Big Dicks

All right, I’ll do it. I’ll be the first to address the obvious innuendo in this fortnight’s topic — “Short and Long”. And I’m going to make a statement that some might find controversial. Ready?

When it comes to dicks, bigger is NOT always better.

I’m far from being the most experienced gay, but I’ve had my share of dicks in me. The smallest was maybe an inch and a half and very slender, and the largest was ten inches (yes, I measured) and very thick.

What I’ve found through all of these experiences is that size really has little — perhaps even nothing — to do with how enjoyable sex is.  There is, perhaps, a minimum length needed for penetration to be enjoyable, but if I have a deep connection with that partner and we’re both willing to be experimental and have some fun, there are lots of ways to make sex exceptional, even with a shortage of inches.

If someone is too long, then they can go too deep. Yes, there’s a thing as going too deep. If it goes too deep, it can be uncomfortable, perhaps even painful, depending on how fast he’s thrusting or where he’s hitting.

Mr. Ten Inches was a good sexual partner. He tried to be in tune with my body and reacted to the sounds I let out or the faces I made — so if he was in too deep and it was hurting, he would change positions or ease out a bit. He tried to make my pleasure a focus of our activity. I had another long guy a few years back, maybe eight or nine inches — he wasn’t long enough to hit me in the wrong places, like Mr. Ten Inches could sometimes do — but he was a bad sexual partner. I was too entranced by his perfect body to realize that he was just bad at sex. His focus was entirely on himself and his own pleasure.

My most enjoyable sexual partners — and the most effective at pleasuring me — have been those with average sized dicks, or even those on the smaller side. Perhaps it’s because these men aren’t overconfident in their length and girth being the determining factor in how good they are as a lover… and so they take the time to exercise technique, experiment with new positions, perhaps introduce some toys or props, and emphasize the connection between us over the base carnality of the act.

Big dicks are certainly nice to look at. If I’m watching porn, I usually prefer bigger dicks (although that’s certainly not the determining factor in what I choose to watch). And I’m sure we’ll get no argument here that porn has affected what people view as a “normal” dick size, leaving many men feeling inadequate. In gay culture, there’s certainly an emphasis on size, that bigger is ALWAYS better. However, most bottoms (gay slang for the receiving partner) I know will admit that there’s a limit to how big they like a guy to be.

Being an author of erotica and erotic fiction, I’m technically part of the “sex entertainment” industry. Sometimes I will include larger-than-life dicks, if it suits the mood I’m building in the story. For the most part, though, I aim for average to slightly-larger-than-average lengths, in order to make it more realistic and immediate. I know that for me as a reader, finding out a character has a twelve-inch dick can take me out of the story just as much as a plot hole or a POV violation — because it makes me cringe at the thought of taking twelve inches and knowing it likely wouldn’t be enjoyable in real life.




Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Channeling Rapunzel (#longhair #freedom #sex)

By Lisabet Sarai

During the past year, I’ve reclaimed a part of my identity.

After nearly a decade of keeping my hair no longer than than my shoulders, I’ve let it grow. It reaches halfway down my back now, at least when it’s wet. As it dries, it frizzes and kinks, looking far less luxuriant (and less well-groomed) but I still get a little shiver of pleasure when I look at myself in the mirror these days.

I have to admit that my newly extended locks present an incongruous contrast to my age-creased, sagging face. Senior citizens don’t normally sprout wild, hippie-like crops of hair like mine. But you know, at some level I really don’t care. That’s one solace to growing older. You start to realize you’re free to spurn conventional standards when they don’t suit you.

Free. That’s how my new hairstyle (if you can call this disordered frenzy a “style”) makes me feel. Despite the steamy climate in my adopted country, I love the feeling of it swinging back and forth behind me. Running my fingers through the tight curls makes me smile. I’ve tried braiding it, with limited success, and I enjoy pulling it into a ponytail. It’s almost as if I had a new toy.

I’ve always appreciated long hair, on both men and women. The hero in my first novel has a black ponytail reaching almost to his waist; the heroine, a mop of ginger-hued curls. Undoubtedly I’ve been influenced by the mythos of the sixties and seventies. I was in high school when the “American tribal love-rock musical” burst on the scene and hair became a symbol of youth and rebellion. Peace, love, sex and hair became inextricably entwined in my psyche.

In fact, I've had long hair for much of my life (see, for instance, my author photo, taken when I was in my twenties). When I started regular salon visits to erase the increasingly prominent gray from my hair, however, I also started getting it trimmed. I discovered that my natural curl was easier to tame when my hair was short. I looked (slightly) more professional and proper. 

 

My DH kept bugging me to stop the cutting. (Like me, he’s a product of the sixties. Indeed, he lived through the Summer of Love, while I just watched from the sidelines.) For some reason, I resisted.

So what has changed? I’m really not sure. It might be that I’m trying to recapture my youth. It might be I just got bored with my short hair. In any case, I’ve found the process rewarding. Even empowering.

I’d love to have hair down to my waist, or longer. It’s not going to happen; I gather that the maximum length of a person’s hair is genetically determined. Mine is probably pretty close to its limit. Nevertheless, I fantasize about being Rapunzel.

In fact, here’s a few paragraphs from “Shorn”, a re-telling of that classic which I wrote for Kristina Wright’s 2010 anthology Fairy Tale Lust. I think it will give you a sense of my feelings about my own hair.

* * * *

Do not believe what you hear of me. It was not to preserve my chastity that I was imprisoned here, in this amusingly phallic tower with its sealed entrance and single window. I have not been a virgin for years; even my father knows that. In the cesspit of hypocrisy that is his court, no one cares what goes on behind closed doors. Only appearances matter.

