Lewd and Proud - #pride #smut #erotica #reputation @Archer_Larry

By Lisabet Sarai

Hello! My name is Lisabet, and I write smut.

Oh, sometimes I call it erotic romance, or literary erotica, or even speculative fiction, but as far as the world is concerned, those fine distinctions don’t mean anything. As long as my work focuses on the experience of sexual desire and includes explicit depictions of sexual activities, I’m simply another pornographer. Certainly that’s Amazon’s position. Unless I’m especially careful, clever and/or duplicitous, my work is likely to be shuffled off to the adult dungeon where it will languish forever in obscurity. (Of course, that may happen even if my stuff doesn’t get quarantined, but the adult label is the final nail in the coffin.)

Meanwhile, in the enormous, financially powerful romance genre, so-called “steamy romance” is still viewed as the red-headed step child. This is the attitude of authors as well as (I assume) readers. Plenty of my romance colleagues won’t host me as a blog guest because my characters get down and dirty, even if I offer to create a purely PG post. Indeed, I’ve read (and fumed over) ignorant comments on romance writers' forums that dissed the entire erotica genre as nothing but gratuitous sex with no plot or characterization.

Then there’s my brother, also the creative type, who tells me I’m incredibly talented and wants to know why I don’t write a “serious” book. Oh, he also says he doesn’t want to read something that arouses him.

Well, guess what? Lots of people do. And I’ve decided that maybe I should be courting those readers.

After years of feeling embarrassed and apologetic about my chosen literary niche—although I often feel it chose me rather than the other way around—I finally decided it was time I really did write some porn. 
 

Last year I released my first book that I’d say was pure stroke fiction. Hot Brides in Vegas actually does have a plot, and lots of characters (mostly bodacious babes, with a few insatiable studs), but it’s a pretty big stretch from my more “literary” endeavors. Set in the outrageous world of strippers and swingers created by my ERWA colleague Larry Archer, Hot Brides tells the story of three young women who come to Las Vegas for Francesca’s lavish wedding.

While Fran’s fiancé Jake and his buddies set out for a stag night, exploring the fleshpots of Sin City, she and her bridesmaids Laura and Chantal are stuck at the resort under the watchful eye of her stern Aunt Giulia, who has promised Fran’s father that his daughter will come to the altar a virgin.

Frustrated and annoyed by these double standards, the girls hatch a plan to escape their chaperone and have some fun of their own. With the help of a susceptible concierge, a butch ex-cop limo driver and a scandalous French couturiere, they find their way to The Fox’s Den, the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in the city. Owner Larry Archer and his crew of strippers, bouncers, voyeurs and sluts are more than happy to welcome the delectable trio as contestants performing at the club’s famous Amateur Night.

Writing Hot Brides was a breath of fresh air for me. I turned the censors and critics off and simply wrote the wildest scenes I could think of. I produced the 30K novella in record time (for me), banging out (so to speak!) 3-5K words at a sitting. Furthermore, it’s remarkably good—in my own unbiased opinion!—for fiction with no redeeming social value whatsoever.

My reviewers agree. One called it “pure wicked escapism”, which really sums up the story well. Meanwhile it has sold better than anything I’ve written in quite a while (though I wouldn’t say I’ve really conquered the obscurity problem).

In fact, I enjoyed writing Hot Brides so much that I’m working on a sequel. More Brides in Vegas reunites Fran, Laura, Chantal and their swains with Annie, another contestant they met at Amateur Night, for Annie’s wedding to Jake’s friend Ted. Since Annie and Ted don’t have a lot cash, they’ve organized the wedding at a vintage eighties motel on the outskirts of town, one of those sprawling places where the rooms are arranged around a courtyard with a big swimming pool. The newlyweds don’t realize this is a favorite site for swingers’ parties.

I’m hoping to finish the first draft of More Brides this weekend, and to publish it by early June. And I’m proud to say that it has even more sex than the first book.

I think it’s about time I lived up to my bad reputation!

You can check out a couple of excerpts from Hot Brides in Vegas at the links below.

https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2018/01/sizzling-sunday-hot-brides-in-vegas-ff.html

https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2017/11/sizzling-sunday-hot-brides-in-vegas.html

And if you’re actually interested in buying a copy...

Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077JRMGJF/

Amazon UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077JRMGJF/

Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/758698

Barnes and Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hot-brides-in-vegas-lisabet-sarai/1127452565?ean=2940154622568

Kobo - https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/hot-brides-in-vegas

Writing Commando (#naked #freedom #genres)

 By Lisabet Sarai

When I was in my mid-twenties – during my sex goddess period – I sometimes went out without panties. Walking around bare beneath my skirt, every current of air caressing my naked flesh, was thrilling to the point of addiction. It's not that I'm an exhibitionist (although perhaps we erotic authors all share a desire to expose ourselves). I wasn't interested in treating strangers to a flash of my pussy. Indeed, I would have been mortified if I'd accidentally revealed my bottomless state.

The appeal had more to do with a sense of freedom and a consciousness of risk, a heady appreciation of my own delightful recklessness. Most of my life I'd hewed close to the rules, an overachiever always trying to please others. I'd been shy and timid, dutiful and diligent, the quintessential good girl. When my hormones took over the helm, that changed. I found that I was far braver and more brazen than I (or anyone else who knew me) would have believed. And I loved that feeling, the notion that I was treading the edge rather than keeping to the straight and narrow.

My panty-less state focused my attention on the sensual. I became acutely aware of temperature and texture. Arousal simmered through me, ready to be sparked into flame by a chance encounter with a kindred spirit. Erotic possibilities waited around every corner, and, bare-bottomed and moist with anticipatory desire, I was ready to take advantage of them.

Writing my first novel felt very similar to “going commando”, though it came more than a decade later. I didn't worry about markets or reader sensibilities. I wrote what turned me on: wild, kinky, transgressive scenes, every assortment of genders, twosomes, threesomes and foursomes, floggers and spankings, nipple clamps and butt plugs, public sex, pony sex, anal sex, even golden showers. I pushed the limits of acceptability to the point that my editor actually made me tone down a couple of scenes (and this was back when Black Lace was billed as “erotica”, not “erotic romance”). My personal fantasies provided the energy to move the book forward. Craft issues were secondary. The book had already been accepted on spec, and I wasn't really thinking about what happened after it was published. The writing process itself was arousing.

