally I try to avoid writing myself into my stories because it becomes very hard to put the character who is me in any convincing amount of peril.

This being said, there is a little of me in Jean. And, if you've ever read Penny Red, I am the 'I' in that story. And I am the female narrator in Shellshock.

Does erotica have to be explicit?

Yes and no. My definition of erotica is that it is the exploration of people and story through the lens of eroticism. So setting and timeperiod are going to have a great deal to do with determining how explicit any given story should be, in my opinion.

But some stories are more sensual than sexual. And I tend not to be as explicit in those. Examples of where I felt that too much explicitness would hurt the story were River Mother and Objects of Pleasure.

And sometimes, it is not the act, but the strength of desire that makes for the eroticism. In those sorts of stories, I also tend to leave the details of the sex up to the reader's imagination. Motorcycle Hug, The Spy who Loved his Wife, and Better Left Unsaid all fall into that category. In the last, I don't even describe the sex, but leave it to exist after the story has ended.

Have you ever written anything that's not about sex?

Yes. Only one: The Parade.

What's the silliest story you've ever written?

Hands down, no questions asked: Visitors from Japan. Tentacle sex at a Japanese Restaurant.

Is there any erotic /sexual subject you would never consider writing about?

The short answer is no. Fiction is, in my opinion, exactly the appropriate place to explore things that one does not and should not explore in reality. That being said, there are certain areas that I don't feel comfortable writing about because I don't understand, at a gut level, the erotic appeal: extreme bondage, any kind of serious pain play, really dramatic humiliation scenes that involve stuff like excrement.

Is there anything you haven't written about that you'd like to?

God! There aren't enough hours in the fucking day! Yes.

I have never managed, in my estimation, to write a really good piece of Femdom. I've started a couple of times, but have not been satisfied with the outcome and therefore have not finished or posted them.

What do you see as serious writing challenges?

It's always what is in front of your face at the moment, isn't it? Right now, I'm co-writing with two different writers. I'm finding it very, very fucking challenging but also very rewarding. I just have to learn to get my bloody ego out of my writing and this, hopefully, is how I'm going to learn to do it.

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 21

2009-06-11T23:01:00.002+07:00

The short, soft whimpering sound he made when straight through my brain and embedded itself in my pussy. Beyond that, I could tell I had his full attention because he blinked and looked a little shocked.

"That's right, pretty Jean. I'm fucking tired of all this bullshit. I came for you - don't you know that? That night I accepted your invitation, it wasn't for Sebastian; it was for you." I released his nipple and drew my hand up under his jaw, holding it to ensure his attention. Beneath the blinding white make-up, I could feel the beginnings of a beard. There was something about the anomaly that I liked - that made me brave.

"I know," Jean whispered.

"No, you don't," I said, my voice rising. My fingers squeezed his jaw. "But you will."

Continue reading: BEAUTIFUL LOSERS : CHAPTER 21

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 20

2009-06-10T00:32:00.003+07:00

"You think Jean is wired as a gay man because he acts like a gay man. Well, I think he's just following a role model that suits him. I'm not saying he's straight - he's not. I'm saying that I've met people at the extremes of the sexuality poles, and Jean's not one of them."

If there was one thing I was learning in all this, it was that I knew very little about Jean, and I was certainly willing to consider Sebastian's read on him. But still, I was bothered by something. "Well, even if he isn't at one end of the spectrum, that doesn't mean he lusts for me. I can tell he doesn't. When he kissed me last night, it was different; I could feel the heat of it. He'd forgotten who I was - he was still kissing you. It was like a chemical storm."

Continue Reading: BEAUTIFUL LOSERS : CHAPTER 20

Book Trailer for Beautiful Losers

2009-06-07T21:56:00.002+07:00

I was a little overwhelmed with writing, so I thought I'd make myself a book trailer.

Do tell me what you think - it's a little raunchy. But, after all, I'm not selling chocolate milk.

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 19

2009-06-07T13:25:00.001+07:00

"I bravely expose my soft underbelly to you, and you walk out to deal with domestic chores, " he said.

I couldn't tell if he was serious. Turning back to the washer, I added detergent to the new load. "People always feel that they're the ones taking a risk when they expose their feelings. Did it ever occur to you that it's a risk to hear it?"

He came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. "No, I hadn't considered that. But it wouldn't be a risk if it didn't mean anything to you, so I guess that works in my favour," he said, and pressed his lips against my neck.

Continue reading: BEAUTIFUL LOSERS : CHAPTER 19

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 18

2009-06-06T20:34:00.003+07:00

"Don't you like your prezzie?"

Why was it that all the men in my life could make me feel like an ungrateful bitch? "It's very nice," I said, trying to sound conciliatory.

"Like the picture?"

"Um... very funny."

He laughed and his voice switched into deep, breathy seduction mode: "Don't you wish they were your lips? Wrapped around my hard, throbbing cock? Can't you just taste me? Oh, fuck - I want to feel your hot mouth around me!" In the background, at what I guessed was some distance away, I could hear Jean making really loud, porny orgasmic squeals.

Continue reading: BEAUTIFUL LOSERS : CHAPTER 18

Gender, Sexuality & Desire

2009-06-05T11:25:00.004+07:00

I recently ran across the term 'pansexual.' I know, I don't get out much; I was haunting one of those places where they prompt you to declare your sexual orientation and kinks, etc.

I found it very hard to answer the questions. I felt myself getting annoyed at the either or limitations of the form. Finally, I gave up. I'm not JUST straight, or a lesbian or bi. In fact, it bothers me that I even have to declare my gender, although my penname kind of gives my sex away.

Even from the moment I felt sexual attraction, it never occurred to me to direct it at only one gender. I think I was born completely omnivorous. If I meet someone and find them attractive (and it always takes more than just 'seeing' them - I have to interact with someone before my antenae begin to vibrate) it hardly even registers whether they are male or female. It's always something in their eyes, or the way they move their head as they talk, or the way they use their hands when they're expressing themselves. Admittedly, I am not instantly attracted to tall, blonde busty women, but I've fallen for one, after getting to know her.

There has been a lot of theorizing about the 'gaze'. (If you're interested, here's a wiki synopsis of what it means) Basically, it examines with the cultural and social attitudes we bring to our way of seeing others: the assumptions you make, values of beauty, ugliness, wealth, etc. you attribute to what you see. A lot of the writing around 'gaze' was done by feminist theorists to explain how men see women as commodity. Personally, I've always thought that goes both ways. For 2,000 years we saw them as a way to eat and put a roof over our heads. Bygones.

The thoughts on 'gaze' or, as he called it 'le regard' that interest me more come from the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan. They involve how our culture, our family, and our experiences develop the 'gaze' we end up with in adulthood. The 'gaze' is the phenomenon of the short circuit between the physical act of seeing and the desire we may almost instantly have upon seeing.

Perhaps I developed in an odd way. Firstly, I don't much find my desire triggered by sight, and secondly, it almost never obeys culturally accepted norms for my gender. I can look at a man or even a woman with a nicely formed body and think, well, that's aesthetically pleasing. But it never pulls me. It never triggers even the mildest of sexual responses.

Voices do. The tone of someone's voice, or the sounds of hesitation they make in between words can be very arousing for me. And, as I said before, gestures - body language.

But it doesn't seem to matter what body the language is speaking through. And it doesn't seem to matter whether the 'object' of my gaze is interested in me or not. I regularly get great gusts of desire for straight women and gay men. In fact, I think I've gotten so used to desiring people who are never going to return my interest, that I don't think about it much. Knowing the person I desire is out of bounds, I simply begin a relationship with the desire itself.

This is probably what makes me such a voyeur and a weaver of stories.

Oh, and for those of you pining for Chapter 18 of Beautiful Losers. ETA Saturday.

The Reader / Writer Relationship

2009-06-04T09:27:00.005+07:00

One of the things I love about writing and publishing on the internet is the fact that it allows me a very unique relationship with the reader. There has been a lot of literary theory written about what is called 'the narrative transaction'- below is a diagram of what the traditional understanding of the transaction looks like.

There are two things worth noting in the diagram. One is that the arrows on either side of the story go both ways. This is because the writer may write the story, but as it is formed, the story begins to feedback ideas to the writer - as if it becomes an entity separate from the writer's imagination. The other two-way arrow, between the reader and the story, represent the story's effect on the reader, but also the fact that, in bringing all their understanding of the world to their reading, the reader begins to make unique meaning from the story: they fill in details that aren't written, puzzle out character's motives, assume givens that may not be the writer's intention at all.

The internet has revolutionized the 'narrative transaction' in two ways. HTML has meant that, unlike the printed page, a piece of text can always be edited, always changed - it is never finished, or static, so long as someone has access to the file. The other way the web has changed the 'narrative transaction' is that, unlike in the old days when a writer published a novel, it got printed and sold, and the reader obtained the book and read it and PERHAPS MIGHT have written a letter to the writer in praise or criticism of an already finished work, we now have the ability to have dialogue a)while the work is unfinished, b) with great immediacy, c) the communication can be two-way. So the 'transaction' looks more like this:

As you can see, it changed our relationship dramatically. Of course, many writers and many readers like the old form of the transaction just fine, and continue on with the old type of relationship.

But in a way, I was a writer 'born' on the net. My first piece of fictional writing was done online, on a blog. So, for me, this new type of 'transaction' is where I feel really interesting new things can happen.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, many of you have taken the time to leave comments on my writing pages - especially on Beautiful Losers, and I've noticed something very interesting. Some of you are, subtly, telling me how you want this story to end.
You need to know that how I end the story has already been decided by me, and I'm not going to change my mind. I believe it's my obligation as a writer to take you somewhere new, not somewhere you have already anticipated going.

The second reason I'm telling you all this is that C. Enomis left an interesting comment on Chapter 17.

I wonder, though, why not go into detail? Jean deserves to have his story told. Now that you've started digging deep with these characters it seems almost disrespectful to Jean to just graze his pain. I don't feel his pain as much as Seb's. I think I feel Sebastian's pain acutely. It may be that I relate to him more. I applaud you for writing "Gaijin" because you seemed like you explored something within yourself while you were writing it. It is bold and raw. Reading it was like holding on to an ice cube too long. I feel that you can do the same thing with Jean's painful story.

It's a good challenge, a legitimate question and it deserves a thoughtful answer.