And appearances are what landed me here in this unorthodox prison. I'm confined to this aerie because despite all blandishments and threats, I refused to cut my hair.

In a society like ours, valuing external neatness and order above else, my wild auburn locks are an offense to public decency, or so my royal parents would like me to believe. My father's crown rests upon a bald pate, shaved daily. My mother and sisters wear pale helmets of curls that are clipped back whenever they grow beyond the earlobes. Every proper citizen plucks, trims, waxes and shaves to eliminate any hint of the hirsute.

Not I. I love my hair, not just the luxurious tresses that flow over my shoulders and down to the floor, but the rest, too: my unfashionably bushy eyebrows, the soft tufts gracing my armpits, the wiry tangle that hides my sex. My hair is a source of my power. My father suspects as much. An ancient prophecy says the kingdom shall one day be lost to a red-haired sorceress and he fears I am the fulfillment of that promise.

* * * *

In the end, Rapunzel gives up her hair for love of her prince. However, she knows it will grow back.

Spirited Away

by Jean Roberta

I’ve often suspected that we have Borrowers in our house. (If you don't recognize the reference, these are little people in a series of children's books by British author Mary Norton, first published 1952.)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Borrowers

Not only do socks disappear in the clothes dryer, never to be seen again, but other items get lost, sometimes permanently. Some things reappear where they're least expected.

There were strange goings-on in my house on Friday, January 13, 2017.

(And regarding that date, my mother passed away on Friday, March 13, 2009.)

My spouse Mirtha's oldest son (I’ll call him Sam) won a trip for two to Orlando, Florida, so of course he wanted to bring his live-in partner (I’ll call her Samantha), who has two children by different exes. Sam came by our house on Tuesday to give us a key to his house so we could feed the two cats while he & Samantha were away.

We were told that Big Kid, Samantha’s 14-year-old son, would come home after school on Friday (he has his own key), but his dad would be picking him up there. His younger sister, Little Kid, would be with her own father.

(Family trees tend to be complicated these days, but that is a separate issue.)

Mirtha and I love those cats, and think of them as our grandcats, so to speak. I distinctly remember giving the key to Mirtha, and she put it in her purse.

Friday morning there was no sign of the key. Mirtha searched her purse several times, and all her pockets. I emptied the contents of my voluminous bag (which holds everything I need when I’m teaching) as well as my coat pockets. We searched our house, then checked the gay club (where we go to clean approximately four times a week -- it's a paid job). We went back to the restaurant where we had supper on Thursday, but no one there had seen our key.

Mirtha had to work Friday afternoon, but she was in a panic, since we couldn't leave the cats unfed, and we weren't sure if Big Kid would do it. She asked what we should do, and I said we'll have to call a locksmith, and hope he/she/they will trust that we have permission to get into someone else's house.

It was very cold outdoors (about -35 Celsius), but Mirtha thought one of us (i.e. I) should go lurk outside Sam & Samantha’s house, waiting for Big Kid so he could let me in to feed the cats. We didn't know exactly when he would be home, and we have no telephone number for him or his dad.

I called a locksmith who said no way, no how, not today. Another locksmith said I would have to wait until evening. I didn't think I had a choice, so I waited by the phone.

Some time in mid-afternoon, I heard our Halloween witch cackling in the basement.

Our witch is a more-or-less life-sized (about 5 feet tall) plastic model of a witch in a black dress. She holds a luridly red apple (presumably poisoned), with red eyes that light up, and a recorded message: "You're not scared, are you? Heh-heh-heh." (Her voice is so high-pitched that at first it's hard to understand the words.) We bought her to put in our front yard on Halloween to entertain the trick-or-treaters in costumes who came to our door.

After Halloween, Mirtha and I both tried to turn off the witch's battery, with no luck. (Mirtha said, "You're possessed.") So whenever our witch is jostled slightly, her eyes flash, and she gives her speech. I put her back in her box, and took it down to the basement, where we keep all our Halloween decorations. When I heard her on Friday afternoon, I thought maybe one of our own cats had jumped on or near her.

Mirtha came home from work, still in a panic, so I called the locksmith again. This time I reached the owner of the company, who said he had been at a funeral and hadn't been told I was waiting for a call, but he was willing to meet us at Sam & Samantha’s home.

I put on my coat, and reached into my right pocket. There was the key, even though the pocket had been empty a few hours before, and the key had last been in Mirtha's purse.

I immediately called the locksmith to cancel, and we went to S & S’s house to feed the cats.

The next day, I kept the key on my keyring, because Mirtha was at work, and I took the bus to the house to feed the cats.

We were glad to return the key to Sam & Samantha when they returned. We didn’t tell them about our Friday the 13th adventure, lest they think we were irresponsible cat-minders.

I still wonder: where was the key when we couldn't find it anywhere? If I had checked my coat pocket right after the witch cackled, would I have found it then?

This is not the first time I’ve lost something I thought was in a secure location. Maybe something in the universe wants to remind us that material things are rarely permanent, and are less trustworthy than they seem.
--------------

Initiation ( #FirstTime #Fetish #Fantasies )

by Annabeth Leong

Virginity loss has featured in my sexual fantasies for most of my life.

It goes way back to one of the first books I read that included explicit scenes, Jean M. Auel’s Valley of the Horses. That book includes descriptions of a ritual around a woman’s first time that really turned me on—partially because it involved her being initiated by a stranger. That page of my edition was heavily dog-eared, and I remember setting my alarm clock to wake up in the middle of the night so I could read it in private and, er, respond to it in the ways that came naturally.

Even well into adulthood, fantasizing about a hypothetical first time would get me off. I’ve also enjoyed a lot of roleplaying—protestations of innocence or wonder, sometimes with a creepy, consensual non-consent tone, but sometimes playing it just flat out silly, giggling at the ridiculous things I’m saying, while also coming hard. It’s fucking hilarious to pretend I don’t know where my own cunt is, and it turns me on to a surprising degree.