I didn't know anything about genres back then., though reading Raw Silk now, I realize that it follows many of the conventions of modern erotic romance – except, of course, for its omnisexuality. The inclusion of F/F and M/M in a book that is mostly M/F will evoke criticism from many romance readers, who seem to want a sort of genre purity. They'd probably judge my heroine as promiscuous too, for having simultaneous sexual relationships with three different men, although in the end, in typical romance fashion, she chooses to commit to just one.

None of this concerned me back then. I wasn't so swept away that I lost sight of the story. Indeed, even now the novel's plot strikes me as quite tight and well-paced. I guess that was instinct, though, because my focus was squarely on the sex. Like those days when I eschewed undergarments and opened myself to adventure, I wasn't concerned with what others thought. I was free, writing for the pure joy of vicarious experience. I was in my heroine's mind and body, living my dreams through her. If others disapproved, so be it.

If you think catch a hint of wistfulness in my description of those times, you're not wrong. I don't go commando anymore. The notion embarrasses me – a sexagenarian exposing her graying pubic hair to the world? But I remember that intoxicating feeling of lightness and power. I miss it.

And my writing? I've had eighteen years of education on the tyranny of genres, what sells and what doesn't, what you can and cannot include in a book aimed at a particular market niche. I'm constantly tempted, for instance, to let my straight heroines indulge their occasional Sapphic inclinations, but I know that will be the kiss of death for any book aimed at the erotic romance market. Meanwhile, I have a difficult time keeping my erotica from becoming to “mushy”. Although I've had my share of zipless fucks, I've never found sex without some emotional connection – love, tenderness, loneliness, shared kink, whatever – to be at all arousing.

I yearn for the freedom – the innocence – of my first years writing erotica. I've started to realize I'll never be a best seller (and I'm not even sure I want to be). So why should I care about pleasing a mass of readers? I know there are some people who'll appreciate my particular approach, my personal blend of romanticism and filth. I should strip off my official author's uniform and just write to please myself, and them.

I can already feel the breeze.

The Ultimate Taboo (#erotica #taboo #inspiration)

By Lisabet Sarai

Erotica often generates its emotional and physical charge by pushing the envelope—focusing on sexual activities that are popularly viewed as wicked, sinful or forbidden. Erotic fiction allows readers to experience the naughty thrill associated with breaking taboos, without any personal or societal consequences.

On the other hand, writing stories that address prohibited topics can be dangerous for an author, at least if you want to sell your work. The line between publishable erotica and unacceptable smut is both narrow and blurry. One misstep can see you tumbling into the adult dungeon, or even banned outright.

What, then, constitutes the most extreme possible transgression? Is it incest? Bestiality? Necrophilia? Scat? These days, what’s the riskiest thing an erotic author can write? What story element is most likely to kill your chances that readers will see and buy your work?

You may be surprised by my answer.

Based on my observations, the ultimate taboo in erotica is an unhappy ending.

You can write a story that’s dripping with sensuality, sizzling with heat, full of outrageous sex acts. You can bring your readers to the edge of climax, even push them over. If your characters don’t end up satisfied, though, it’s likely your readers will not be either.

Every now and then, I run afoul of this taboo. The thing is, my reasons for writing erotica are not necessarily the same as the reasons my audience has for reading it. I started writing sexually explicit fiction in order to explore the frontiers of desire. I wanted to take my fantasies and bring them into the light, to vicariously experience situations I’d imagined but lacked the opportunity (or the courage) to make real. Furthermore, I was curious about the deep-seated entanglement of sexuality with other aspects of our psyche. This includes not just positive emotions like love, joy, pride, and pleasure, but also darker elements: shame, guilt, anger, obsession, self-doubt and fear.

My readers, on the other hand, are mostly looking for a tale that will arouse and entertain them. I like to think that the quality of my writing makes a difference, but I suspect that the most important criterion for a story’s popularity is the extent to which it turns the readers on. Obviously the erotic effect of a story depends somewhat on the skill with which it is told. Still, I suspect most readers do not share my fascination in the deeper or more abstract themes that sometimes pop up in my work.

Readers identify with the characters. Hence an ending where the characters do not get what they want—an ending that is ambiguous, ironic or even tragic—can spoil their enjoyment.

Unfortunately, sometimes I break this taboo against unhappy endings. I can’t help it; my premise leads me in a certain direction and I have to follow. I’m not going to force the narrative toward an unbelievable conclusion. I know that distorting the flow would be a mistake, at least from an artistic perspective. From a marketing perspective... well, that’s a different matter.

I have one story (“Trespass”), a science fiction retelling of Romeo and Juliet that ends with the death of both protagonists. That was rejected from a record five anthologies, before it finally found a home in a Coming Together collection. More recently, I wrote a lesbian tale called “Countertransference”, about the attraction between a psychiatrist and her young, psychotic patient. As you might expect, this taboo relationship does not end well. I’ve received three rejections for this one so far. I’ve considered self-publishing it, but I doubt that the effort would be worthwhile.

For some reason, my paranormal tales particularly tend toward darkness. None of the seven stories in my paranormal collection Fourth World offers an unequivocally happy ending. Need I mention that sales for that book have been abysmal?

Most of my novels end happily, but Exposure has an emotionally ambiguous conclusion. Though that novel features one of my strongest and most vivid heroines, I doubt it has sold more than half a dozen copies.

Why do I keep violating this taboo? Why don’t I just write sunny, sex-positive smut that will arouse my readers without making them suffer—or think?

I guess the answer is that I don’t control my inspirations. I don’t believe I have a muse, but I know that my stories arise at least partly from my subconscious. And there are some dark things buried there.

Dark, but true. I can ignore those truths. Or I can incorporate them into my fiction, and pay the price for my transgression.

Perks of Fate (#guardianangel #writing #inspiration)

By Jean Roberta

As Annabeth has pointed out, gratitude has traditionally been expected from the powerless. Sermons on the benefits of a grateful attitude seem to have migrated from Christian churches into various self-help groups.