I considered writing out the story of Jean's abuse, but I decided against it for the following reasons:

The POV all the way through BL is Shira's. It's not only first person but, in this case, it's a highly subjective first person POV. I have to carry on as I've started, reflecting her personality in the 'voice' of the story. As a character, she would never, ever, tell another living soul about Jean's story. And therefore, she can't tell you, the reader, about it either.
I didn't want to introduce any elements of sex as a negative into the story.
I didn't want anyone to be able to perceive an account of abuse as arousing in this story. C. Enomis points out that I do this in Gaijin, but that is a character talking of their own, adult experience, not someone else's. And ultimately Gaijin is much more situated in fantasy than BL.
I believe my readers are capable of imagining what Jean's story might have been. They can choose to imagine as much or as little detail as they like. But I wanted to leave it up to the reader.

I understand that some of you will still feel that this is a cop-out. That's okay. As a reader, you have the right to feel that way. But as a writer, I have to be responsible for the story and the characters who inhabit it. In this case, I just thought that less was more.

Huggles to all of you,

RG

Call for Submissions at Zander Vyne's Site

2009-06-04T07:22:00.002+07:00

The marvelously talented and incredibly erotic writer Zander Vyne, has issued a call for submission for new writers. Here's the call:

Zander Vyne, erotica author and blogger, is opening the doors at Zandervyne.com to new writers interested in being published online. Zander's own work tends to be literary and often dark in nature. In keeping with that, work submitted should be well-written smut that dares to offend, provoke, horrify and arouse. If you can manage to do all of that in one story, you are almost guaranteed a home. Zander is not interested in porno (if you have to ask the difference between it and erotica, you probably should not submit work), or stories that break with common laws and or/sense. Submit via email (address in ABOUT ZANDER VYNE). Subject - STORY SUBMISSION, and expect to hear back within one week. Paste your story into your email body or attach a WORD document. No pay, but lots of love.

For more information, and a taste of Zander Vyne's style of writing, please visit Zander's site

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 17

2009-06-03T22:31:00.002+07:00

This is Chapter 17 of Beautiful Losers:

There hadn't been any reason to worry. When I got back, Sebastian had Jean spread out in front of the fire, and was kissing him with an intensity that made me think I could have bathed for hours and no one would have noticed.

Cracking the bottle, I took a swig and curled up on the couch, hands tucked between my knees, contemplating their lovely silhouettes, moving against firelight. It made me think of those Indonesian shadow puppets I'd seen a film about. All the characters were princes and kings and Hindu Gods, each with a thousand years of mythology behind them. And what, after all, was mythology if not baggage and history dressed up for public consumption?

There were my two shadow puppet princes, each with their own mythologies, kissing and undressing and caressing each other, casting the dark and distorted versions of themselves on the living room wall, casting out the demons.

Continue reading : BEAUTIFUL LOSERS : CHAPTER 17

Ravenous Readers and Beautiful Loser Updates

2009-06-03T07:26:00.002+07:00

I'd like to start off by thanking everyone profusely for reading and commenting on Beautiful Losers. I love to hear all your impressions on Shira, Jean and Sebastian - who can be trusted, what their motivations are, etc.

For those of you worried about how it will all end, I guestimate we're about 8 - 10 chapters away from that. You wouldn't want me to tell you how it ends now, would you?
*wicked grin*

Regarding updates: I'm back at work during the day now, so they're not going to be appearing at a rate of 2 chapters a day, like they have been for the week. On the other hand, I promise you that you won't have to wait another 2 years. :-) I expect to have something for you on Thursday.

In the meantime, I'd love it if you would answer a few questions that I'm curious about:

1. How do you feel about the use of condoms in the story?
2. Do you think that menage a trois can work in reality?
3. One reader had a very good stab at guessing why each character has the name they have - want to have a go, yourself?

Hugs to all of you, and thanks again for reading. You'll get a new chapter soon, I promise.

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 16

2009-06-01T19:54:00.004+07:00

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 16 is now in it's rightful place on the subsite. This chapter contains no sex but does deal with some disturbing issues.

There's a lot to be said for Doc Martin's, but lacing them up is a bitch and takes time. Even unlacing them enough to get your feet back into them takes forever. Sitting on the sofa with my hands shaking, I was just trying to get them on as quick as I could.

"You're not leaving!" called Sebastian running down the stairs. He had changed into his usual pair of cotton jogging pants, but he had nothing else on. He got to the bottom of the stairs and stood there with his arms folded across his chest. "You're not going anywhere."

"I am, actually. You guys have things to sort out." I finished lacing my boots up halfway. That was enough; they'd stay on. Just breathe - slowly, and deeply - I told myself. "And you need to sort them out in private."

Continue reading: BEAUTIFUL LOSERS - CHAPTER 16

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 15

2009-06-01T08:52:00.003+07:00

This is Chapter 15 of Beautiful Losers.

"You're scaring me again, Sebastian," I said in a small voice.

He straddled me and pulled the other wrist up, and did the same thing with it. "You know the word. Use it if you need to."

"But..."

He tangled his fingers in my hair, grabbed a handful and gave it a sharp tug. It didn't exactly hurt, but it sure got my attention. Staring straight into my eyes, he said, "There's no 'buts'. There's only the safe-word, or I go on. Don't fuck with me. Is that clear?" Each sentence was punctuated with little hair pulls.

My heart felt like it was about to come out of my chest. All the hair on my skin -what was left of it anyway - stood up. I toyed with saying the word, just to see what would happen, and he must have read my mind, because he leaned down and kissed me softly, whispering, "You have to trust me, Shirakins. If you use the word, I'll stop. Trust me."

Continue reading: BEAUTIFUL LOSERS: CHAPTER 15

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 14

2009-05-31T17:32:00.003+07:00

This is Beautiful Losers - Chapter 14. There's very little sex in this chapter, but I do hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

I grabbed the phone. "Westcoast Sound Systems," I droned .

"Why aren't you riding my cock?"

My coworkers milled around, walking past the desk, eyeing me. Impossible as I knew it to be, I could have sworn they could hear the other side of the call. I flushed.

"Sebastian?"

"Well I fucking hope you're not riding anyone else's cock. Unless it's Jean's, of course."

"Uh...I'm at work," I whispered, as if that would make anything better. "Can I call you back later?"

Continue reading: BEAUTIFUL LOSERS : CHAPTER 14

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 13

2009-05-30T22:56:00.002+07:00

This is Beautiful Losers - Chapter 13.

The first spatters of thick, hot chocolate landed on my breasts. My eyes snapped open, I squealed. "That burns!"

Jean was kneeling at my head, his hands pressed down on my shoulders. "I tested it myself, it's not too hot." He gave me an upside down smile.

The second spatter landed on my belly and made me yelp and arch my back. "Oh fuck!"

Sebastian was standing above me, letting the stuff drizzle from a fucking spoon. I really shouldn't have eaten all the fruit, I thought, in what later proved to be a rare moment of sanity. The chocolate stung as it hit my skin and then sat there smoldering for a while before the pain eased away.

Jean lowered his upside down face and brushed his lips against mine. "Don't fight it Shira. It's only your fear that makes it really hurt." He kissed me softly. "It just stings. Let it. Enjoy it. In a minute you're going to start to get so horny," he smiled and giggled.

Continue reading BEAUTIFUL LOSERS - CHAPTER 13

More Music and Erotica

2009-05-30T10:56:00.002+07:00

Alice Black and White has done a marvelous post, listing the music that influenced, or shaded some of the stories she has written.

"Music is a profound part of my life. It always has been and it always will be. It grounds me. It guides me. It inspires me. Music is a form a religion for me. So much so that I choose to worship Jah, not in a church, but in a concert hall.

But music is more than religion for me. It is also a muse and a guiding force in my creativity."

Interestingly enough, she also chose NIN's "Closer". Well, let's face it. How could these lyrics not inspire some rather raw and delicious fictional scenarios?

You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate you

Help me I broke apart my insides
Help me I’ve got no soul to sell
Help me the only thing that works for me
Help me get away from myself

I wanna fuck you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside
I wanna fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to god

Read Alice Black & White's whole post at http://www.aliceblackandwhite.com/?p=1943 and explore her writing archive too, it's amazing.

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 12

2009-05-29T16:16:00.002+07:00

I'm terribly relieved. Now that I know what I'm working towards, the writing is coming very fluidly. This is CHAPTER 12 of Beautiful Losers. If you're new here, you probably want to start at CHAPTER 1.

"Sh-h," hushed Sebastian. He was holding my skin taut with his fingers as he drew the razor over it. "You're doing really well, Shirakins. Just another couple of minutes and we'll be done." I heard him rinse the razor. It came back hot against my skin.

I clenched my teeth and nodded, still holding my breath. I knew the fear was irrational. It was only shaving, for god's sake. Thousands of women did it everyday. But still, it felt dangerous and strange and I'd never had anyone besides a doctor examine me quite so closely down there. His fingers were pressing against me, and the razor tugged minutely at the hairs before it sliced through them, warm and metallic against my skin. I could feel his breath against my inner thighs, hot and even.

Continue reading: BEAUTIFUL LOSERS : CHAPTER 12

Music and Story

2009-05-29T07:07:00.004+07:00

While recoding some of my site, I got the chance to look over all my stories, and I noticed something really weird. Almost all of them are inspired by, or at least partially based on, bits of music.

One of the first stories I ever wrote, Penny Red, a sort of innocent lesbian first time story, features the Bowie song Heroes as the music the girls dance to in the bar.

The Spy who Loved his Wife was set in the 50's, but I thought the obsessive and transgressive addiction of the main character, a man who develops an obsession to see his wife fucked by other men was conceptually inspired by another Nine Inch Nails song, "The Perfect Drug".
	The Perfect Drug

Some stories, like Karaoke Night(his and hers), are obviously full of music woven into the plot of the story because it acts almost like permission, for the characters - it features Iggy Pop's Now I wanna be your Dog, Abba's Gimme Gimme Gimme, Billy Idol's White Wedding, and the Eurythmic's Sweet Dreams.


Now I wanna be your Dog	Gimme Gimme Gimme	White Wedding	Sweet Dreams

Other stories, like Personal Jesus, directly reference the song, and the lyrics inspired it.