It’s odd because my actual experience of losing my virginity was not that wonderful or thrilling. I was rather young—twelve—dating an older guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I remember seeing a friend right after the first time it happened, and she was excited, and I was more bemused than anything else. I didn’t feel particularly changed or transformed.

So I don’t know why virginity loss has been such a consistent turn-on. Maybe I’m looking for a do-over, but maybe I’m hunting a fiction that’s never existed. I know most of the fetishes around virginity are nonsense. I don’t have a freshness seal, and I never did. (If you want your mind blown, read Emily Nagoski’s Come As You Are and discover that the hymen does not work at all like most people think it does.) It was not a magical initiation. I didn’t reach simultaneous orgasms. And so on. And yet…

Lately, a funny thing has happened. I’m in my thirties now, and I’m noticing that many of my fantasies are shifting. I can’t buy myself in the ingenue role anymore. I’ve been fucking for more than thirty years. I’m not sure why that didn’t start bothering me a decade ago, when it had been more than twenty years, but what can I say? The point is that I can’t plausibly fantasize about my own virginity.

Instead, I’ve started fantasizing about the other side of the initiation. The shift feels strange, but perhaps natural. I’m still into something about the mystery of the first time, but now I’m the one who’s navigating it for an innocent partner.

I’m not so into the freshness seal idea. What’s getting me now is the idea of showing someone something and watching them see it fresh. It’s the same way I like to take people somewhere they’ve never been before or tell them about something new. Initiation is sexy, whether that’s magical or mundane.

I never liked the idea of “losing it.” It always seemed weird to me to think of virginity as something that’s “given up.” Because really, it’s about taking in, soaking up the new.

And maybe this is a bit afield from what I started out to say, but when one’s fetish is novelty, it can be found many times over. First time being caned. First time caning. First time giving oral sex. First time getting it after a while. Or, to paraphrase a comedian I saw once, first time on the hood of this car. I’m still into all of it, no matter which side of the initiation I’m on.

Nikki and the Neighbors

By Daddy X

I haven’t as yet seen anybody lose a temper. This’ll mark the end of that.

From: Brand X, link to your right —>

Nikki and the Neighbors

We lived on a kid-friendly block. Like neighbors everywhere, my parents wouldn’t have met any of the adults if it weren’t for us kids. The Tobins, down the street, had a boy about my age. Jimmy. The whole block got together for holidays, backyard barbeques and the like, but Jimmy and I spent nearly every day together.

We were a couple in high school. I was the spirited little cheerleader who rooted for the team. The guys all wanted my compact, cantilevered little body. My perfect set of tits and melon ass would spur them on. But I was Jimmy’s girl.

The football helmet covered the twisted cowlick in his rangy red hair. He’d watch me sashay, hand on hip, do my cartwheels, mid air splits. Made me wish I hadn’t worn anything under the floppy little skirt. I hoped I didn’t distract him there on the scrimmage line, him so serious—taking control. 

He was my first love, first lover. It seemed like a natural thing, learning from each other as we grew up side by side. First kiss. First pubic hairs. First feel. Jimmy’s was the first cock I saw after my dad’s.

I used to watch my parents make love through my peep hole in the attic. I was sneaky. I’d watch them and tell Jimmy all about it. What I saw—how it felt when I did. The way the moisture developed in my own fleshy little pussy as I watched entranced. What I did when I got back to bed.

Jimmy showed me how boys jerk off.  He told me his parents made a lot of noise in the bedroom. Like they were arguing.  Slaps and cries could be heard throughout their lovemaking, but he never saw them doing it.

One night Jimmy was babysitting for his little brother so I went over. We watched his parents’ dirty movie— “Deep Throat”— on video. They came home early. Well, I can tell you it was a scene that night.

I had his cock all the way. All the way down my throat. We were on the floor and I was on top. It’s easier that way. My ass to him. He had some fingers in me. I was so wet. Then came the sting on my ass. 

At first I thought it was just Jimmy, reddening my cheeks. Like Dad did with Mom when he wanted a “red hot piece of tushy fruity”. But the second blow lifted me off my knees. I was about to complain but then it became clear. We were caught.

His mother screamed at us.

“Eighteen she is! …Eighteen and a fucking HAND up her cunt for crissakes!”

His father wanted to spank me right then and there, but his mother said no, that it could be viewed in some skeevy way. They told my parents instead.

 My folks were actually okay with it but Jimmy was grounded for I don’t know… a month or whatever. We had to do something; we were so horny. He called me one afternoon. He had to rake leaves after school and said he would set the ladder up at his window just before it turned dark.

I climbed the ladder late that night. Climbed up and snuck in his window. We were both so horny from not seeing each other that Jimmy had the condom on by the time I got out of my sweats. This was no make out session. No petting, no finger fucking, no cock sucking or cunt lapping. None of that. This was just pure, hormonal, teenage fire. At first it was just the whispering, snickering and all, but it sure progressed.  

We were fucking in a missionary position, my ass bridged up off the bed on heels and shoulders. Humping mindless … for like … like what seemed just a few minutes. I guess we were making a lot of noise. The door flew open—bright lights filled the room.  His dad. And he was yelling.

“Doris! Get up here! Just look at this… She’s back! Little slut from up the street. She’s back. And she’s on her back. In bed with Jim.  They’re FUCKING! This is it! Little CUNT! Enough is enough, goddammit!” 

Then it was the two of them, standing over us in the room. Everybody’s screaming. I’m sobbing, pulling on my sweat bottoms to keep my lower parts covered. Jimmy’s crying it was all his fault. His dad’s yelling to his mom that he had told her so. That telling my parents last time didn’t do a goddamned thing about the situation. That he was going to spank the shit out of me then and there.