On an interpersonal level, gratitude seems like a good idea when all parties are interacting in good faith. If I’m grateful to someone who gives me something, and if s/he is grateful to me for my gratitude or for whatever I’m willing to do for them, the relationship is likely to satisfy us both, and to last.

I’m grateful to the latest editor with whom I had some email correspondence. I sent a query on December 15 (submission deadline) to ask if I could have an extension of time until Monday, December 19. The answer was fast, polite, but negative. Editor said he planned to read all the submissions on Friday, December 16, and make decisions. If I could send him my story by 6:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time on that day, he would read it.

No pressure! (Well, there would have been less pressure if I had started much earlier.) Finishing the story therefore took precedence over my post for this blog. I emailed it on time. This morning, I got a fast rejection (“not quite right for this anthology”), although Editor said my story was an enjoyable read.

So now I have a relatively non-erotic “soft” sci-fi story that could be tweaked in various directions and sent somewhere else for consideration. I checked out submission requirements for several sci-fi and fantasy venues: Beneath Ceaseless Skies (literary adventure-fantasy, no sci-fi), Clarkesworld, Lightspeed (temporarily closed for submissions), the Magazine of Science fiction and Fantasy (venerable magazine founded in 1949 – snail-mail okay, and apparently required), Not One of Us (must focus on people/things out of place in their surroundings, can’t open .docx submissions), Strange Horizons (temporarily closed for fiction submissions).

I am grateful for the call-for-submissions that inspired me to write this story, which is actually an extreme revision (or overhaul) of an older erotic fantasy story which was apparently incomprehensible to everyone but me. It was rejected for an anthology several years ago, so I sent it to a fantasy writer I trust for an opinion, and she politely explained that she didn’t get it either.

In general, I could say that I am grateful to whatever force in the universe creates the strange, twisty road of any human life that leads to good things, but especially the lives of writers, in which “hard facts” and fantasy don’t collide as much as they intertwine. One thing often leads to another in ways that are hard to foresee at the time.

Events that startle me into gratitude are usually unexpected. Some of these events have even suggested the intervention of a Guardian Angel or some other supernatural entity.

There was a previous winter when Spouse and I were on an icy road, and another driver “threw his truck” (Spouse’s words) at us, which caused our much smaller vehicle to skid off a snow embankment and slide 180 degrees so that we were facing oncoming traffic, but all the other drivers slowed down, and we were able to turn around and continue on our way. Our car emerged without a scratch. (I didn’t remember this in time for the "Close Calls" topic.)

There was the time when I, as a poverty-stricken single mother, was walking down the street near a downtown park, and a Canadian twenty-dollar bill brushed up against my leg like a friendly dog asking for attention.

There was an earlier event in the Single-Parent Co-op, a hotbed of gossip in which I held the keys to every apartment in my building because I was the elected Block Rep, responsible for letting in repairmen as needed. The downside of my power (which was explained to me by a previous Block Rep) was that every time another resident couldn’t find an item, the holder of the keys could be accused of stealing it. Then another resident told me pointedly that she had gone to the police to report a beef roast that was stolen right off her kitchen table. (I hadn't seen it.)

This story disturbed me because the morale of the whole building could be affected by rumours about a sinister, crooked, red-meat-addicted Block Rep.

One day, when I was walking my young daughter home from school, she picked a purse off the ground in the parking lot. I located the owner (in another building of the co-op), but didn’t check out the contents, which seemed too private for my eyes. Several days later, I heard the backstory: the purse owner had cashed her entire paycheque (over $600, a large sum in the early 1980s) before going out drinking with friends, and then lost her purse in the parking lot after she drove home. She had been desperate until she retrieved her purse from me, and found every penny intact.

As I told my father later while relating this story, it would have been nice of the purse-owner to give me a small reward, which I could have spent on my daughter. My father told me that my good reputation was restored to me, and that was my reward. He had a point.

I don't have any devout faith in supernatural intervention, but if the vast, general unfolding of time sometimes throws me a juicy bone, I'm glad to acknowledge it.
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Have Title, Will Scribble

 
Our topic for the next two weeks is “Entitlement”. However, I really couldn’t think of anything insightful to say, either about being deserving, or just thinking that you are, so I decided to twist things a bit (that’s allowed!) and talk about titles—an issue of concern to every writer.

Give me a great title, and I’ll write a great book. Okay, that sounds like bragging, so let me flip the thought. If I don’t have an effective title, I really can’t write well. My imagination’s compacted. An evocative or clever title gets things moving. (There’s an obvious metaphor beckoning there, but I’ll let it pass...)

Some authors don’t seem to have this problem. They can come up with a lame working title, or even refer to their WIP as “the vampire book” or “the sex club book” or even “series book 2” and continue to make progress. For some reason, that’s very difficult for me. Perhaps this stems from my years working as a scientist and engineer. I’m used to designing things from the top down. Start with the concept, then expand the artifact through successive refinement. For me, the title should encapsulate the story concept, suggesting ideas for further elaboration.

I remember trying to write my third novel, originally entitled Ruby’s Rules, now rechristened Nasty Business. I spent hours juggling word lists, trying to come up with a title that a) was distinctive, b) was memorable, and c) captured my story idea. I was never very happy with the result, though it did generate some story ideas. In particular, games became intrinsic to the plot. In retrospect, I feel this book is one of the weaker things I’ve written, somewhat unfocused, with too many subplots and with characters whose motivations are at times mysterious.(I should say I'm not thrilled with the current title, either.)

On the other hand, several of the books I rank among my best started with just the title. In previous posts I’ve already mentioned The Gazillionaire and the Virgin, a title which I stole—um, I mean borrowed—from Fiona McGier's comment here at the Grip. Talk about fertile! Just pondering that phrase opened the floodgates of my imagination. Rajasthani Moon is another example of a book where the title came easy and early, and generated an outrageous, original, arousing and funny novel that's one of my favorite works.

The phenomenon occurs with shorter works as well. I wrote my scifi erotica piece The Antidote during a period when I’d been publishing a lot of erotic romance. I’d been feeling frustrated by my publisher’s emphasis on a HEA ending, sexual exclusivity and “nice” language. “I need an antidote to all this romance stuff,” I thought. Bang, I had a great title, for what turned out to be very much an anti-romance—a dsytopic tale with an ambiguous conclusion and lots of down and dirty multi-partner sex.