Motorcycle Hug came directly from listening to an old, obscure Duran Duran song. Obviously the lyrics influenced certain parts of the story, but the heat and sense of space evoked by the music also played an important role in the way I painted the characters as culturally and economically alienated from each other
	The Chauffeur

	In certain stories, especially series, the influence of music was more subtle. In the Dinner Party, the scene where the main character leaves early in the morning and walks down to the highway barefoot, was inspired by the mood of Erik Satie's Gymnopedie 2. While all the sex scenes were inspired by Magazine's 'Motorcade'
Gymnopedie 2		Motorcade

	The Night I was Mel Torme is not inspired by, but is kind of underscored by the mood of "The House is Haunted by the Echo of your Last Goodbye". Of course, I was thinking of the Mel Torme version, but I couldn't fine a file of it. So here's another version
The House is Haunted

The short story Shellshock is more complicated. It wasn't the lyrics that directly inspired it, but main character's headspace was really informed by the underplayed mood of disassociation and violence of Nine Inch Nail's "Closer"
	Closer

The Tales of the Mumbai Coven are a complex mix of musical influences. Chapter One, Midnight at Sheremetyevo is mood-inspired by Seal's "Kiss from a Rose". The imagery of the snow in the lyrics played a part. But more than that is the idea of desire as all consuming. Chapter Two, The Death and Birth of Calum McNeill, was actually written to the Vaughan Williams piece, "Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis". Chapter Four: Hunting for Sport and its continuation, Virgin, were absolutely inspired by the song "Do You Want To?" by Franz Ferdinan: both the chaotic quality of the track and the implications of transgression in the lyrics as well as the camp, androgynous tone to the singer's voice were so influential that I actually stopped writing, listened to the song again, and re-wrote one of the sex scenes. Chapter 5: The Trial and Conviction of Brother Daniel has obscure musical influences, the greatest of which was Camaron de la Isla's "Romance del Amargo" which is about the brutality of custom in a Spanish village, but also, again, the breaking quality of the voice was reminiscent of a sort of spiritual repression.

Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis	Kiss from a Rose	Do You Want To	Romance del Amargo

The musical influences for Beautiful Losers are a post for another day.

So tell me, what songs inspire your writing?

Chapter 11 of Beautiful Losers.

2009-05-28T23:56:00.002+07:00

After a number of years of being stalled on this story, I went through all the chapters, polishing them, and wrote another, and a framework for the completion of the story. For those of you who haven't read it, CHAPTER 1 is HERE.

For those of you who have read Beautiful Losers, I can only say that I thank you for your patience.

Spearing a strawberry, he stirred it around the pot, digging down to were the hottest chocolate was and, testing the temperature on his finger first, held the coated fruit above Jean's cock, letting a thin ribbon drizzle over the head. Jean twitched and gasped.

"Too hot?" he asked, his voice all innocence.

"Ah...too fucking hot," moaned Jean. But his meaning was clear.

A few applications from the fondue pot, and Jean's dick was coated with warm, liquid chocolate.

Now I understood why Jean had complained when I said I was tired. Now I understood what the chocolate was for. I cringed. I was such an ungrateful cow.

Read CHAPTER 11 HERE

Comments on Chapter 8 of the Tales of the Mumbai Coven

2009-05-27T22:35:00.003+07:00

One of my very favourite readers, Rachael, posted a comment on Chapter 8: Hollow.

"May I ask an impertinent question? Is the entire scene meant to be erotic/arousing, or is the ending deliberately playing with the gray area where arousal and disgust may overlap?

For me, the moment when something like murder fulfills Daniel's lust, I go cold. My shock of personal squick immediately upon the heels of erotic engagement was actually sort of interesting, which is what makes me think that maybe you meant to elicit that contrast. On the other hand, you may have had other intentions, and I may have just found in myself a prude spot. :)"

I wanted to answer it here, first, because I want to make sure you get my answer, Rachael, and second for anyone else who had the same reaction to the chapter.

Vampire stories, even Stoker's Dracula, have always had sex and death as central themes. In a lot of literature, as the narrative myth evolved, I've often felt that the stories began to lose the horror of the original. As vampires became sexier, as we've given them rampant cocks, we have de-fanged them, to the point where, in True Blood and the Anita Blake novels , they don't even need to feed off humans anymore.

I wanted to explore the horrific power of the urges. I wanted to show them confused and intertwined. And I wanted my readers to be uncomfortable with that. This is fiction, and you are grown-ups. I trust you, as readers, to react to the characters and events in moral ways.

Rachael. The question was not - could not be - impertinent. Yes, I absolutely meant to squick you. I bloody hoped it would! I hoped you'd feel the slide from arousal into awful, sinking disgust. And if I did that to you, then as a writer, I achieved what I set out to do.

The larger question is, should writers do this? A lot of people feel that erotica writers shouldn't. There are rules that most erotica publishers, that ERWA follows, that a lot of writers of erotica voluntarily keep to in order to always show sex as positive, enjoyable, guiltless and healthy.

With no disrespect to people who embrace those restrictions, I do not believe it's my job as a writer of erotica or of anything else to colour within the lines. I think it's my job to take you, in fiction, to places you might not want to go in reality. Sure, there's fantasy and arousal there, but there are also darker things too. Because we're grown-ups and good stories are complicated ones. Not just the plots, but the feelings we have from reading them.

I remember the first time I read an erotic story that squicked the hell out of me. It wasn't comfortable, but fuck did it ever live with me for days and days after. I thought about my own reaction. I thought about the arousal and the disgust. It made me examine both of them in turn and together.

It reminded me of how often I've watched the news and seen bodies littered across a screen and felt no pity, no disgust, no nothing. It reminded me of watching porn and feeling no arousal. I feel numbed by the portrayal of death on the news, and sex on youporn. I feel the media inoculates me through repetition. I think perhaps, as a writer and a reader, it has fallen to fiction to remind me of what I should feel.

Many people say that we make sex too complicated. I think we don't make it complicated enough. In the Mumbai Tales, I have tried to grapple with the notion that desire is both beautiful and frighting, gorgeous and horrific, loving and predatory, intelligent and mindless. I think that maybe if I examine the paradox of it, I'll understand it better.

I can't tell you what you should feel when you read my work. I can only write as well as I possibly can and hope that something of what I feel finds resonance with you. It may be that you don't want to feel what I feel. That's fine. Then I'm not the writer for you.

For those of you who keep reading, I thank you for your trust. It is an intimacy we have together, isn't it? And a kind of trust? But I think we're safe here. This is fiction, where everything can happen and be left behind on the screen.

Erotic Daydream Challenge #6 - Teacher, teacher

2009-05-27T07:59:00.002+07:00

Back to my daily challenges. This one requires a trip down memory lane. Thinking back to your school days (perhaps way, way back):

Which teacher did you have sexual fantasies about then, or might be prompted to have now?

This is a free for all - from kindergarten to university. There must have been one...

Come on, give it up for RG. Personally, there was a particular physics teacher whom I've defamed repeatedly since then. Read "Grown-up Games"

Chapter 8 - Hollow

2009-05-26T13:20:00.004+07:00

Chapter 8: Hollow, is the continuing story of Daniel, from the Tales of the Mumbai Coven.

The moment Daniel felt her heat against his skin he wanted to scream. The scent of her enveloped him in a haze of rich carnality. In his mind, he pushed her from him, but his arms were already around her, the chains dragging against the floor as he pulled her body to his.

The beating of her heart filled his arms, entering into his empty chest and driving the pump of an insatiable lust. All that he knew was that he had to be in her. He had to crawl into her skin to put an end to his own torment.

More than two - Menages

2009-05-26T07:24:00.004+07:00

Over at Oh Get A Grip! the topic for the week is writing menage sex. So far two of the members have posted; Lisabet Sarai and Jaime Hill having quite different takes on the subject.

I'm looking forward to reading the rest of the group blog's members posts, because I'm in the middle of a series that deals with menage sex and have always found it difficult to write - probably because I've found it difficult to live.

If you read my stories, you may have noticed that I've seldom written a F/F/M combination story - with the exception of The Dinner Party. This is because I've never had experience of one; well, not a successful one anyway. The only time I came close to the experience, I was attracted only to the woman in the equation. The idea of being intimate with the male, in order to have sex with the woman I liked, made me back off. I felt it was somehow wrong. It wasn't that he was unattractive, I just didn't actually like him.

M/M/F pairings are something I do write about - in Tales of the Mumbai Coven (chapter 4 & chapter 6), and in Beautiful Losers - because it's simply something I know more about. But I have noticed, I always write the M/M sex from the POV of the female as voyeur.

I'm not generally of the opinion that a writer should limit themselves to what they know, when writing erotica, but in this case, I do feel limited by my experience.

Porn has given us interesting expectations of how menage sex works. F/F/M pairings always have the girls licking each others pussies and M/M/F pairings inevitably involve double penetration. And I think it's hard for an erotica writer, knowing readers' expectations, not to deliver up the predictable.

My own experience with two men is that there is always a tension. One party is usually there for the woman, and the other is really more interested in the other man. Menages bring the hierarchy of control to the fore - someone always comes out as a top, even if none of the parties involve will acknowledge it. It's also been my experience that watching two men fuck doesn't make me want to jump in the middle of it; I'm too overwhelmed by the beauty of the act. It paralyzes me into a voyeuristic state.

Despite my experience, I've never been involved in double penetration. And the next chapter in the saga of Marta, Daniel and Stefan is sitting on my desktop waiting to be written. I guess we'll see how well I can fake it.

Chapter 7 - Satanic Mills

2009-05-25T22:27:00.002+07:00

This is a continuation of Calum McNeill's story, chapter Seven of the Tales of the Mumbai Coven.

As her dark eyes locked with his in the gloom of early evening, she stopped struggling. A pitiful bleat rose in her throat, like a terrified lamb. Her throat, dark-skinned and plump. At the side a rapid pulse glinted under her sweat-wet skin in the dying light. It sounded like the river: a hissing rush, but one of a different timbre. Here, here was what would quench his killing thirst. There, beneath her cinnamon skin. Her neck smelled of sour fear and the sweet spices she'd been cooking with as he pressed his face into the crook. As his lips touched her warmth, he felt a surge of bestial lust. His cock sprang rigid against her belly. Thirst, hunger, lust. All were one. And all could be satisfied with one small bite.

Read Chapter 7 - Satanic Mills

The Things I Need - Survival Challenge #1

2009-05-25T07:25:00.005+07:00

I got infected by the bug reading Lulu's post over at Introspective Liar.

What do you really need in life? If you could pare it down to the bare essentials, if you had 15 minutes to gather everything that really mattered to you and leave, what would you take?

Here's my list:

1. My MacBookPro & charger it its backpack
2. My iPod and cord
3. My credit card
4. 1 Tube of Boots lipstain and gloss (mocha)
5. 1 pair of linen trousers
6. 1 cotton t-shirt
7. 1 bra
8. My favorite leather flip-flops
9. Passport (Keziah reminded me - where WAS my head?)