I dreaded a spanking. Nobody had ever spanked me before, but it seemed better than them telling on me. I didn’t want to disappoint my folks again. They said it didn’t matter, but I heard the gossip.

I felt guilty when it came to my parents. Didn’t want to get things even more involved than they did. And they did. Get involved in the neighborhood, I mean. 

Of course now I know about spanking fetishes.  But when Jimmy’s father turned me over his lap—well, I didn’t. Not yet.

“You have really done it this time, young lady,” Jimmy’s dad announced. He sounded serious.

The mom chimed in:  “Lady? That little cocksucking whore? She’s no fucking LADY!’ Sounded like Jerry Lewis. “Take it from somebody who knows… I’m a fucking lady.  We’re a whole classy fucking family, you little CUNT! Go ahead—smack her ass, Andy.” 

Jimmy tried to help me. He stood there naked with the silly rubber waving around at the end of his softening little pecker. It slid off as they wrestled him out of the room. They locked the door—put the back of a chair under the doorknob. I got scared. I had no idea what was going to happen, they were so mad. Both fumed, their faces bright red, and I had a feeling my little bottom would soon match.

It was late. Jimmy’s father sat on the side of the bed, wearing the ratty bathrobe he always wore in the evenings. They situated me across his lap so my butt would stick up. Despite all my squirming, between the two of them they easily held my arms and legs down. They were much bigger than me and there were twice as many of them. His mother held my legs with one hand. She pulled the black sweat pants down with the other—just in the back. Stretched ’em down to bare my ass, then hooked the elastic under the protruding cheeks which squeezed the two buns up, exposing them and rounding my backside even more.

The front part of the sweats still covered my front. I felt better about that, because… because… I could feel something there. A thing. A hard thing. Pushing up from under his robe into my lower belly. The black material was the only barrier between his—uh, him—and me. I could feel the thing. Jesus—he wasn’t wearing underwear!

Jimmy kept pounding on the door, hollering about how much he loves me. 

In the chaos I heard Jimmy’s Mom murmur.  “Jesus, she looks great that way. Doesn’t she, Andy? Do… do I look…” The garbled words trailed away.

His father laid his hand across my backside. I closed my eyes, waiting for the first blow. But then I felt his hand move. A little.  A couple of fingers dipped down, near my—between my cheeks.

Whap!

There was another loud smack. I didn’t feel either one.  Doris was now hitting her husband.

Then she was yelling again. “Oh no! No you don’t, you asshole! Just SPANK her, Andrew! What the fuck is WRONG with you? Spank her or I will! The little cunt! Fucking corrupting our son like that!”

Terrible woman… I think from New Jersey.

“Look at her ass,” Jimmy’s dad said. “Her whole ass is sticky.” 

I had been anticipating the evening with Jimmy and my pussy had been drooling since early morning. My bunched up panties stayed drenched all day. I guess our missionary sex, just so rudely interrupted, had caused more of the stuff to ooze down my crack. Jimmy’s hands must have spread it out over my cheeks.

  I remember it feeling strangely cool when his dad mentioned the wetness. Funny how certain things stand out in the memory. It’s as if I can feel that same quality—that damp coolness. Right now, on my ass.  

My parents never hit me, so I didn’t know what was coming. With the petulance of a child, I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to let them see me cry. Until the first wallop.

WHAP!

 It seemed to come out of nowhere. Caused me to yelp out loud and grind into his crotch. He kept that big hand right where it landed, mooshed into my teenage tush. He pressed me down hard. He twisted my ass around like he was opening and closing a jar, a circular motion, and growled, squeezed my flesh.

Jimmy’s mom hit him on the head.  “Just spank the little bitch, goddamit! Christ, Andy. You’re as bad as they are!”

All the time, Jimmy’s banging on the door. Sweet Jimmy.

 His father started smacking my damp, upturned bottom in earnest. This was getting too real. Whack! Whack! WHACK! It really stung. I screamed, trying to keep myself raised up to meet the sharp slaps so I didn’t have to press on his hard-on. But he was hitting me, hitting me so damn hard. No sooner had I stuck my ass up than the next smack shoved me down. Anticipation and reflex caused me to squirm, to bear down on him with each slap, trying in vain to compensate for the angry blows. Doris stood up but kept a tight hand on my ankles.

The hard claps started sounding like applause, accelerating faster and faster. I realized the both of them were now wailing on me, landing alternating slaps on my scalded backside. The sharp stings landed a split second apart but blended together into one hot fire. I cried, I squealed, I hollered, wriggling myself to the point of frenzy, flailing, pleading for them to stop.

I forgot about the cock poking into my belly and bit hard into the bedding, trying desperately to fill my mouth and stop the screeching that poured from my hoarse throat. My fists grabbed the blankets, seeking any purchase, any leverage to kick my bound legs harder, fiercer. I tried anything to fight back, but they just held me tighter.

Jimmy’s banging on the door got louder. He screamed and I screamed for them to stop. Doris held me as best she could. In the fracas I noticed—with horror—my sweat pants were slowly inching down my thighs. My frantic reactions just hastened the process. Soon there was nothing between Jimmy’s father’s hard dick and my bare belly. He had lost interest in hitting me, but he held me there while his wife hopped in front of him, focused on her target, smacking my blistered skin while yelling as if she was addled. Slapping me, jumping up and down on every word.

“Fucking … cunt! ... I’ll … redden … your … slut… ass … for … you …IF …your … parents …won’t! … Fucking… slut-ass… cumsucker cunt! … Fuuuuuck!”