My well-reviewed lesbian fantasy The Witches of Gloucester started with the title, too, a riff on John Updike’s The Witches of Eastwick. The characters and the plot all came later, though obviously the setting is intrinsic in the title.

Given the importance of titles to my writing process, I’d love to find a way to generate good ones more reliably. Suggestions from other writers have never helped much. I’m very interested in hearing from the other Grip members, or readers, if you have any strategies you’d recommend.

Meanwhile, all I can do is keep my ears and mind open for unpredictable inspiration. Not a very satisfying approach for an engineer, but then, writing isn’t a science. It’s more like magic.

Inspiration

by Jean Roberta



To inspire literally means to draw air into the lungs. For the ancient Greeks, inspiration was given by the gods to selected mortals, who were deemed worthy to receive sacred revelations and transmit them to the rest of their human community.

One of the oldest of the ancient Greek shrines, the one at Delphi (said to be the omphalos or navel of the world), was presided over by the Pythia or priestess who was inspired to utter prophesies which were usually hard to interpret, the avant-garde art of antiquity. In some sense, she was said to be married to the god Apollo, who supposedly inspired her via the fresh air of the mountains, or the water of the sacred spring at the site.



I spent my formative years (ages 4 to 16) in southern Idaho, a state that is completely on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, which form the state’s eastern border. From age 9 to the summer I turned 16 and moved to Canada with my family, I lived in a house three miles outside the nearest town, where I could see mountains like this from all the front windows of our house. I liked to write stories while sitting on our second-floor balcony, looking across a valley to Chinx Peak, which looked somewhat like the rugged mountain in the picture.

It was a three-mile walk from our house to the town of Pocatello (said to be a corruption of “Pork and Tallow,” a name given to a local native chief by 19th-century traders.) Halfway to town, there was an artesian well where fresh, clear water constantly bubbled out of a hole in the earth. When I got there, I always cupped my hands and scooped up enough to drink. That was my earliest idea of a sacred well.

From age 16 on, I have lived in a part of North America that is famously flat, but I still sometimes dream of mountains and fresh water. I don’t yearn for a strenuous hike or a climb, just the pleasure of a scenic view.

Forests are equally inspiring, though I’ve never lived in or near one. I have visited the boreal forest of northern Saskatchewan, and the last time I was there, I loved writing in pencil in a cabin. If the mosquitoes aren’t unbearable (and I am marinated in Deep Woods Off), and it’s not raining, I like to write outdoors.

I love writing in my office at the university, where I transferred most of the books from my home library. (Sorry I didn’t take a photo of it to show here.) There I have a floor-to-ceiling window to the outside world, which shows a concrete walkway connecting buildings, and several trees. Unfortunately, I usually have too much actual work to do in my office: mark student essays, find handouts to be photocopied, and counsel students, including strays who ask for directions. Writing for my own pleasure tends to come last.

I also like to write in the “library” on the second floor of my house, but when I’m here, my spouse is usually home too, and if I leave her alone for hours with her laptop in the front room downstairs, our eventual meeting isn’t sweet. When I see her again, she usually makes sarcastic remarks about our separate lives. Besides, the “library” window shows the side wall and part of the roof of our neighbour’s house. It’s not inspiring at all.

The outdoors seems freeing because it seems completely unconnected to the publishing biz or the larger economy. When I feel surrounded by nature, I don’t have to ask myself whether my idea for a story fits any current trend.

Here is the beginning (backstory) of my unpublished gothic story, “The Water-Harp,” about a little girl who is inspired by her natural surroundings. Eventually, she is put to work in the laundry run by the local convent, and there she is “discovered” by the young lord of the manor, who thinks she would be an amusing plaything. He learns the hard way that he can no more control her than he could single-handedly divert the local river:

The Sisters of Mercy named the baby Dorcas as soon as they had fetched her in from the doorstep, where she had been left like a gift, wrapped in a clean blanket and tucked into a wicker basket. Sister Ursula said that Dorcas was a good name for a willing servant, and all the other sisters agreed that it was perfectly suitable.

As the baby grew to be a child, and then a young girl, all the sisters remarked that she loved cleanliness, and did her chores willingly enough when these involved scrubbing away dirt, and turning disarray into order. She followed instructions to the best of her ability, and no one could call her disobedient. Yet Dorcas spent as much time outdoors as she was allowed, and there was something about her that made her seem out of place in the orphanage, and unfit for the social station for which she seemed destined.

As a five-year-old will-o-the-wisp, she once led Sister Ursula on a merry chase to the bank of the river, the child’s favorite place to explore. Dorcas had unplaited her raven hair, and it streamed behind her like a banner in the wind. To make things worse, she wore no shoes.

“Dorcas ! What a ragamuffin you are!” called the sister, gasping for breath as she reached for the child. “’Tis time for your bath.”

“I can wash myself in the water,” laughed the sprite, wiping her muddy hands on her dress, “and when I’m clean enough, I can visit the mermaids that live down there.” She pointed at the murky water that rippled over unseen stones.
“What nonsense,” declared the nun, but her tone was gentle. “You mustn’t believe Sister Margaret’s tales. God has created a world of marvels, but He would never make a woman with the tail of a fish.”

The child looked troubled. “Perhaps that’s why they don’t want you to see them,” she explained. “I’m sure they think you have no manners.” The child put her tiny hand so trustingly in the calloused palm of Sister Ursula that the nun was momentarily inclined to forgive her.

Or perhaps the good woman saw a flash of her old Adversary in the dark eyes of the little girl, and did not want to confront him then. “Where are your shoes and stockings?” she demanded.

“Here,” said Dorcas, showing them, “but I can’t put them on my dirty feet. I went in wading.” Sister Ursula, with a strength developed by years of domestic labor, picked up her charge and carried her back to the orphanage where Dorcas could be made presentable for the company of the other orphans and their caregivers. And if the patient nun felt a pang of regret that she had never had children of her own while she had the chance, she never said so to anyone.