Surveying that list, I figure, yup...I could start a life again with just that. A little disconcerting that two out of eight are tech toys.

So, what's in your survival pack? What do you absolutely need? Remember, there's no going back for anything later.

Give me your list in the comments, or just post the link to your blog entry.

Chapter 6: Virgin - Tales of the Mumbai Coven

2009-05-24T00:16:00.005+07:00

This is Chapter 6 : Virgin, part of the continuing tales of the Mumbai Coven. It picks up where Chapter 4 : Hunting for Sport left off.

Erotic Daydream Challenge #5

2009-05-22T07:26:00.002+07:00

More for your erotic imaginations, this one inspired by TreSart's post on the ERWA List:

If you could remake any movie, with explicit sex scenes,
which would it be?

Personally, I'd like to see The English Patient x-rated. Your choice?

Erotic Daydream Challenge #4

2009-05-21T08:33:00.003+07:00

Continuing on with the dialogue. I've always thought that one of the most disappointing aspects of porn plots is that there is seldom any risk or suspense. I often think that a mild amount of fear can be extremely erotic. So, today's question is:

What has the capacity to both scare you
and turn you on at the same time?

Please join the discussion. The suspense is killing me!

Erotic Daydream Challenge #3

2009-05-20T08:40:00.002+07:00

And... continuing on with my little series of erotic imagination exercises:

If you have a sexual orientation preference (straight/gay), under what circumstances would you venture over onto the other side?

Do tell, I soooo want to know where your weak spots are!

Erotic Daydream Challenge #2

2009-05-19T07:42:00.002+07:00

Continuing on with my challenges, here's another:

What if every orgasm you had took a year off your life?

How would you spend them? What criteria would you use? Would you still have sex and have the control to stop before you came? Murder by pleasure?

Featured Story: Wet My Pet

2009-05-17T07:10:00.002+07:00

Seldom do I have the honour of featuring the work of other writers on my site. But Julius kindly allowed me to post one of my very favorite stories here.

We've been talking about limits - what is erotic and what is not, what 'squicks', and how sometimes, when the writing is really good, a writer can invite you in to see the eroticism of something that normally you'd find a turn-off. I think this happens when the writer denies the reader the 'general' view on a kink, and kidnaps you and takes you to the specific and the personal.

Wet My Pet is, for me, the perfect example of a perfectly erotic presentation of a kink that many of us would balk at in the general. The way Julius writes it, I was left wondering why in the hell it had ever squicked me at all. Brilliant writing.

Julius and more of his work can be found at http://eroticklyours.blogspot.com/

_________________________________________

Wet My Pet
by Julius
(c) Julius. 2005

Eleven-thirty and Celia was feeling tired, her bed was beckoning.

The gentle knock at her apartment door was an unwelcome interruption. She peeped through the little spyhole and saw Stephan looking back. A little reluctantly, she opened the door.

"What d'you say to a midnight swim?" he whispered.

"Pool doesn't open till next week."

"I've got a key," he grinned and brandished a large bunch.

"I've no suit," she was too tired for this.

"Skinny dip," he shrugged, "if you don't wear yours, I won't wear mine."

His mood caught her and she felt herself yielding. She sighed and he smiled his smile. He really was a persuasive man, "Wait, let me find a towel."

Celia went to the bedroom, suddenly eager to go with him. She rummaged in a drawer, looking through her underwear, amazed she had no swimsuit. Her eye caught a flash of bright green. No, she daren't! She drew out the teddy and held it at arm's length.

When she emerged from the bedroom Stephan grinned at her and pointed to the terry robe, "Are you ...?"

"Just wait and see," she said and scooped up her keys, "let's go."

They rode the elevator down to basement level and stepped out. Stephan led the way. Unlocking the door he gestured her inside. The smells of chlorine and fresh paint hit her. The lights came on, the pool was filled. Stephan turned out all the lights but the underwater ones. Celia gave a little squeal of delight, it looked so pretty like that.

"Beer? Can't skinny dip without beer," Stephan took two bottles out of the bag and twisted off the tops. He handed her one.

"Want to sit a while?" he gestured towards an alcove with benches on two sides. A shower spray hung on the third wall. She sat and took a swallow of her beer and shivered. Stephan disappeared, four heat lamps came on overhead, warmth flooded over her. He came back, "There, that better?"

"Answers for everything, haven't you?"

Stephan grinned at her, "No, not quite, I don't know what's under the robe."

"Mostly Celia," she said making no move to show him. She sipped the beer. The radiance from the lamps was relaxing her. She rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

"I think you should let me see what you're wearing for our swim," she suggested.

He removed his shoes and socks while Celia drank the last of her beer. She was getting a gentle buzz and heard herself giggle, "More."

He paused with his shirt over his head, "More beer or more Stephan?"

"Oh, more both."

"Well, I brought a six-pack and ... " he pulled off the shirt with a flourish and tossed it in her lap.

Celia picked it up and pressed her face into the cloth. Her insides seemed to flip as she breathed in his scent, felt his body heat. She looked up at him, his arms, his shoulders and felt an awful yearning.

Reaching into the bag for another beer she chanted, "More beer, more Stephan, more beer, more Stephan."

He slid down his zipper and Celia tipped the bottle and gulped. Midnight swims were suddenly a wonderful idea.

When Stephan's pants slid to the floor she gazed hungrily at the bulge in the front of his tiny white briefs. "Ooh, lots of Stephan," she said and actually hiccoughed. To herself she said 'Celia, you are little bit drunk.'

She got to her feet, "Well, fair's fair, hold this," she handed him her bottle and unbelted the robe. She shrugged it off her shoulders and let it slide to the tiles.

His sharp intake of breath said it all. His mouth actually stayed open for long seconds. "Oh my!" was all he managed.

Her glance in the bedroom mirror had almost made her change her mind. Now she was glad she hadn't. The teddy concealed very little of Celia. His reaction was a most wonderful thing to see and hear.

Little wonder he gaped. Celia glanced down, her heavy breasts were all she could see of herself. They looked beautifully big, she thought. Resting in the cups of the teddy, they gave her a splendid cleavage. She wanted to shake her shoulders and jiggle her breasts for Stephan. But she knew they'd simply fall out if she did.

She watched, delighted, as Stephan's eyes roamed up and down her. The crotch of the teddy was hauled tight into her pussy, she could feel its insistent presence. She turned slowly, showing him her ass. It was big and beautiful, she knew. She reached a hand back, "Oh my!" she murmured and giggled. The fabric covered her not at all, it had worked deep between her cheeks.

She turned to face him. "Oh my!," she exclaimed again at the sight. His erection formed an impressive ridge up the front of his briefs, "that's very flattering."

"Have you any idea how beautiful, how sexy you look?" he asked her.

She squirmed under his gaze, she felt sexy and beautiful. Celia sucked air in through her teeth as a spasm caught her somewhere below her belly button. Her thighs tensed and she pressed her knees together in the classic female pose. A sudden need. "Dear God, this sexy, beautiful woman needs a pee."

She remembered another time, a week ago. They'd been a little drunk then and had told each other their favourite fantasies. She thought now of his.

"Lie down Stephan," she told him, "here on the tiles."

At Celia's urging, Stephan lay on his back. The tiles were pleasantly warm. Heat from the lamps bathed him. He closed his eyes against the glare and waited.

She moved to stand over him, he could feel her ankles against his thighs. His cock was splendidly erect inside the briefs. It had to be, after she'd dropped the robe. The warmth, her closeness, he knew something beautiful was about to happen.

He felt her move and opened squinting eyes. She squatted and then settled slowly, kneeling astride him. She sank further, her crotch settling on his. Just two layers, silk and cotton, between her sex and his.

She leaned forward and rested on her hands. He closed his eyes again. Celia's lips were at his ear and she she whispered, her breath tickled. "Have you any idea how horny I feel right now," she paused, "and how badly I need to pee?"

Stephan shook his head and she added, "I don't know which I need most," she squirmed her mound on his cock, "to be filled or to be emptied."

She sat up then, heavy on his hips. Stephan shaded his eyes with his hand and watched as she slipped one strap off her shoulder and allowed a breast to spill free. Heavy and full it moved beautifully as she swung her shoulders. The nipple seemed to point straight at him. "Baby hungry?" she asked and gave her shoulders a shake, making the breast jiggle.

"Very hungry," he croaked, his wanting was a desperate thing.

She leaned down again and brushed the breast across his mouth. He caught the swollen nipple and held it with his teeth. Celia cried out softly as he nipped her. With tongue, teeth and lips he made slow love to her. When he paused she raised herself a little and pulled free. He caught her again and they played, her nipple a small, swelling, ripening fruit.

Celia began grinding her mound against him. He sensed that, between them they were taking her towards an orgasm. The suckled nipple seemed to grow in his mouth. Suddenly she froze and looked at him through slitted eyes. Her teeth were gritted when she spoke, "I've got to pee, I've just got to pee." But she made no move to get up, just kept slowly grinding herself against his erection.

He wondered if this was a little girl struggling to control her bladder or a woman on the brink of orgasm. She crouched down over him, breathing loudly in his ear. "I'm going to lose it, I'm going to lose it. I'm can't hang on." She seemed to be crying and laughing by turns. "I can't hang on, I'm so full and it feels so incredibly sexy. I daren't move and I can't keep still." All this was said while she trembled and wriggled on top of him.

He was desperately aroused by her words and her movements, he thought his cock would burst. If she thought this was making her horny ... what about him?

Celia suddenly sat up with a soft cry. A look of surprise as she raised her hands to cover her mouth. Her eyes closed and she seemed o relax.

The glow started at Stephan's groin and it began to spread. She was peeing on him! Through the teddy, through his briefs the heat came soaking. It felt almost scalding hot as she flooded him. Over his cock, his balls, down between his legs and over his belly. Stephan thought it the most beautiful sensation. Almost enough to make a guy come, just from the exquisite, spreading heat.

Celia let herself fall forward onto her hands and she began slowly working her way up his body, her groin sliding up his skin. The heat, the flow moved up over his stomach, over his chest. Still she moved, still she flowed. Soon it was trickling down on either side of his neck. he could hear the gentle hiss as she kept draining.

The heat came from deep inside her, from her pussy, through the crotch of the teddy to him. Celia's own warmth, her wetness. Stephan opened his arms and she lay on him, her wetness between them. "That was what you meant, wasn't it?" she asked him.