Jimmy’s mom was in a state, cross-eyed with rage and out of control with something I didn’t quite understand. His dad just sat there. Held the small of my back down, watching his wife beat the young red ass squirming around in his lap. I’m sure he felt his pre-cum-wet dick poking into my bellybutton, because I felt it too.

All my desperate movements were causing his thick stylus to scribble his juices all over my belly, my fuzzy pubic bone. It’s funny how you remember the little things. I can remember thinking … thinking at the time … It even writes upside down!”  

 Every now and then his dick worked up between my legs. Through the crotch for a flop or two. I could feel it poking through to the other side, between my ass cheeks.  At this point, he was content to let his wife continue to slap me as he held my waist, now with both hands, just above the dimples. He shoved me around on his lap, adopting a kind of circular grind over his boner.

“Hold her still, Andrew! HOLD HER!”

He just kept rubbing me over and over himself. Back and forth, round and round on his lap. He wasn’t paying any attention to her by that time. She had stopped smacking me and I was grateful for that, but her husband was not going to be talked to. He heard nothing. She yelled at him. She beat on his head and shoulders, but he just held me down, my drawers now barely covering the backs of my knees. Shoving me over and over his lap, rubbing my torso on himself like a limp rag doll.

“What the fuck…? ANDREW! Let go of her! NOW! I know what the fuck you’re doing, you son of a bitch! Stop that. Stop that now, you asshole!” 

Doris kept smacking him but he didn’t even bother to block the blows. He just held me as best he could, scrubbing me back and forth over himself. Then, keeping one hand on the small of my back, he reached with the other for the cheek furthest from him. The grown man used my right buttock as his other handhold, gripping me with the thumb and heel of his hand. My sprawling, erratic leg movements had worked the sweats down to my ankles. Now I was essentially naked from the waist down. But worse still, my ass cheeks were spread apart. 

He renewed the shoving, the pulling. I could feel my pink pucker wrenched open, visible to both of them with each shove. I could feel it. I was so humiliated to have them see me that way… so—uh—so exposed. So wide open that way. But, mortification was easier to ignore than getting hit, I guess.

The action got wilder, louder. Jimmy’s cries came from the other side of the door. His continued banging got more aggressive.  Jimmy’s dad was mumbling something.  “grrmmrr… rosebud… dusky… winkin’ rosebud… grrruuummmm… F—fuckin’ hot  dusky buddd… Jesus! Fuckinnnn’… hot… reddd…bunnnnhs…”

All at once I realized his dad’s thumb was rocking dangerously close to my bunghole. Before I could compensate, it popped in to the first knuckle. Now he was able to pinch my cheek even tighter. The renewed grip enabled him to create more complex movements on his lap. Increasing his efforts, he rubbed my pubis over his big dick, faster and faster. Round and round he pressed me.

Next day there were four round bruises on my right buttock. From his fingertips. I think he bruised my ass hole too. It was real sore. And it looked like it was a darker color on one side, I think. I could see it in the hand mirror, and—

(Naughty Reader! Do your best to dispel those images! Images of precocious eighteen year old Nicole, naked, alone, playing with mirrors…)

Doris was still slapping him, yelling: ‘Dusky fucking rosebud my ass! Let her go, Andrew! You can’t DO that, you asshole! You bastard! Stop that! Now, goddammit!”  She kept bashing Jimmy’s dad’s head all the while. I was happy, at least she wasn’t hitting me, but the situation was getting too crazy.

After some minutes of this, Jimmy’s dad suddenly bellowed. “Wohhh… Oh... God! Jesus! Oooh!” He splooged all over my belly and my thighs. The man bucked wildly, growling, grinding me around on his lap, holding me tight with a thumb up my ass. Crying out loud with his climax.

“OH. MY. GOD!” yelled his wife, hands to the sides of her head.  “NOW you’ve fucking done it! You make me sick! What are we going to do now? You fucking PERVERT! We’re gonna land in jail…”

Jimmy’s dad just grinned sheepishly, still dazed by the power of his orgasm.

It was easy to get off him then. Doris tried to chase me but she slipped on Jimmy’s condom and fell down. I took the opportunity to scramble away, pull on my top and toss my sweat bottoms out the window, then follow ‘em down the ladder, hearing all the threats and slaps behind me.

 I was still naked down below. As I backed out the window, I remember feeling the cool autumn air on my hot buns as well as the wet from my belly button to the top of my ass crack. The liquids seeping, chilling both thighs as I climbed down the ladder. At the bottom, hiding in the trees, I pulled on the baggy black sweats to cover myself. Once on, I rubbed the thick fabric between my legs to sop up the stuff inside.

Someone threw my shoes at me.  I heard Jimmy’s mother yell.

“Stay the fuck away from my little boy, you cock sucking trailer trash TRAMP!”

The last picture I have of that room as I backed out the window was Jimmy’s father in bed in the fetal position. One hand held his bathrobe over his head, trying to fend off the blows raining down. The thumb of the other stuck in his mouth. Jimmy’s mother was beating her husband with Jimmy’s wooden ruler. Her dark blue pajamas had Jimmy’s used rubber stuck to the back.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What if she tells someone? Andy, you fucking ASSHOLE!”

A week later, the word was out that the Tobins would be moving away from our block.

Alas, I never saw Jimmy again.

"I've lost Ming..."

”I’ve lost Ming.”

These were the words which greeted me and my brother when we entered the kitchen. I was fourteen or so, and my mother was having tea with an elderly neighbor from about four doors up the street. Mrs MacDonald’s visits were pretty regular because she liked to talk to my mum about her latest medical issues. My mum was a pharmacist so knew a thing or two, in Mrs Macdonald’s opinion.