And so Dorcas was raised more indulgently than many children with two parents alive, although she knew nothing of worldly luxury. She introduced several of the other orphans to the river and the woods, with their music of rippling water and rustling leaves. And as Dorcas’ young friends saw with delight the flash of a fin, the flicker of a furry tail or sunlight on feathers, they felt as though they too belonged in the world.

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Looking at the Edge of the Cliff

by Jean Roberta

(Note: November 2 was my day to post. Please excuse me for showing up a day late. Yesterday I was giving a presentation called Ripe Fruit: Queer Sex on the Page to a small, select audience in the university where I teach. It was the first presentation in a series run by the "Queer Initiative" (faculty group) on all sorts of gay/lesbian/bi/trans topics. I made myself a kind of loose script for my talk, so I can post parts of it here when relevant to the current topic.)

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

To retire or not to retire? That is the question.

Well, not really. Much as I like to imagine myself just as I am now when I turn 65 (in 4 years), then 70, then 80, then 85, then – common sense tells me that I’m not immortal, and I won’t be able to teach forever.

The very cool thing about a writing career, however, is that it can last until death. When the playwright George Bernard Shaw left this earth in 1950, at age 94 (and I’m sure this event surprised his many fans and enemies who thought he would never shut up), he left an unfinished play in his desk. I like to imagine him haunting his former digs, trying to find a way to write the final act without fingers.

So I don’t ever really have to retire, if retirement means not working at all. However, I definitely see my teaching phase as having a final act followed by (I hope) a fabulous lunch, catered by the University Club, on a warm spring day in the outdoor space outside the university library with the fountain splashing between two long, groaning tables. (I attended a retirement lunch like that for one of my former profs, who was then my colleague. Retirement events, like weddings, are inspiring.)

Then what? No more garbled student essays to grade! No more plagiarists to deal with! No more students who skip half the classes in a semester, then show up on the last day, asking, “What did I miss?” No endless department meetings. No administration that expects the department to keep doing more with less. No government cutbacks to cope with.

No more fresh young faces, full of curiosity. No more interesting grammatical challenges. (Why do so many first-year students write almost entirely in past-perfect tense, and how can I persuade them not to?) No more amazing, unexpected compliments on the anonymous evaluation forms that all students are asked to fill in on the last day of class. (Last spring, someone wrote, “I hate English, but I love Jean.”)

Full days of “writing,” staring at a computer screen for eight hours at a stretch. (Or cleaning house, walking the dogs, going out for coffee to avoid self-imposed writing assignments.)

One of my former colleagues, a British-born Canadian writer named Joan Givnor (whose apparently effortless style I’ve always admired) wrote an essay on her experience of early retirement (at age 55), followed by a move to the West Coast with her husband. She sat in front of the computer screen in a room with windows that showed a different landscape than she was used to – and her old friends were too far away to visit on a whim. She realized, too late, how intellectually stimulating it was to have fellow-teachers (many of whom were also fellow-writers) available for conversation at almost any time during a working day.

Eventually, Joan adjusted to the big change in her life, cultivated local friends, and launched her post-retirement writing career. Since then, she has written a critically-acclaimed series of YA novels. (This surprised me, since she was formerly best known for short stories and book-length biographies of other writers, but I’ve read enough about other writers myself to know that a change of genre can give a writer a fresh start.)

I dread the transition from one phase of life to another. Much as I sometimes think (like other writers) that I could enjoy being in solitary confinement with a stack of paper and a box of pencils, I know there are reasons why prisoners in serious lockups (Alcatraz or your typical medieval dungeon) were known to go stark raving mad, sooner or later. And it wasn’t because of the rats, who might have seemed like welcome company.

So I don’t plan to leave the well-populated Ivory Tower exactly at “normal retirement age” (65), since I now have the legal freedom to stay awhile longer. Among other things, I want to make sure I will have enough money to live on, assuming I will live to 110, give or take a few years. (A future as an arthritic bag lady trying to sleep on cold cement doesn’t seem appealing.) I don’t have a clear plan yet.

But I would like a fabulous farewell lunch. :)

Rendezvous in Paris

By Lisabet Sarai



"I named my first car after you." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to snatch them back. My clumsy attempt at homage comes out as insensitivity, given the tragedies of her children's demise, and her own. My companion simply smiles, though, her expression a bit vague - the effects, perhaps, of the vin ordinaire we've shared (one glass so far for me, three for her).

"That's flattering, I suppose," she says finally. "Though I've never cared much for machines..." The lowering sun slants between the narrow buildings, drawing bars of gold on the cobblestones. A gaggle of primary schoolers erupt from one side of the square, tumble past us, and disappear in a cloud of shrieks and laughter on the other. Her moist eyes follow their progress, but her lips still quirk up at the corners. "The natural exuberance of childhood," she murmurs. "I still feel it."

She's pulled her silver-streaked hair into a classical bun, but stray locks have escaped to tangle upon her thin shoulders. The many layers of her clothing, dove gray, hide her body from me, but as she shifts in her chair to pick up her glass, I sense strength and grace, a purity of form that illuminates even her smallest movements. She drinks deep. I stare at the ruby drop that lingers for a moment on her upper lip, before her tongue darts out to gather it in. The tiny, casual gesture sends bolts of heat to my sex. I understand why she fascinated so many men - and women.

"Please, go on." She turns her full attention to me. I feel blood rushing into my cheeks. Laughter bubbles in her voice. "Why in the world would you christen your automobile with my name?"

"Freedom. That's what you've always been for me, a beacon of freedom in a world of constraint. You followed your heart, your vision, your passion. You didn't care what people thought of you. You defied convention. I've always wanted to be that sort of person."

"So why not be?" She leaned forward, fingers fluttering across my cheek, leaving trails of electricity in their wake. "No one can give you freedom, my dear. You must seize it for yourself."

"You make it sound so easy."

"No, it's never easy. You have to be brave. There will always be people who condemn you, who label you as trivial, or immoral. Who put obstacles in your path. Who try to bury you. It's far easier to give in and do as you're told. In the end, though, their approval means nothing. It won't compensate you for frittering away your soul."