"Yes, oh yes, just the way I dreamed it should be. It was the sweetest thing," he murmured into her hair.

She was wonderful, it had been perfect. His need for her then was a desperate, grinding thing inside him. His cock an aching rigidity trapped in the briefs she had soaked.

Celia went very still and he looked up at her. He could see her own hunger in her eyes and then she moved back down him. He could hear her making little mewing noises. Her fingers scrabbled his briefs down, baring his cock. Raising his head he watched her. A hooked finger caught the crotch of the teddy and she pulled it to one side, off her pussy. He could see wet curls and the petals of her labia. The teddy's front was near black with her wetness, it clung to her every contour.

The stream began again, hot over his scrotum. No intervening fabric this time, just scalding hot pee on cum-filled balls. He groaned as the flood washed over his nakedness. He writhed under her hips, his body begging. Finally she slowed to a trickle.

Her fingers curled round his cock, holding it vertical. She lowered herself, open and ready. A new and beautiful heat engulfed his penis. Down she came, in he went. Steadily piercing her, skewering upwards until he nudged the end of her. She settled on him, ass against balls.

She fucked him, rather than he her, bucking back and forth, as if to break his cock off at its root. Stephan struggled under her in a mix of pain and joy. She rode him, one wild animal on another. Her body drawing the orgasm from him. When they came, it was as one, sobs and cries echoing each other. Celia's climax was a feral thing, her pussy clenched and sucked at his gushing cock.

She collapsed onto him. They were both sobbing for breath, both exhausted, both utterly spent.

They slept, perhaps just minutes. She kissed him awake. His hands slid down her back and grabbed her ass, pulling her against him .

"How was the fantasy?" she asked him.

"Perfect, incredible," he told her, "swimming's fun, being drowned is beautiful."

Chapter 5 - part 2: His Conviction - Tales of the Mumbai Coven

2009-05-16T00:38:00.003+07:00

Cold.

Cold and pain.

There was nothing else in Fray Daniel's universe as he inched his way to consciousness. His eyes opened onto impenetrable blackness and the left side of his head - his jaw, his cheek, his ear - was a single throbbing mass of hurt.

He shifted and the pain lessened a little. He had been lying with his injured face pressed against a cold, stone surface. A cascade of metal clinks followed his movement; a sound so familiar to him, he identified it at once. Chains. Thick-linked and slippery with damp, like those the accused wore in detention, waiting their turn before the inquisitional court.

This is part 2 of Daniel's origin tale. Please note that it contains subject matter of a violent nature that might be offensive to some people.

Read Chapter 6: His Conviction

Erotic Daydream Challenge #1

2009-05-15T08:24:00.006+07:00

I thought I'd start a series of blog posts to challenge my readers, an experiment of the imagination, a kind of self-interrogation, subject matter for a daydream when you have a few spare moments.

Erotic Day Dream Challenge #1
Inspired by a story I read by Nobilis.
(Being a die-hard voyeur, this premise has a lot of interest for me)

What would it be like if no one could touch you
and you couldn't touch anyone else?

How would you be erotic? How would you feel about skin, flesh, all the tangible physicality of another person? Would your eyes and ears become your sex organs?

I'd love to hear your musings on this .

I'm a Girl on Top!

2009-05-14T07:30:00.003+07:00

I'm announcing this a little late, it seems. But I only just found out myself, and I can't say how thrilled I am!

My story, The Central Registry, was accepted and included in Violet Blue's "Girls On Top: Explicit Erotica for Women".

Even more delightful is that she has podcasted the story on her Tiny Nibbles Blog, and done a masterful job of it. I had no idea I wrote such thoroughly filthy stuff. Of course, you can buy the book HERE.

It was interesting to hear someone else read my work aloud. I've never actually experienced that before. And GOD, it's HOT. I'd transferred it to my iPod, and was walking around campus listening, getting redder and redder. Finally, I just sat down somewhere quiet and listened. Only when it ended did I realize I'd been grinning like a madwoman. My cheek muscles ached.

Funny how someone else's rendition of your work can make you notice things you never noticed yourself, when you wrote it.

Sexual Orientation and Fictional Divergence

2009-05-13T08:27:00.000+07:00

I've been posting my chapters of the Mumbai Tales over at my writing list, ERWA. One of the questions I asked when I posted The Clinic chapter for critique was, it you're a die-hard hetero male, does the eroticism that is going on between Daniel and Stefan squick you?

A very kind member of the list, a man who is a far better writer than I am, and whose critiques I greatly appreciate, said: "Do you want it to squick me out? Was that your aim? Who is your target audience?"

It was a fair response to my question. I didn't set out to squick hetero males, but I know that my instincts about where the line is for hetero men is are not good. I've never spent much time around men who weren't either bisexual or gay. The straight men who I have known intimately might not have wanted a gay experience in reality, but they were (I have come to realize) incredibly tolerant of explicit gay sexuality. If it didn't turn them on, it certainly didn't squick them. When I was younger, I didn't realize that the straight men I was dating were not exactly mainstream.

But I digress... I don't like to say I'm writing for women, or men, gay or bi or straight - I like to hope I'm writing for people who can separate fiction from reality. I assume I'm writing for adults who may have very definite sexual orientations in reality, but possess a certain adventurous spirit when they read fiction. I don't assume that every sexual situation I write about is going to turn every reader on - because what is erotic is so very personal - but I'm hoping the story will be compelling enough to keep them reading, and that the erotic scenes aren't going to push them out of the story altogether.

But am I wrong?

I'd really like to hear your opinions on this.

How does your tolerance for certain types of sexuality in the real world differ from your tolerance of the 'unusual for you' in fiction?

Will you allow yourself to be turned on by something in fiction that, in reality you wouldn't ever participate in?

Tales of the Mumbai Coven

2009-05-13T07:28:00.000+07:00

The Tales were getting unwieldy as separate stories, so I decided to post them in a single sub-site. As the Tales grow, this will also allow you to choose the way you experience the story - either by chapter or following the strands of the characters - in a non-linear way.

I plan to do the same thing with both The Splinter and Gaijin, although in those cases, the stories are designed to be read in a linear fashion.

The Trial and Conviction of Fray Daniel Ortiz de Velez

2009-05-09T13:58:00.002+07:00

This is another chapter in the Tales of the Mumbai Coven.

Toledo, 1578

It was bitter cold in the great hall. The woman standing before the panel of calificadores shivered constantly, dressed as she was in nothing but a plain linen shift and a woolen shawl, which she clutched to her chest convulsively.

As Fray Daniel rose from his seat, he was aware that even his garments marked him as an outsider. The inquisitional panel was made up of Dominicans, richly robed in the deep formal red of their order. He, in contrast, wore his plain black vestments, proclaiming his order’s defiant rejection of worldly luxuries. But just at that moment, he wished that his order had been a little more pragmatic. His wool cassock was no match for the freezing damp of the Archbishop’s palace. As fiscal, he would formally interrogate the woman to make her guilt clear to the inquisitors.

Continue reading : The Trial and Conviction of Fray Daniel Ortiz de Velez

Inspired

2009-05-09T07:46:00.003+07:00

I don't get to wander around the web as much as I'd like. It's a shame because I get a lot of inspiration from getting that little peak into the minds of others, reading their blog posts.

But rarely to I come across something that truly takes my breath away, echoes past the post, the blog, the hour to follow me around while I'm doing other stuff.

I ran across a blog post at Blood, Sex, Crimson. D'jaevle posted this a few days ago and it's been haunting me since:

There’s a problem with inspiration; it always comes at a cost, an attachment.

It's not often I stumble across something quite this profound or that resonates so strongly. Something I'd never thought about that way before.

Some of you who read me regularly know I have a habit of going dark here for a month or two, and then suddenly I'm back and posting like a lunatic. That's because D'jaevle is right, damn it! Inspiration DOES cost. And for me the attachment is often very painful.

I'm stuck in Mumbai Coven hell at the moment.

Why hell?

First, I'm a tad embarrassed about writing vampire stories. What with Anne Rice, Laurel K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, and then the whole Twilight thing (and there's a brilliant and very critical review on Salon.com about that particular series), it's not as if there is much scope for new direction.

But when I spent time re-working Midnight at Sheremetyevo for D.L. King's Anthology "The Sweetest Kiss" (it was quite a radical rewrite that shifts the center of the story's gravity from Moscow to Mumbai), it left me with a lot of inspiration and a lot of attachment.

And so that is how the Mumbai Coven Tales started - growing out of that one re-write, characters got in my face and started screaming for my attention, like little imps demanding to be let out of the box that is my brain.

So here I am, along for the ride, so it seems. I hope I'm bringing some depth to the genre. I hope to God I'm using the concept of vampires as a way to think about time, memory, morality, and attachment. I want it to be about fatalism vs self-determination. I want to touch on how hegemonies (both the external and the internal ones) make monsters of all of us, if we let them. I want to explore the premise that our instincts and our cultural values drive us with equal intensity.

I also want to take this opportunity to apologize. I know the way I'm crafting this strange story is bewildering to a reader, like you're being tossed in a time machine. This is not a linear story.

But, I'm hoping you will come along for the ride.

The Clinic - Aftermath : A tale of the Mumbai Coven

2009-05-08T01:55:00.003+07:00

The return trips always seem so much longer. With the blood singing in my veins, it was like carrying a primed fuse in my chest. Once the first thick, hot stream of blood registered in my system, the second hunger rose up, as it always did, eclipsing the first.

This is a continuation of the last Mumbai Tale I posted. Not at all violent, so the fainthearted among you need have no fear. But it's a little on the m/f/m side. I do hope you enjoy it.

Continue reading The Clinic : Aftermath

Loving Yourself

2009-05-06T07:36:00.003+07:00

The celebrated and infamous Mr. M. Christian has written a very interesting guest post over at Oh Get A Grip.

He talks about the fact that he feels his depression has made it impossible for him to love himself.

It's very popular to "love yourself" these days. People are always telling you to do it. Self-help writers and lifestyle magazines have made fortunes offering step-by-step guides on how to do it. In fact, being self-doubting, critical and insecure has become almost as socially unacceptable as being fat or a smoker. If you don't love yourself, and show it publicly, there must be something terribly wrong with you. Consequently, I notice all sorts of people rushing around desperately, loving themselves desperately, at volume.

I find it incredibly unattractive - partly because I suspect all that public display of self-love is either an act of veneer-thin self-delusion, or proof of a terribly low IQ. And partly because I think people who are too busy loving themselves are doing an excellent job of putting off any honest or authentic act of self-examination.