“Oh, that’s a shame,“ we all agreed. “Not to worry, we’ll help you find him. He can’t have got far.“ Ming was Mrs MacDonald’s Pekingese dog, and not known for prolonged bursts of energy. He wouldn’t walk to the end of her garden path if he could help it. We were ready to mount a search party, this would be a doddle.

“Oh, no. I don’t mean he’s lost. I mean, he’s died.” Mrs MacDonald was clearly upset. My mum topped up her tea and we rearranged our faces into a more sympathetic demeanour.

‘Lost’ seemed to me an odd euphemism to use to say that someone, or something, has died, but it’s common enough so perhaps I’m just being pedantic. Still, It’s not a phrase I usually draw on in such circumstances.

I have lost pets though, often enough, in the literal sense of not knowing where they are. Usually I lose cats because they have a super-power. They can walk through walls and pass undetected within an inch of me, however vigilant I am. A case in point was George the (female) kitten who joined our household in the mid-1990s, a sweet little thing aged about 5 weeks.

One night I was ready to go to bed and George was nowhere to be found. She was still too tiny to go outside so I was sure she had to be in the house somewhere. I hunted all over, but not a sign. I eventually decided she must have climbed into a cupboard and gone to sleep, she’d be around in the morning.

But she wasn’t. I got up the next day, hunted some more, even went around the neighbours to ask if anyone had seen a little ball of fluff. Well, you never know, that super-power probably kicks in pretty early… No one had seen her, she’d just disappeared into thin air.

That afternoon Mr B. was home before me. I phoned him from work to ask if George had showed up yet.

“Oh yes,” he said, “she showed up. Or rather, I found her.”

“Where? I looked everywhere…”

“Well, you didn’t have the advantage of the screams. She must have been asleep when you were looking for her, but she was well and truly awake by the time I came home, and thoroughly pissed off. I followed the din.”

“Ah. And where did the din lead?”

“It led behind the tumble drier, up the vent pipe and into the back of the machine. She was trapped right inside. Good thing you didn’t suddenly get all domestic and turn it on…”

One down, eight lives to go… “Is she all right?”

“Yes, I suppose so. And I put the drier back together again, but there seem to be some pieces left over…”

Well, you can’t have everything.

That was one of George’s earlier scrapes. She had plenty over the years, including getting lost again when she became trapped in a derelict house for three days. Again, she was rescued because she screeched at the top of her lungs.

George used up all her nine lives and more besides, but eventually succumbed to the inevitable at the ripe old age of seventeen. She became very ill suddenly and we rushed off to the vet’s but she died on the table.

As I drove home, tearful, with George’s cold, stiff body on the seat next to me I felt I understood Mrs MacDonald rather better. 

Losing My Mind

Sacchi Green


Don’t worry, I have plenty of mind left, and my memory in general is okay (as far as I know.)

But I lose words these days, and for the last couple of years, as though they were marbles rolling merrily away under couches, or even sitting taunting me in plain sight, except that I can’t see them except as fleeting glimpses out of the corner of my eye. Words, especially names, are playing hide-and-seek in my brain.

Not all words, of course. I have lots of words, plenty of words, and they’re the best words, that I can tell you. And they don’t disappear for good. Usually they come back and behave perfectly well, at least for a while. Sometimes they come back on their own, usually not while I’m agonizing over why I cant remember them, but a little later, when I’m doing something else entirely. Or when I give up and look them up online, since I can always think of some context where they're sure to appear.  

A few are repeat offenders,  and I have to make up odd associations to bring them to the surface. The first time I remember doing this was for the name of a flowering plant, one I know perfectly well; cyclamen. Somewhere I’d seen the term “cyclamen pink” to describe a certain color, and now, if I’m trying to remember the plants’s name, I think “pink, that's it, cyclamen pink,” even though the flowers can range from white to deep burgundy. An odder link I use is for the useful bedding plant fpr shady areas, hosta. It makes no sense that I often can’t remember the word, but it makes even less sense that I can get there by remembering a sentient life form made of stone, from a Star Trek episode: the Horta. I can remember “Horta” and get to “hosta” from there.

It really doesn’t matter whether I can remember those plant names, or so many names of actors and actresses I’ve known well for years but can’t bring to the surface when I see them in old movies or TV. I’m pretty sure lots of people have trouble remembering those names. It’s worse when the lost names are those of people I know in real life (especially when they’re standing right in front of me,) or have known and want to discuss with others. What really shakes me up is when suddenly I can’t remember important words. Like “metaphor.” How could I not remember that word? Didn’t I use it just yesterday, or even today? I lay awake in the early morning a couple of days ago trying to sneak up on it. Simile. Alliteration. Onomatopoeia. Um…hyperbole. (That one almost got away.) All those fine words about words. But no luck, until the next day “metaphor” casually popped up in something I happened to be reading. So far it hasn’t slipped away again, so I guess I don’t need to figure out some—what’s that word? “Mnemonic? I’ll have to look it up.

On a more serious note, (not that I don’t realize the potential seriousness of losing words—is it a first step to something much worse?) I’ve been reflecting lately on a different kind of loss. I spend quite a bit of time these days in the house and town where I grew up, where my elderly father still lives and needs my help. I was there today, in fact. Sometimes I feel as though I’m meeting my own ghost there, or rather the ghost of who I used to be. I’ve been combing through family photographs to find some old ones of my father and his slightly younger brother who died last week. I’m taking the pictures I find to a memorial service for him this weekend. In the course of this, I’m finding, or revisiting, many photos of myself at different ages, which reinforces my feeling of having had different identities at different times, and different prospects and expectations. The person I see in the mirror at the end of the hall in that house both is and isn’t the person I used to see there. In a way this might be something gained, not lost, an accumulation of experience and knowledge and memories, maybe even a smidgeon of wisdom. But what’s really lost, or feels lost, is the sense of a limitless future.