I nodded. I already know the truth in what she says - otherwise, I wouldn't be here, in the waning Paris afternoon, ordering another round. Isadora winks at the slender young waiter who sets her goblet down on the table in front of her. He stumbles, almost spilling the contents into her lap. "Such lovely dark curls," she comments as he scurries back to safety of the bar. "I wonder if he has the same sort of hair on his chest. Drink quickly, Lisabet, so we can get him to come back."

"Tell me about your dancing," I urge, needing to change the subject, simultaneously embarrassed and aroused by her frank sexuality. "When did you first start? Where did you get your ideas?"

"I probably danced in my mother's womb. I don't remember ever not dancing. It wasn't something I chose. The dance chose me."

"I think I know what you mean," I respond. No one ever really taught me how to write. It was just something I've always done, a part of who I am.

"The Greeks really did understand - making the Muses into goddesses. There's a core of the divine in every art. And every artist has a touch of divine madness." She giggles, shaking her head till her long hair springs free from its chaste arrangement and tumbles over her breasts. I ache to run my fingers through those wild locks, working out the knots. I imagine stroking a finger tip across her nipple, sensing the stiffening response. I wonder what the wine would taste like, sampled from her laughing red mouth.

"And what about your dancing, my dear? I know that words are your primary medium but I sense that your lovely petite body craves movement."

I want to drop through the pavement. I want to gather her in my arms. I stall, sipping the blood-hued liquid and feeling liquid courage course through me.

"Sometimes - sometimes I dance. Sometimes I just forget myself and let the music take me over, control me." I don't tell her that the surest way for a man to seduce me is to dance with me.

"No, no, it's not the music. It doesn't come from outside. It's Spirit, that spark of truth, of the gods, inside all of us. The rhythm calls it forth, perhaps. You must let your guard down, let it out."

"I try. Sometimes I succeed. And then, the joy...."

Isadora's face is luminous in the dusk. "Yes. Nothing can quench that bliss. Poverty, illness, death... none of them has any power in the face of that glorious perfect grace. The bad things don't vanish, oh no, but somehow the dance transforms them. I transform them, weaving them all into the Art."

She's taken my hand now. She leans forward until I feel her warm breath on my face. "That's the secret," she whispers. "The body, this weak, misshapen, gross thing we lug around for half a century or more, is the crucible where we transmute base existence into transcendent beauty."

She grins as though mocking her own seriousness and waves at the boy cowering inside the café. The slight motion is so eloquent it brings an ache to my chest. "Garçon! L'addition, s'il vous plait!"

"A pity he's so shy," she adds, in a conspiratorial tone. "Ah well. He's probably too young to know much about love anyway."

Our check settled, we rise from our seats, so perfectly in unison that we might have been choreographed. Gas lights flicker into life around the square. Overhead the sky gleams a translucent teal. The café has filled up while we talked; the chatter of the other patrons is loud around us but velvet stillness has invaded my heart. I wait upon my companion.

Isadora surveys me, pleasure obvious in her expression. Desire surges through me, leaving me sweaty and trembling. She flings her scarlet silk scarf behind her and reaches for my hand. "My pension is a few blocks away. Shall we walk?"

The Reno Effect

Do home-owners become part of their domiciles over time? Do changes to the house affect those who live in it?

Consider the Reno Effect.

Jean Roberta is Not at Home. This does not mean she is a Victorian socialite who chooses to snub certain callers by sending word that she is not to be disturbed.
She is actually not living in her home at the moment. She and her spouse are currently staying in a motel for a few days.

This is part of the Reno Effect: homeowners disappear temporarily.

The entire second floor of their house had to be vacated so that a reno crew could come in to take down the wallpaper (even though it put up a good fight), repaint the walls and remove the off-white wall-to-wall carpeting. (Actually, it was slightly off-white in 1999, when Jean & spouse moved in. It has since become very off-white due to the presence of 3 little dogs. The cats are neater & prefer their litter-box.)
The floor will then be covered by laminate flooring and a few throw rugs.

Disconnecting a computer can cause the home-owner to appear invisible to those not in her immediate physical vicinity when she is off-line. You can test this out by trying it at home.

The renovations are planned to be completed by Christmas Eve, but then all the furniture has to be replaced in the second-floor rooms where it belongs.

Quite a few of the books in Jean's voluminous library are scheduled for disappearance. She is not willing to move them all again in this lifetime. The books to be removed will undoubtedly reappear somewhere else (Value Village, a second-hand book store, or the hallway outside Jean's office at the university, where there is a tradition of offering books to all interested takers this way).

Completed home renovations are said to make the inhabitants more visible once the dust has settled, since an appealing environment helps to inspire thinking and writing. Time will tell whether the experiment is succussful.

Meanwhile, Happy Holidays from the invisible blogger, sending you this mesage from another dimension.

:~) :~) **** ^^^^^

Fire and Moon

By Lisabet Sarai

You all must be bored by now. Week after week, month after month, it always comes back to him.

I want him. I can't have him. And there's no one to blame but my younger self, blind and unthinking, not understanding that some decisions cannot be rescinded.

No outside force tore us apart. I scarcely realized what I was choosing, what I was giving up. And honestly, can I regret the choice that has led to so much joy and comfort? My married life is the envy of everyone who knows me. My husband is a true jewel.

And yet...there's still the absence, like a missing tooth, an amputated limb. My kinkier self forever unsatisfied, and the knowledge that for him, the loss is more bitter still. He blames me, I know, and I can scarcely argue with his logic. (I never could.) After all, I was the one who blithely severed our deepest connections.

More than three decades ago I married, and renounced my Master, at least a physical lover. Over the years, the pain of loss has intensified rather than lessened. Out of that pain, though, has come inspiration.

How many poems have I written to him? How many stories has he, or his memory, kindled in my imagination?

When you read something by me that touches you, that sears you with its naked passion, know: I was thinking of him when I wrote it.

Beltane

(October 1997)

Point of balance:
A body suspended,
wrists roped
with loving precision;
thighs spread,
almost on tiptoe;
flesh marked,
a rosy map
of the ways of desire.

Point of balance:
The fire rises,
dances, dapples
the flesh
with patterns
of brightness and shadow,
spices the breeze
with smoky incense.