I love self-doubting, insecure people. I find them real and vulnerable and sexy as hell. I find the myriad ways they go about trying to present themselves to the world, despite their grave doubts about their own lovableness, truly erotic.

I think learning to love yourself is one of those life-journey projects. And when, after much critical insight, you really have succeeded, it's probably time to die.

The Clinic : A Tale of the Mumbai Coven.

2009-05-04T11:06:00.004+07:00

I'm not certain what this is becoming. More than a simple series, I know, but I'm going hold back on calling it anything and just say these are a group of connected tales.

This one, The Clinic, takes up where Punishment and Reward leaves off, but there is a hint of Marta's origin, and this ties in with The Death and Birth of Calum McNeill.

This fourth story doesn't have any straight-up sex in it, but a whole lot of innuendo. And - PLEASE NOTE - it's a tad violent. Well, they're vampires. What do you expect.

Please read : The Clinic : A Tale of the Mumbai Coven.

The Death and Life of Calum McNeill: A tale from the Mumbai Coven

2009-05-02T06:30:00.004+07:00

This is from the next chapter (?) of my work on the Mumbai Vampire Coven. I am told that the very first story is available if you go and use the Wayback machine. The second is on the menu on the left.

It is unconnected with the earlier story, but introduces characters who will become intertwined at a later time. It takes place during the 19th Century and partly deals with on of the incidents during the Sepoy Mutinee.

The first part of the story is hard to read and it's supposed to be because the dialogue is in Doric. It helps if you read the dialogue out loud.

So, for your reading pleasure:
The Death and Life of Calum McNeill: A Tale from the Mumbai Coven

Beautiful Losers - Chapter 16 - temp posting

2009-05-01T19:48:00.000+07:00

For a long time, Jean said nothing. Feeling chilled, I grabbed the edge of the quilt and pulled it over me. Had I said something wrong - really wrong? Examining Jean's face, all I could see was a mask of impassivity doing a good job of keeping me out.

"That's not your business, Shira," he said quietly, but with finality. The tone had that high, light quality that hid a sharp viciousness beneath it.

My stomach flipped over, I caught my breath. Instantly, I felt tears prick at my eyes, and the burnt anger of being shoved away. I would have done anything, paid anything to have been clothed at that moment. My nakedness made me feel so vulnerable. I didn't want to say the wrong thing, or lash out at Jean in anger, or embarrassment, or humiliation and I knew if I didn't move, I would.

"I love you, Jean. But I've got to go."

Climbing out of bed with all the dignity I could manage, I picked up my clothes and put them on in silence. The only thing I couldn't find were my panties. I wasn't going to go crawling under the bed for the fucking things, because I couldn't keep my cool that long.

Starting down the stairs, I could hear their raised voices, not what they were saying, but the tension in them. Jean's voice was louder, but by the time I reached the landing, Sebastian had opened the door. "How the fuck did you expect her to react?"

There's a lot to be said for Doc Martin's, but lacing them up is a bitch and takes time. Even unlacing them enough to get your feet back into them takes forever. Sitting on the sofa with my hands shaking, I was just trying to get them on as quick as I could.

"You're not leaving!" called Sebastian running down the stairs. He had changed into his usual pair of cotton jogging pants, but he had nothing else on. He got to the bottom of the stairs and stood there with his arms folded across his chest. "You're not going anywhere."

"I am, actually. You guys have things to sort out." I finished lacing my boots up halfway. That was enough; they'd stay on. Just breathe - slowly, and deeply - I told myself. "And you need to sort them out in private."

That evening, in the back of the taxi on the way to Jean's apartment, I had thought: this is going to fuck up our friendship royally. I was so desperately angry with myself for not having listened.

As I made for the hall, Sebastian whipped out one hand and caught my arm. "Shira? Come on. He didn't mean it. He said it came out wrong."

I reared around and glared at Sebastian. "I'm trying very hard to keep my feelings to myself. Understand?"

"Let's just sit down and..."

"Get your fucking hand off me, now. NOW!" I barked.

Sebastian flinched and released his grip. I reached the hallstand and grabbed my jacket and pulled it on. It was no later than seven, I guessed. I could walk down to the cross street and catch a bus. I would have preferred a cab, but I couldn't bear the idea of having to wait for one.

As I pulled the front door open, the cold air hit my face. I hesitated, feeling sick about my outburst. He wasn't the target of my anger; I was pissed with myself. "I'm sorry, Sebastian. I don't mean to be a bitch. I didn't mean to shout at you that way. But I'm hanging by a thread right now."

"I know," he said, keeping his distance.

Stepping out onto the doorstep the thread broke. I tried to breathe in the cold air, but it I had a thousand pounds on my chest. What the fuck had I done here? And why, for god's sake? Why had I done it?

By the time I got to the bottom step, the cold night came rushing into my lungs and I clenched my jaw and keened. The tears were flooding down my face, almost blinding me. The lights from the streetlamps splayed and fractured angles. I only had to get out onto the street. That's all. Then I could find a hedge somewhere and have a good cry, get it over with, and go home.

"Shira, wait!" yelled Sebastian. "Let me get something on my feet. I'll walk you."

I heard him swearing, but I didn't - couldn't - look back, because the gate was near and, once I was out it, the world would go back to normal. I wouldn't be the person I was in there. The clock would turn back and it would be like none of this had happened.

The gate creaked as I swung it open and turned onto the sidewalk. Now, with the hedge for protection, I began to sob. It was as if the whole of existence might be measured in those long paving stones. I just reached one, then another, then another, not caring now that I was weeping or making noise about it. Some people can cry quietly, but not me.

That's why I heard nothing until Sebastian tackled me. He grabbed me from behind, his arms wrapping around me. "Shira, stop."

I screeched and fought the embrace. "Let me fucking go! You asshole," I sobbed. "Please, please, please! Just leave me alone!"

He lifted me off my feet, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like cats do to running mice in cartoons. They hold them there suspended, while their little feet go all blurry.

"I knew this would happen. I knew we would hurt each other. Oh, god! I knew it!" I cried, choking on the sobs.

A middle-aged woman, walking something that looked like a furry rat, stopped at the far edge of a circle of streetlight. "Are you alright? Miss?" she said uncertainly. "Is this young man bothering you?"

I blinked and sniffed. To my disgust, I heard Sebastian giggle. "Um... no." I took a staggered breath. "We're... I'm okay, thanks."

"Are you sure, dear?" She narrowed her eyes, looking behind me at Sebastian with deep suspicion. "Young man, you put that young woman down at once! And where are your shoes?"

I looked down. My feet were still inches off the ground, my hands in mid-claw against Sebastian's forearms. His feet were bare. He lowered me to the ground and let go of me. I felt him against my back holding in his giggles. He let his forehead rest in my hair as he snickered.

"We're fine. Promise," I offered, wiping my face with my hand. "Just, you know..."

The woman made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Come on Freddie," she said in a singsong voice and walked past us with her rat-dog. As she gained some distance, I heard her talking to her pet. "Lover's quarrels, Freddie. Thank God we're past all that crap."

Sebastian spun me around, his hands firmly on my shoulders: he was still trying not to laugh. "You almost got me arrested for assault!"

Suddenly none of it was funny. Laughter doesn't always make things better. "That night after dinner, I knew," I said. "I knew it would change everything."

His hand cupped my cheek. It was cold. He ran a thumb through the wetness. "You were right then, everything did change. And now we're all just going to have to figure out how to live with the change."

"Maybe, if I just stayed away for a while, things would calm down and go back to normal."

He was wearing nothing under the leather jacket; he must have been freezing. "No it wouldn't. It's never going to go back to normal, Shira." Taking me into his arms, pulling me against his chest, I was acutely aware that I didn't want to step on his bare feet.

"Come back and talk to Jean, Shira. He's in fucking hysterics and I doubt that tying him up and calling him a whore is going to help this time. He's so ashamed. And if you just walk out, he's never going to forgive himself."

"Okay," I muttered into his chest. His skin smelled of sweat, and Jean, and perhaps me, as well. I gave a hiccupy sob. "Okay."

As we walked back to his house, hand in hand, I asked, "Aren't your feet freezing?"

"Honestly? They've gone numb. Feels like I'm walking on stumps."

* * *

Jean was sitting halfway up the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands folded together. As we walked in he began to cry. I climbed to the stair he was on and sat down beside him. Not sure of exactly what to say, I just leaned my head on his shoulder and waited.

Sebastian stayed at the bottom of the stairs, arms on the railing, watching. For all his games - the slapping and the pinching and the hot things on skin - he wasn't all that comfortable with the real thing. Not that he was a coward: he kept the vigil; he didn't harrumph and walk off like a lot of men I have known; he didn't pretend like it wasn't happening. But he kept his distance, as if this sort of pain was something he knew pretty intimately, and didn't like.

When the crying waned, I said, "Let's go have some tea." It was inane, I know. But my mother's English and, in my family, tea was what you did after a good cry.

Jean nodded. When he stood up and I caught a glimpse of his face. I thought he looked a lot like me when he'd walked in on us in Sebastian's bedroom less than an hour before. Well, he wasn't naked, or riding someone's cock, or...other stuff. But his face was red and tear-streaked. I didn't mention it though; it would have done nothing for his dignity.

We sat at the counter and Sebastian made us blueberry tea because, he said, it was more effective than plain tea - alcohol being a key ingredient.

After holding the warm cup in his hands for a while, Jean took a sip, and then another. "I'm so disgusted with myself. I can't believe I said that to you. I'm so sorry."

It looked like he was going to start crying again, and that would probably kick me off again as well, so I clumsily prodded his hand. "Drink some more tea."

He nodded, looking down into the cup, and took another sip.

"Maybe you were right, Jean. Maybe it isn't any of my business."

"That's not fair, Shira. People are either in or they're out. It is your business, as much as it is anyone's." He glanced at me, then at Sebastian.

"Well, actually, it's probably all my fault anyway. I shouldn't have been talking about it behind your back," he said to Jean.

"No...no! This is stupid. People talk about the people they love - that's normal. They talk about their feelings. I know it sounds hippy-trippy, but it's true. It's human. Can we just, for a moment, stop pretending we're all so bored and jaded and act like humans? At least with each other?"

Both Jean and Sebastian raised the same eyebrow at the very same moment; it was a tad creepy. I pondered on the prickliness of all these competing sensibilities for a bit.

Eyeing Sebastian, I said, "Can you give us a little time in private?"