I don’t really think I’m losing my mind, and certainly not my imagination, but I can’t help wishing that I could be both my current self and the selves I was in some of those photographs, even though memory tells me that I didn’t feel at any of those times that I was at the ideal time of life. Far from it.

Maybe there’s a word for that feeling, something like nostalgia, but not quite. If there is a word, well, I seem to have forgotten it.      

Losing To Gain

Other folks have covered a few of the “it”s we lose. Virginity, attributes, etc.

I’m going to focus instead on other stuffz. The people we lose from our lives, for example. Facebook friends who pass, or who move away. Pen pals (email pals) who move on in one direction while you move in another. Sometimes it happens so gradually you barely realize it’s gone. Other times it can really hurt. I know it stings me, for instance, when I lose a cover art client, too. And that is essentially the segue into the body of this blog.

Being an indie author carries with it such a vast array of benefits and responsibilities. It’s a career we choose, rather than one we fall into, so this is by no means any kind of “woe is me” tale. It’s simply an observation that for every benefit (working from home, setting my own schedule), there’s an onerous task to balance it. And each one sips a little more time from your finite pool.

Now, when you’re not just one indie author, but five (like I am), it’s inevitable that something’s gotta give. I’ve already streamlined my operations by un-publishing my two solo Abi Aiken works a couple of years back. I re-published one of them under my Willsin name, and if I do re-publish the other it will also be a Willsin.

So I figured it’s probably time I start wielding the axe. Streamline even more. I still have some co-written Abi Aiken works out there (see below), I have a post-apocalyptic pen name which I’ve not published anything on yet, despite him having been in existence for nearly a year. And I have two other pen names, one of which is on the verge of something pretty big, potentially.

Which leaves that one other little pen name which hasn’t really been doing a whole lot for me. It’s been fun to write the stories, because in my head they were stories Willsin would never write. But my sister-from-a-different-mister Sassie Lewis has been urging me for ages now to forget that thinking. That Willsin could certainly do with having another dozen books in the catalog.

So that’s probably what I’m a-gonna do. In the next few months I’m gonna lose that fifth pen name. Whether all that author’s works will reappear as Willsin titles I’m not sure. But what’s more important is the other dozen or so titles I was planning to release under that name. Those can all be Willsin books now.

The other important factor in all that is time management. As I said earlier on, it’s easy to lose contact, lose friends, lose clients, when you’re spreading yourself too thin. Thankfully I don't believe I've been impacted too badly on any of those levels. But while that fifth pen name doesn’t take up an enormous amount of my social media time, and doesn’t have a newsletter, and doesn’t advertise… it’s still one other part of my indie author existence which needs tending. When I “kill” them, I’ll have just that little more time and attention to dedicate to Willsin. And Abi. And the other two!

* * * *

I mentioned earlier in the blog about my co-written Abi Aiken titles still being out there. And a couple of them are in here, too! I made the cover art as well. Go me!

* * * * *

Amazon  |  Kobo  |  Smashwords  |  iBooks

Dirty Love – Seven bestselling steamy hot romance authors show you their kinky side. Eleven tantalizing tales that will leave you all hot & bothered and craving some dirty love. 

One Night with a Vampire by Rozlyn Sparks - Sometimes the only way to forget the pain of a broken heart is to get back in the saddle. At least that is how Daphne’s friends see it. And since Daphne isn’t showing any signs of letting that happen, they take it into their own hands.

Submission Therapy by Abi Aiken & Rozlyn Sparks - Bad girl billionaire Christina is used to being on top. Only her therapist knows just how close she is to burning out. Frustrated by Christina’s stubbornness, Dr Jardine prescribes a radical new form of treatment. One that introduces her to a steely-eyed man who reads her every desire.

Unleashed by Nataleigh Sharp - John looked hungry for her, and while just a little bit of her was still frightened of this man, the part of Zelle that was in control begged to be consumed.

Unafraid by Nataleigh Sharp - Just the thought of his heartbeat under her fingers, of his life in her hands, made Ryda want to go another round.

Cherry Pop by Roxie Elms - Cherry is on the prowl again. Finding the right person to ramp up her nights shouldn't be too hard. Cherry's misadventures are steamy, hot and in your face.

Shiftless by Petrea Algar - At 22, curvy Kaliste is no blushing virgin. But until she finds her fated Alpha, she can’t make her first shift. When that Alpha is in the form of a tall, muscle-bound, leather-clad biker, shifting suddenly comes second to an even more primal hunger. Lust.

Fatal Fugue (The Deadlier Sex #1) by Maelani - Hayley has an empire in Vegas full of violence, sex, and money, but she can’t remember. Jay is a fierce hunter—handsome, mysterious, deadly, and he knows all about Hayley. He says he wants to help her, but some things are too deadly to remember.

Behind at Work by Petrea Algar - Miranda is crushing badly on her steely-eyed boss, Lukas. When her efforts to help a coworker make her fall behind in her own work, terse words and anger turn rapidly into lust. Soon, Miranda isn’t the only one who’s getting….Behind At Work.

Volatile Confessions by Alexia Purdy - When brothers Grant and Thomas Sully return into Hannah’s life, she knows this sinister road is full of hidden motives, forgotten lies, and steamy unconventional love.

Blossom by Petrea Algar - Michelle has waited weeks for Samuel’s return, with only fingers and toys for comfort. But his arrival brings the promise of release. Of being whole. Hard in body and mind, Samuel knows her every weakness; draws her open with a sharp touch… or with just her pet name.

Extra Curricular by Abi Aiken & Rozlyn Sparks - Don’t sleep with your Professor. Don’t do it. Just, don’t. Oh, hell! Why do Professors have to be so damn hot? Chelsea has been wet for her Professor since forever. Twice her age, tall, piercing eyes, panty-dropping English accent. If only she could find a way to become teacher’s pet.