Balance point:
Is it your flesh
or mine?
Does it really matter
whose sighs, whose moans,
whose hand wields the whip
with such tender skill?
The same nakedness
we offer each other,
the same power.

Point of balance:
This holy night
between summer and winter,
darkness and light
(the darkness of the mysteries,
secret dreams,
the velvet shadows
that render the light
all the more brilliant.)

Balance
of will,
of devotion,
of hunger,
a moment suspended
between two breaths,
between one loving
stroke and the next.

My first novel was a blatant paean to my neglected Master. I borrowed from our shared past and plunged deep into my well of fantasy. He recognized all the quotes - flattered even when he was trying to be angry. I lost myself in the writing of that book. Nothing, however, can bring back the magic we conjured when we were together.

I've consciously tried to wean myself away from him in my fiction. I don't want my readers to be bored. The further I stray from that fountain of emotion, the less intense and real my erotica feels - at least to me. Even now, in fantasy, I explore the consequences of having made a different decision.

He's smaller than my husband, but thicker and much harder. I dismiss the pang of guilt that flickers through me. This, now―this is definitely cheating. The blow job, the spanking...one could make a case that they didn't count, but now another man is ramming his cock into my cunt and I have no excuse.

Except that I have no choice. I can't say no. It would kill me. I've never known anything like this fevered bliss. The stranger―Mark―hovers above me, driving his cock deeper with each stroke. I'm wholly open. It's what I've craved all my life and never known. I swear I never dreamed of this―did I? He makes me wonder, as he fucks me like the slut that I am. Perhaps I've always craved this kind of surrender, my dark desires hidden even from myself.

His cock breaks me apart and remakes me as someone else. I strain against the welcome bonds, grinding my pelvis against his. I'm crying from the pain and joy of it. My cunt shudders around him as I come, and come again. He won't let me look away.

I'm transparent to him. He knows who I am, what I want. There's no need for shame. As I gaze into his eyes, for a moment he's equally open. We connect. I sense his need and his triumph. "Mine!" he growls as he swells and explodes in my pussy, still fluttering from my last orgasm. The heat bathing my tissues drags me over the edge one last time.

~ From "Never Too Late", in Body Electric, by Lisabet Sarai (Books We Love Spice, 2010)

We can't go back in time. I'm not sure I'd want to. Still, my mature understanding of what we had and what we lost - what I willingly let slip away - can bring tears to my eyes. The rare times he and I have been able to meet (even rarer now that I'm half a world, instead of just a continent, away) blaze in my memory.

Half Moon

(June 1998)

The moon was full
two years ago
tonight. I wandered
ghostly through
Victorian halls,
waded barefoot
in pools of moonlight,
haunted by
the echoes of
your voice, your touch,
marked
as ever.

Felt you breathe
across the City;
Thought my heart
would break from longing;
Dreamed a Mistress,
harsh and tender:
"You must be empty
so I can fill you."

The moon tonight,
half-bright, half-dark:
like you. Two years
of desperate dreams
have left their mark.

The City breathes
in this fragrant forest;
Still, still:
you are always
with me.
Tears in my eyes,
wind in my hair;
when
will we kiss
hello?

Is inspiration enough to compensate for losing a part of myself?

I guess it will have to be.

A Father's Inspiration

By Lisabet Sarai

I'm writing this on Father's Day. It's a bittersweet holiday for me. My dad died a bit more than three years ago, on his eighty sixth birthday. Oddly, I feel his presence today far more than his absence. I've come to understand, during the time since his passing, that he'll always be with me, in my memories and in my heart.

I've written a lot about my mom over the past few years that I've been a contributor here, but not much about my father. He had his flaws and his problems - don't we all? - but they pale in comparison to his positive qualities.

Dad lived a long, joyous and fruitful life, including more than a year that was grace, pure and simple. After a serious cardiac incident, he was sent home to hospice care, not expected to live more than a few weeks. He confounded the prognosticators by recovering significantly and thriving (relatively speaking) for another seventeen months.

On reason I want to talk about my dad here at the Grip because he, more than any other individual, inspired me to read, and to write. He had the gift of words, and passed it on to his children. I recall him reading aloud to my siblings and me, folk tales, fairy stories, adventures like Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe. He told his own stories, too, invented worlds and characters for our pleasure. There were the Gulkons, terrible demons who lived in the fire on the hearth, and Houligan, the god of snow. (I grew up in chilly, stormy New England.) I still remember sitting spellbound (nearly fifty years ago) while he recounted the story of the hapless wizard Thomas Carl Sefney who had to touch his wand to every one of the monster's thousand tentacles before it consumed him.

Both my parents encouraged me to write. My first poems date from about third grade. During my childhood I wrote fantasies about Martians and ghosts, and plays about the Beatles and politics. In my adolescence, too shy to speak to any of my crushes, I poured out my adoration in anguished free verse. In my twenties and thirties, I wrote science fiction and first tried my hand at romance. Finally, in my forties, I actually managed to publish something (other than in my high school newspaper). My first thought was to send a copy to my father.

My dad and I shared favorite books, characters and authors. When he and I got talking about Sherlock Holmes or Frodo Baggins, H.P. Lovecraft or Edgar Allen Poe or Anne Rice, the rest of the family would roll their eyes and leave us to our obsessions. I never had any difficulty figuring out what gift to get him for his birthday or Father's Day. There was always some book that I had seen or heard about that I knew he'd love.

I never did introduce him to my erotica, though. I was so tempted to show him the pile of paperbacks with my name on the cover, the volumes I had penned or edited. (I suspect that he would not have considered ebooks to be "real" books, but then, he never did really master his computer either...!) I wanted to autograph him a copy of my first novel, telling him how much he had contributed to my literary endeavors. I wanted him to be proud. However, I didn't want to make him uncomfortable. He loved Anne Rice's vampire tales, but I recalled the way he reacted when I gave him a copy of her BDSM classic The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty - an embarrassed grin and a "oh, that's interesting". We didn't discuss that book much. I'm pretty sure he never read it. Though I would have welcomed the opportunity to open up to him about my own pursuits in the world of Dominance and submission, I sensed that he would rather not know.

I guess that there are just some things you can't share with your parents, no matter how close you are.