He shrugged, but slid off the stool. "I want you both to note that I'm leaving my own kitchen. Really - take note! This is me," he said, edging out the doorway, "leaving my own fucking kitchen."

When he was gone, I put my hand on top of Jean's and stroked it. "I know the remark upset you. I certainly didn't have any business being casual about it. It's not casual to you. I get that."

"No, it's not," Jean muttered into his teacup.

"Okay, but I really need to know. I need to know because - look at me, please. I'm not in the cup."

He looked up, eyes red.

"I love you. Do you love me? I mean, in whatever way you can?"

Jean frowned; his beautifully plucked brows drew together. "You know I do. Shira, you *know* I do. More than anyone else in the world."

That surprised me, but I went on. "Then I really want to know - because Sebastian fucking adores you, Jean - why won't you let him?"

A little huff emerged from his throat, and his eyes slid away from mine. "Well, for one thing, honey, he's hung like a horse. I do *not* want that monster up my ass."

I took hold of Jean's chin and made him look at me. "Bullshit, Jean. Don't go all clubby and camp on me. He's not *that* big. Bodies accommodate. I love you dearly, so please don't just brush this off with a lie."

He looked back down into his cup again and nodded. "Does it really matter, Shira? He's got you now, if he absolutely must have a hole to stick his dick in. What does it matter?"

Repeating his answer in my head didn't help. The subtext of it was grotesque. "Are you jealous, Jean? I so hope you are, because the alternative explanation for what you just said is...sick. Just sick."

His jaw set, he tilted his head back and looked me straight in the eye. "I'm not jealous, Shira."

The worst of it was, I believed him. I drew in a breath and put my hand up to my mouth. "So," I whispered, picking my words carefully. "I'm your...proxy?"

Jean's words, when they came, erupted in a flood. "I can't, Shira. I just can't let him. I can't let anyone. Oh, God! You can't understand how much it frightens me. How sick it makes me feel inside. No one is going there. No one is going to take me like that, use me like that. Never, never again!"

"Never...Again?"

"Never...again." Jean looked into my eyes. "Never again."

"When?" I whispered.

"When I was - oh, I don't remember - twelve, maybe?"

I gasped. "Oh, my GOD. Jean. God, why didn't you tell me? Why haven't you told him?"

Face crumbling, Jean shook his head. "I don't want to be damaged. I don't want you or him to see me as some fucking broken thing."

I reached out to touch him, hesitated - thinking of just how much someone's touch had betrayed him - and then swore at myself. Slipping off my stool, I came around to Jean and held him tight. "You're not broken," I whispered. You're the most beautiful, wonderful person in the world. "How could you be broken?"

His arms crept around my back and he buried his face in my neck and cried. Rocking him, rubbing his back, I let him.

When he went quiet, I pulled back and kissed his wet cheek. "Jean, you have to tell him. If you love him, you have to. Sebastian thinks it's him, and that's not fair."

Jean sighed and, looking up at the ceiling, brushed the tears from under his eyes. "Oh, god. And what if I do? We're right back in the same old place. Except that now you'll leave, and he'll have no one to fuck."

I shook my head. "I don't think it's an either or thing with him, Jean. I don't think he's fucking me because he can't fuck you. He's messed up in his own way, but not that way."

"Do you know where I met Sebastian? Did I ever tell you?"

"No."

"He was fucking a total stranger in the toilets down at the beach."

It wasn't possible not to giggle. "That sounds about right. And? What's your point?"

"That's Sebastian. He's never going to change. If he can't get what he wants one place, he'll find it somewhere else."

I shrugged. "I don't think that's true anymore."

"Why?"

"Because he's not there now."

"That's only because you're with us."

It wasn't a completely unfathomable possibility, but the more I thought about it, the more I doubted it was true. I bit my lip and considered the alternative. "I think you're wrong. I don't think fucking boys up the ass is really what gets Sebastian off. If it did, then I wouldn't work as a proxy, would I? Come on Jean. It's not the same thing, and you know it!"

Jean looked away, thinking. "Then what is it?"

"I think it's trust. He gets off on trust. Think about it. Think about all the ways he puts us into positions that are designed to prove we trust him. He wants to be trusted. He equates it with being loved. Why else all the bondage, all the games, all the power crap he pulls?"

It was clear from Jean's expression that he thought I might be right.

I took a big breath. "Look, I don't think he really cares much about your ass, Jean. I think he wants to know you trust him enough to let him have it."

"So where does that leave us?"

"Well, for a start. You need to tell him why it's so difficult for you. You need to tell him what happened."

"And then?"

"And then... you need to break the hold on whoever the motherfucker was who did this to you, and give Sebastian your trust."

"And my ass."

"Well..." I nodded. "Yes."

Jean kissed me. "Thank you, Shira. You're right. I do, at least, have to tell him."

I smiled and smeared my hand across his face, through he's fucked up make-up. His mascara was all over it and mine couldn't have looked any better. "I so love you, you know that?"

Smirking, Jean stroked his fingers through my hair. "So will you let me have your ass?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Jean. Do you even really want it? It's only an ass. I'll admit I'm a little squeamish but, sure, I can get over that. If you really want it, it's yours."

Okay, it's time for one of my totally non-erotic rants

2009-04-27T19:15:00.002+07:00

For those of you who only come here to read the erotica, just skip this and go to the stories area.

As much as I say I have sewn my life into little compartments and that here I am Remittance Girl, the writer of salacious things, if you've been reading me for a while, you know that isn't quite true. So here is one of those posts where I stray into the political. Apologies in advance.

With the election of Obama, and the release of many documents detailing the mistreatment of prisoners under the Bush administration, I've been living with a kind of simmering, baseline anger. Of course, being strangely fascinated with the legal, and with international affairs, etc., very little of what was revealed in the latest raft of "torture memos" was new to me. I doubt very much it was new to you either because, if you read my stories and like them, it means you have a pretty well-developed imagination and it only takes a little of that to know that if you sanction harsh interrogation techniques for a few people, it's just going to get around and grow like topsy.

Recently I read an irate Democrat say that "Republicans hate America." I found this pretty shocking. Not because a small minority of Republicans have been leveling that accusation at Democrats for a while now, but because I somehow expected more of Democrats.

What is clear is that, for some time now, Republicans and Democrats have had a different view of what America is and should be and the gulf between those divergences has been growing steadily.

Now, I have to own up here to being rather MORE left of center than most American Democrats. Really, I have extremely socialist views. But I have also spent the last five years tearing my soul apart to understand a conservative, Republican point of view because, well, for the longest time I just couldn't mentally get there at all. I have tried to spend the last while honing my objectivity. I wanted to understand - I really did. I figure I have gotten about half way there. I really do think I understand people like Colin Powell and Andrew Bacevich. And, even surprisingly to me, I have grown to have a very deep respect for a lot of people in the military who identify themselves as conservative and Republican.

But when I get to the likes of Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Douglas Feith, David Addington, John Yoo, Paul Wolfowitz, etc... I honestly cannot, CANNOT, get there.

I'll be honest, it frustrated me. I have a pretty flexible mind and I was disappointed with myself that I just could not see the logic of their world view.

The rise of liberal relativism has genuinely frightened a lot of people with conservative viewpoints. Not just in America, but in the Middle East as well. In fact, the rise of radical Islam has its inception in the same fears that haunt and anger conservatives.

To live comfortably in a Liberal relativistic society, you need to be happy living on a floating point. And this has never been a problem for me. Perhaps because I never had much attachment to where I was born, or the family I was born into, because I was never brought up to look for my bearings on the outside. Perhaps I was born with an internal gyroscope.

A lot of the conservatives I have met and come to like and admire have keyed their bearings in their surroundings: the law, faith, tradition, family, geographic and racial roots. And to have that paradigm threatened or told it is unimportant must be terrifying - horrible. These are the things that you were taught defined you - and now they don't matter?

I don't feel that way but I get it. I really do. I understand the tightening in, the straightening up, the building the castle walls to keep out the chaotic hoards. The yearning for simplicity of good and bad and right and wrong. I really do get it - not emotionally, but intellectually.

Then came the Bush administration. And these conservatives were different. Power was everything and there were no means that did not justify the ends if the ends meant more power. The Bush administration transgressed many, many conservative rules. The did VERY dishonourable things. They lied to the American public over and over: about Iraq and its ties to Al Qaida, about its weapons of mass destruction. They ruined people - very conservative people - who knew the truth and tried to voice it. They watched many, many American servicemen and women die to pay for their imperial aspirations. They did not keep their promises: they never brought Osama Bin Laden to justice. Instead they tortured his low-level minions into admitting to plots between Al Qaida and Iraq that had never, never existed. Saddam Hussein was terrified of Jihadists and Islamic fundamentalists - he had a bloody and disastrous war of attrition with Iran to keep them out of his face. But it gave them the 'intel' they needed to sell a the American people and the world on a war they had planned to start many years before 9/11.

They circumvented congressional powers (both sides of the aisle), they ignored the rulings of a relatively conservative Supreme Court. They proclaimed a neverending "War on Terror" so that the presidency-in-wartime would enjoy unlimited and unconstrained power - in perpetuity.

They used the excuse of national security to invade the privacy of their own citizens. Using the Patriot Act to do far more than simply safeguard the borders of their country. They also used the same excuse to break treaties that America had not only signed and ratified, but had helped write. They threw away the Third Geneva Convention, the laws of war, the Uniform Code of Military Conduct and the Convention Against Torture.

They did it, they say, out of necessity. In order to protect the nation. And good god, I wish I could believe them. They say they needed to do it because the people they had captured had been trained to withstand normal interrogation methods. But it turns out they were reverse-engineering the SERE Program and investigating their 'enhanced interrogation techniques' months before the first Al Qaida suspect was caught.

And they were arrogant. Arrogant in the same way the Nazis were arrogant. They wrote each other memos, and lists, and jaunty quips on the bottom of a schedule of cruel, inhuman and degrading treatment that clearly, clearly would offend the sensibilities of any court. Only the most arrogant of tyrants actually document their crimes.

When a soldier decides to torture on the side of the battlefield, to save his fellow soldiers, to end the fighting, to stop the war, he takes the responsibility for his transgressions in his own hands. He knows that perhaps he will be charged and he hopes he can present the mitigating circumstances that lead to his decision to do it. But these men....they pardoned themselves ahead of time.

So when a poor woman on the net despairs and says that "Republicans hate America", I have to respond to her.