When the nipple makes its first appearance...

by Giselle Renarde

That's me in the corner...
That's me in the spot...light...
Losing my virginity...

There wasn't any music playing the first time I had sex. I kind of wish there had been. I kind of wish it was Losing My Religion.

I was a pretty old virgin too, by today's standards. I was 21 the first time I had sex. It happened at a Crowne Plaza that doesn't exist anymore, in a hotel room I don't really remember because it was like any other nondescript hotel room you can think of. I booked it. He couldn't. His wife paid the bills. She would definitely notice if a hotel charge popped up on their credit card statement.

The whole time I kept thinking: God, I hope I never have to do this again.

It felt so weird, so gross, having this old man on top of. I kept thinking how much I'd begged for it. This is what I've been dying for? This is what I wanted?

I hated it. The whole time I just wanted it to end.

But we're talking P-in-V, here. What about everything else? Whether or not you think of yourself as a virgin depends on whether or not you feel you've had sex.

So what is sex?

As a queer person, I obviously don't think penis-in-vagina intercourse is the be-all and end-all. You can have plenty of sex and never do the P-in-V thing in your life.

Remember on Seinfeld when Elaine asks: “Hey Jerry, when do you consider sex has taken place?” His answer is pretty damn inclusive: “I'd say when the nipple makes its first appearance.”

So why did I still think of myself as a virgin even after I'd sucked a cock or touched a boob? Because I truly believed I was missing out on something important. I thought the moment I got a cock inside me the skies would open up and I'd become aware of all these cosmic truths.

That... really didn't happen.

But penetrative sex did get better over time. Started to feel less icky.

Every so often I like to write about the uncomfortableness of first-time sex. Maybe it's not weird for everyone. I don't know. I'm not an expert. For an erotica writer, I have to confess I'm not a voyeur of other people's sexual experiences. Actually, I'm the total opposite. I don't want to hear about it.

But I make an exception for those squicky awkward first times. There's something so gritty and real about them.

Maybe I just like to watch you squirm.

Morphing into the Light

One of the after effects of drifting further towards geezer hood is you become more aware of the transience of everything.  Death is the final transience, but other things fall away as we crawl towards the abyss.  Boomers like me become more aware of our own morality when we hear of the death of the celebrities, especially rock stars we grew up with.  The death of George Harrison was not much noticed, but the sudden death of John Lennon was cataclysmic.  2016 saw the death of many of the people we had grown up with as part of a generational tribe.

Trying to explain the Beatles to a millennial is almost impossible.  It’s like your grandpa trying to explain WWII bond drives.  The Beatles pioneered so many things that are a given in popular music now.  But more than anything they bound a generation together in a shared romance.

There were others too.  Movies like Star Wars for another generation.  Now Princess Leia is gone.

I was changing cell phones a couple of weeks ago and discovered a pile of photos on the memory card of my old phone.  They were only a year old, but the people there were already ancient history.  I felt sad seeing them and knowing the time they represented had gone for good.  So quickly .  Events in our lives today move so fast.  It’s hard.  Even our gadgets morph and change in our own hands as if they were made of dream-stuff.  My smartphone is constantly battering me for requests to change to this or that, help it become this, install this app, share this huge pile of personal information with strangers to install this app or upgrade.  Or else.  You enter the wrong numbers or forget what you entered and you’ve klutzed yourself out of your device.

It all passes away.  The Buddhists are right.  People get wrapped around dumb stuff.  

My writing has changed.  My energy has changed.  Not the dying of the light.  But the morphing of the light.  Who is this person?  Who is he now?  Who does he need to be now?

One of the things you learn in meditation is how forgiving nature is.  You have your sacred sound to chant, or maybe its your breathing, whatever rubber ball you have tasked your monkey mind to bounce and stay away while the rest of you waits earnestly for stillness to gather.  And then you forget.  You forget to breath, you forget to chant, your mind is off the rails.  People get discouraged at this moment because they think contemplative prayer or meditation is some inborn talent and they don’t have it.  It’s really what the Franciscans, those stubborn Christian mystics, call “coming back to God over and over”.  You pick up the ball you think you’re supposed to be bouncing and get back on the cushion.  Over and over without getting wrapped around yourself.  And what you find, is your spirit hasn’t judged you.  You have a little more stillness already, stillness you feel like you haven’t earned.  The peace you have failed to craft is somehow a little more anyway.  Human beings want “fair”.  One the first full sentences little kids learn to holler is “That’s not fair!” Human beings need justice like we need barbeque.   

But Nature and whatever God set it into motion, as near as I can tell, isn’t keeping score.  The most vile of us can inexplicably burst into noble glory in an instant and reinvent themselves.  The best of us can always fall.  That isn’t fair.  That isn’t just. Thank God.  

My mind is changing.  It’s harder to write stories, harder to turn the TV off and read.  Harder to sit in silence without a guilty list of tasks.  I feel myself in the act of dying even as I’m being reincarnated in some now form.  My experience of the world is already different.  The other discovery, not a lesson, one gets from contemplative mediation is the discovery that you are not your thoughts.  Awareness and thoughts are separate.  Thoughts are something you do constantly, as beyond you as a sneeze.  Awareness, is that who we are?  Who is this observer watching the thoughts come and go?

I have died many times in this life and been reincarnated as the next version of myself, just as Lisabet was once a shy and frightened girl and became a bold writer and public speaker.  As Whitman says “I contain multitudes” including personas I haven’t become yet.  I am always losing myself.  I am always dying to myself.  I am always losing the ones I love and seeing them return from the dead as some new version of themselves who may or may not have a place for me in their new lives.