Now that he's gone, do I regret that he never knew about the my risqué alter ego Lisabet Sarai? Not really. The only thing that I regret is that I didn't get a chance to wish him a Happy Birthday one last time. I was just about to pick up the phone when I got the call from my sister, telling me that he was gone.

I was thinking this morning, however, that I just might dedicate my next book to him. He deserves it.

Visual inspiration for the auditory writer...

I've spent the last week reading, and mulling over, the posts of my fellow grippers. Each of us is very different, and I love that we all have slightly different takes on things.

I love looking at attractive pictures, and I admit, sometimes I will find one that just fits a character. But that is normally well after the character has always started speaking to me. Very rarely will an image spark a story ... although sometimes I will see an image the strikes me so much that I just know I will be using it in a cover, someway, somehow.

For me, I hear things ... and that is what will spark my imagination. I hear whispers of conversation from the couple on the walking track behind me. I overhear a bit of a conversation in the mall. Just little teasers here and there, that is what forms characters.

Very rarely do my characters come out on the pages as fully fleshed out. I might give hair and eye color, sometimes references to tattoos and piercings, but I leave the actual details to the reader. Why?

I admit, it isn't something so charitable as I want each reader to feel drawn into the story. See, I am not that smart. LOL

For me, it is simply the fact that I many times don't know what the character looks like. See, I am an auditory person. I am not visual. To illustrate, many of you know that I am a biology major. Which means, lots of labs. But, while I LOVED my classes, and passed the lecture portions with flying colors, I often bombed the labs. Not because I didn't care, and not because I didn't study my ass off. I just don't have very good visual recognition. I look at a bird and see a brown bird. Not the eye stripe that my ornithology professor saw that told him that the bird was this type of warbler and not that type. Just never clicked.

Partially because when I close my eyes, I see nothing. I don't visualize jack. Sometimes I see flashes ... but that is about it. I am an auditory person. I hear my stories in my mind, almost like a narration ... I don't see my characters.

So, long story short, eye candy is nice for self-lovin' purposes, but doesn't do much for muse sparking.

Every Breath You Take

By Lisabet Sarai

Inspiration by lordarq

It's the first word of my very first novel. "Breathe..." In this case, I was using the term literally. My heroine arrives in Bangkok and is immediately assaulted with the foreign smell of the place. I still remember my own debarkation, back in the eighties, before jet ways. Clambering down the metal stairs onto the tarmac, after midnight, I nearly swooned at the combination of diesel fuel, moist earth, night-blooming jasmine, and fried garlic.

If you write erotica, breathing is more than an autonomic process responsible for oxygenating the blood. Arousal reveals itself in our breathing. We pant, gasp, gulp air, hold it as we wait in anticipation or delicious terror for the next touch, the next stroke of the crop. I did a search for "breath" in the random subset of my stories I happen to have on my disk in text format. Here's a small sampling of what I found.

The song changed to something more upbeat. She shook her hips, did the same bumps and grinds as the other dancers, but the effect was totally different. She was listening to some inner voice. Every now and again her eyes would meet mine, and that luscious smile would light her face. I found myself holding my breath, willing her to turn again in my direction. ~ Butterfly

His beard was softer than it looked, tickling her. For a moment he simply held her, breathing in, inhaling her as if she were another drug. Suddenly there was shocking wetness. His tongue circled her navel, dipped inside. Her sex clenched in a sudden, delicious spasm. ~ Chemistry

All at once I wanted him. I grabbed him and fastened my mouth on his, grinding my pelvis against his hardness. He opened to me, held me tight as if he was afraid I would evaporate. “Where can we go?” I panted when we broke for breath. ~ Citadel of Women

Alan relaxes in his chair, enjoying Beryl's confusion. He's been in the film business long enough to recognize an act. Her flushed cheeks and quickened breath speak more clearly than her deliberately chosen words. She still wants me, he thinks with a hint of smugness, after all this time. ~ Old Flame

I bask in his gaze, proud and humble simultaneously. "You know what happens when you tease me. I'm sure that you remember the other night." Of course I do, and the memory leaves me wet and breathless: the binding, the beating, the final delicious buggering. My sex overflows. My thighs are slippery with my juices. I imagine he can hear the liquid squelch as I walk. His arm is around my shoulder now, guiding me along. ~ Wednesday Night at Rocky's Ace Hardware

"Much better." She flicks a lock away from my breast, almost but not quite touching me. "But I certainly don't want to hide those adorable tits." Seating herself on the chaise, she beckons me to her. My nipples are just at the level of her lips. She warms one with her breath, and it tightens visibly. I want to scream, to beg her to touch me. She's running this show, though. We both know that. ~ Velvet

I could go on, but I'm sure that I've made my point. The way our characters breathe tells our readers what they're feeling, as much as their facial expressions or vocalizations, their wetness or hardness. And in an erotic encounter, lovers use their breath as an extension of their will.

Breathing is more than just a tool for delineating emotion, though. Breath is also a powerful metaphor for life itself. Some versions of Genesis say that God animated the clay body of Adam by breathing upon it. "I'll never give in, while there's breath in my body," our dauntless heroes claim.

Breath is also used to refer to the spark of creative passion. The word "inspiration" derives from from the Latin inspiratus, past participle of inspirare "inspire, inflame, blow into," from in-"in" + spirare "to breathe". The connection to the term "spirit" is obvious. In fact the original meaning of inspiration was "under the immediate influence of a God or god".

"Inflame". How appropriate a term for a writer of erotica!

When inspiration strikes - when the words are flowing unhindered, the scenes in my imagination painting themselves effortlessly on the page - I do indeed have the sense that I've been touched by something divine. I feel it in my chest, a kind of buoyancy, as though I'd filled my lungs with helium. My poor body seems too limited a vessel to encompass the joy.

I wrote a poem many years ago about inspiration, called "metapoem":

it comes as the wind comes
and you can't change it.
you can only be patient
and open
and humble.
in glimmers,
in floods,
it comes.

you have to be
reverent -
silent -
or else
go out and get drunk,
forget it
to find it.

Inspiration, the author's Holy Grail. It's mysterious and yet simple. As simple as breathing.