I have to say that to call the Bush Presidency Republican is to do all Republicans a huge insult. These people weren't Republicans, they were Fascists.

Okay, rant over. Back to the smut...I promise.

The Antidote by Lisabet Sarai

2009-04-24T07:23:00.001+07:00

Might I tempt you over to Lisabet Sarai's site to a deliciously wicked short story called the Antidote...

I love the mix between futurism and erotica. Read it here!

Punishment and Reward: A Mumbai Coven Tale

2009-04-18T13:39:00.003+07:00

It's been a long time and I'd like to thank Daemon for somehow miraculously finding the right thing to say to kick me into gear.

This story is a continuation of "Midnight at Sheremetyevo". For those of you who have been reading me for a while, no explanation is needed. For new readers, here's a synopsis:

Marta, a vampire from a coven in Mumbai has traveled to Europe. Returning through Moscow, she seduces and turns a young Scandinavian traveler named Stefan. Upon her arrival in Mumbai, Stefan in tow, she is sent for a month in the "hole" as punishment for breaking Daniel's (the coven-leader) rules.

You should be able to read the crux of the earlier story through this one and hopefully, it stands on its own - the past story events are laced through this one. Please let me know if you don't think it does.

READ: Punishment and Reward: A Mumbai Coven Tale

Meanderings

2009-04-15T20:55:00.002+07:00

Yes, I know, I still haven't written anything worth posting, but I can't force it and I can't make it happen when it doesn't want to come.

So instead, I thought I'd point you to one of my favourite stories on the web, by Mike Kimera, who seems to have gone into hibernation for a while. We can only hope he'll wake up soon, now that spring is near.

Fucking Ugly, by Mike Kimera

The Final Story - Sex in the Library

2009-04-12T09:13:00.002+07:00

For those of you who have just arrived at the site, we have a lovely collection of reader / writer stories up at a minisite called "Sex in the Library".

For returning readers, I would like to invite you to the newest addition to this collection - a wonderfully wicked little tale by G*Spot called "Library Science".

I do hope you take the time to read them and comment. It's very encouraging for writers to get feedback.

Silly, but not really

2009-04-08T07:25:00.002+07:00

The NYT today has an article on the giants of the US fashion industry bemoaning Michelle Obama's refusal to wear their clothes.

Last week, Oh Get A Grip bloggers explored the question of women and weight.

This got me thinking about the semiotics of Michelle Obama's wardrobe. That woman NEVER wears anything to hide those glorious hips of hers. In fact, the inauguration dress, with its bright red sprays at breast and hip area screamed Venus of Willendorf. It speaks of fertility, generosity, femaleness: of wide hips that aren't going to require a cesarean section come delivery time, of human warmth and comfort to cuddle up to. No wonder so many people want to hug her.

I think that perhaps the days of trying our best to look like adolescent boys may be over. Perhaps we are ushering in the era of "have hips and brain"? For all the rantings of the feminist theorists, it may have taken 30 years to get the point where we actually DO believe that childbearing and intelligence finally have a semiotic correlation.

Reading Miss Wade against the Grain

2009-04-03T21:59:00.003+07:00

Those of you who listen to me twitter will know that I have been mulling something over for a couple of weeks. I had the pleasure to watch the BBC series of Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens. I've never liked Dickens. I find his is authorial, diegetic style hard to read, but after finishing the series, I was compelled back to the original text, which is available on Gutenberg or as an audio book by Librivox - not fully complete, but almost all done. You can listen to the vast bulk of it here.

Like most of Dickens' novels, Little Dorrit's antagonists are far more entertaining and compelling than the saintly, self-sacrificing and thoroughly unbelievable protagonist, Amy Dorrit. One of the minor antagonists, Miss Wade, currently has me spellbound. The BBC's treatment of the novel casts Miss Wade as a subltly vampiric but ultimately well-meaning lesbian. Dickens was not as kind to her but he does, to his credit, write her as one of the most intellectually compelling female characters he produced. He gives her her own voice in a single chapter: "A History of a Self-tormentor".

"I have the misfortune of not being a fool. From a very early age I have detected what those about me thought they hid from me. If I could have been habitually imposed upon, instead of habitually discerning the truth, I might have lived as smoothly as most fools do."

I've tried to read Miss Wade against the grain - searching past Dickens' portrayal of this eccentric woman who defies the norms of her society to live alone, poor and beholden to no one - rejecting any offer of charity, pity or cold comfort. She staunchly refuses to be grateful; she sees beneath the need for it a participation in the cycle of smug patronization by her 'betters'. In the story, she tempts the orphan/maid Tattycoram away from her benevolent benefactors:

"I found a girl, in various circumstances of whose position there was a singular likeness to my own, and in whose character I was interested and pleased to see much of the rising against swollen patronage and selfishness, calling themselves kindness, protection, benevolence, and other fine names, which I have described as inherent in my nature. I often heard it said, too, that she had 'an unhappy temper.' Well understanding what was meant by the convenient phrase, and wanting a companion with a knowledge of what I knew, I thought I would try to release the girl from her bondage and sense of injustice. "

Dickens leaves Miss Wade in darkness at the end of Little Dorrit, in the shuttered rooms of her meager Calais domicile, alone and unloved. I've been thinking that she deserves resurrection. I'm thinking that BDSM might come very naturally to a character as perceptive, as dark, as smart, and as armoured as Miss Wade.

Don't you?

Sex In The Library Update

2009-04-03T17:58:00.004+07:00

Just a reminder that we have a number of yummy short stories from our readers in the Sex in the Library collection and a new story, The Compton Library Tryst by Autonoe, has been added to the collection.

I'm Banned in Australia (or almost)

2009-03-19T14:08:00.002+07:00

According to Wikileaks.org, I appear on a secret list of sites proposed to be banned in Australia (http://www.wikileaks.org/wiki/Australian_government_secret_ACMA_internet_censorship_blacklist%2C_6_Aug_2008)

According to Sydney associate professor Bjorn Landfeldt it seems that my fiction belongs in a list of material that "constitutes a condensed encyclopedia of depravity and potentially very dangerous material".

Depravity and dangerous material. Oh, hallooooo hallay!!!!!

I have somehow reached the lofty levels of some of the authors I have most admired all my life - Nabokov, Miller, Nin, Lawrence... I'm the creator of depraved and potentially very dangerous fiction!

Please celebrate with me!

I have *****arrived*****

Thank-you, Darren & Helen for making my day.

On the Not So Erotic Side

2009-03-16T15:15:00.005+07:00

For those of you who read me regularly, it won't come as a surprise that I sometimes veer off the topic of things erotic and into the public sphere. I have a particular interest in International Law and especially in the Geneva Convention and violations of it. On this topic, I would like to encourage you to read Mark Danner's article in the NY Review of Books site. Somehow, Mr. Danner got a look at the "ICRC Report on the Treatment of Fourteen "High Value Detainees" in CIA Custody" and his ideas and conclusions flow from this.

The International Red Cross conducts confidential interviews with prisoners held in detention in any country that will allow them access. They produce a confidential report that gets sent to the most senior authority responsible for the detention. In the case of the US, it would go to the head of the D.O.D. or head of the CIA, depending on who was doing the holding. It is with the understanding that these interviews and the reports that result from them are kept confidential that countries allow the IRC to do this. It ensures that senior people know what is going on in their own detention facilities.

The report that Mark Danner is basing his article on is clearly a leaked report of this kind. In a way, it is disturbing that it was leaked and this interrupts the flow of info between the IRC and countries with prisoners. On the other hand, the source of his material is what makes the article so chilling and compelling.

Worth a read, in my view: Voices from the Black Sites

Announcing the Sex in the Library Shelfful of Smutty Goodness

2009-03-15T14:54:00.003+07:00

It's my pleasure to announce the launch of the Sex in the Library collection of readers and writers stories. All the stories are set in either a library or a bookstore, and have at least one real book in the story.

Thanks you to all those who participated. And I hope the rest of you enjoy reading these great pieces.

Sex in the Library

2009-03-02T07:26:00.002+07:00

I've had a great response to the Sex in the Library challenge. 12 writers took the challenge: one got the flu and has asked for a little more time.

Some people were under the impression that this was edited or moderated in some way. NO WAY! Everything that is submitted gets included, as long as it falls within the guidelines.

You can expect an announcement about the mini-site being up in the next few days. I've almost finished coding it.

Huggles to all who gave it a go! As I said before, should you wish me to take your story down, just drop me an email.

RG

Murakami's Speech: Eggs against the Wall

2009-02-28T22:13:00.003+07:00

J.T. Benjamin was kind enough to link the Salon.com's reproduction of Haruki Murakami's award acceptance speech in Jerusalem last week.

Firstly, for anyone who wishes they were, thinks they are, or wants to be a writer, this is a very, very important piece of writing. For me, it touches on two issues that are central to being a writer: truth and kicking against the pricks.

Calling himself a spinner of lies in order to grasp the truth by the tail, he says:

"In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us."

Later in the speech, he addresses a writer's obligation to be the outsider, the trouble-maker, the revolutionary.

"Please do allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:

"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."

Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?"

It's a brilliant speech. Worth reading, even out of context. And brilliant advice for any writer.

Bruno Schulz : erotic imagery

2009-02-28T21:15:00.008+07:00

Wandering around the NY Times site, I stumbled over the strange story of Bruno Schulz. I'd never heard of him before. There's an exhibit currently on at Yad Vashem of some children's murals painted by this Polish writer and artist during the war. Apparently Schulz, a Polish Jew, was forced to decorate a Nazi officer's children's nursery. Although the Nazi in question was cruel, he basically saved this guy's life by keeping him employed until another Nazi officer shot him dead, in retaliation for the first officer having killed the second officer's Jewish dentist. "You killed my Jew, so I killed yours," is what he purportedly said.

So I looked up Bruno Schulz on the net. He did quite a bit more than paint children's illustrations. For a start, he had quite a FemDom and Foot fetish. For another, he was a brilliant, brillant writer.

You can see some of his work and read some of his stories at The Art of Bruno Schulz.

There is an online translation of a number of his writings, including a strangely erotic story called August, in The Cinnamon Shops. In fact, although his writing only hints at sex, it is some of the most erotic writing I have ever read:

We browsed, stupefied by the light, through that great book of the holiday, in which every page was ablaze with splendour and had, deep inside, a sweetly dripping pulp of golden pears.
Bruno Schulz, August

For an interesting Freudian analysis of August, read "Bruno Schulz and Psychoanalysis: The Images of Women in August" by Pawel Dybel