COCKSURE

Following Lisabet’s line of thought I must admit writing gay erotic fiction has taken  me to places I never thought I’d go. When I wrote gay mysteries, the sex was muted—you know, if it was a movie—slow camera pan from the lovers to the flickering flames in the fireplace. Made you want to yell “Eyes off the flames and back on the flamers!”

Then a friend asked, “Why don’t you at least have them giving head? Open up the bedroom door a little.” Wow. Tentatively, in the beginning, I drew from my own fairly…uh…wide experience of my youth, and it was amazing how much came rushing back to me as I pounded the keys of my pc. Memories came whirling through time and space—standing at a urinal at the Albert Hall in London when a handsome dude glanced over and said “You have a nice dick.”

A nice dick. I didn’t like the word dick. I preferred cock. Dick was, in my opinion at the time… well…insignificant…dare I say it? Small. Cock, on the other hand was proud, out loud proud. Still I was glad he liked my..uh, dick.

Writing erotica words to describe private parts can become stilted—his manhood, her mound of Venus. Sometimes hilarious, his pole (please, a pole summons up thoughts of at least something  a foot and a half  long!) Her void (WTF?), his rod, (a friend of mine’s name, kind of like dick), her abyss ( fucking scary), and so on.

Then there’s the ACT…sometimes even scarier.

“He stretched me to beyond anything I could have ever imagined in my wildest dreams.” I don’t know about your dreams, but being stretched “beyond anything” is not something I could ever want to happen to my nether regions. No sir, thank you, go away, unless you’re a vampire and can heal it with a kiss.

“His lips were everywhere at once.” Huh? How’s that possible? Maybe if it was Mick Jagger.

“Every part of me hummed and throbbed with passion.” I’m not sure what this means.Enlightenment anyone?

But back to the words Lisabet was writing about—here’s the one I love the best. In 1928 a Frenchman—wouldn’t you know it?—wrote a book called, in translation, “Irene’s Cunt.” Can you imagine that title  in today's mainstream literature? A review stated that “Despite its title and subject matter, this is not an erotic book. Its French nature lies in the rich, almost surreal, language it uses, as well as the way it treats of matters which reach to the heart of human sexual relationships.”

I’ll go with that, because despite the way people may regard erotica as base, it always deals with the meeting of two (or perhaps more) souls, some fleeting, some lasting, but always about the heart of human relationships.

A Prick by Any Other Name?

By Lisabet Sarai

When it comes to sexual vocabulary, I'm agnostic. I will use whatever word seems to fit in a particular situation. Some authors I know are uncomfortable using terms that are particularly graphic or viewed as obscene. In contrast, I have no problem calling female genitalia a “cunt”, assuming the term is consistent with tone of my tale and the personality of my characters. On the other hand, I won't eschew a bit of euphemism, even somewhat purple-tinged, when the story, the characters and/or the readership require it. I'll use clinical or anatomical terms, too, if that's what seems right. I think carefully about the words I choose in sexual description, because an unfortunate decision can distract and even alienate readers.

Hence, I don't appreciate being told what words I can and cannot use in my fiction. For the most part, I am deeply satisfied with my main erotic romance publisher, Total-E-Bound. They're the most well-organized, diligent and supportive publishing company I've ever encountered. And they let me get away with a lot! However, I've had a few run-ins with editors when I wanted to use the word “prick”.

I've been told that, according to their style guide, “prick” is not acceptable terminology. I'm really not sure about the rationale for this, since for me the word is no more graphic or offensive than “cock”. It's true that in American English, calling a man a “prick” (or a “dick”, for that matter) is considered deeply insulting (though the two epithets do not have the same implications). Does that carry over into the original use of the word to denote the penis? Not in my dialect, anyway. It has occurred to me that the connotations might be different in the UK, where TEB is based, but we do have readers all over the world.

I'll sometimes choose “prick” as an alternative to “cock” when a man is thinking about his own organ. It seems to capture, for me, some aspect of gritty physicality. It makes me think of locker rooms and surreptitious hand jobs, of embarrassing hard-ons and Internet porn watched on the sly. Personally I wouldn't tend to call a penis a “prick”, because I don't have one, but I feel that a man might (and I hope that our male Grip members will either confirm or refute this).

“Prick” also has the nice implication of something that pierces or penetrates. I'm certain that extra level of meaning makes it sound a bit dirtier.

Anyway, when I received the edits for my most recent erotic romance, Challenge to Him, there were several instances of “prick” called out.

He could scarcely look at her without imagining her rounded limbs wound with rope, her neat bosom bared to his pinching fingers, her lively brown eyes hidden by the blindfold that would give him license to use her however he chose. His prick swelled to an uncomfortable bulk inside his trousers. He was grateful that the motoring duster he wore concealed the evidence of his excitement. 

This example fits in with my commentary above. The hero is slightly embarrassed by his sudden arousal, and thus thinks of his organ as a “prick”.

I thought a long time about whether it was worthwhile to fight about this. Ultimately I decided to change the word to “cock”. In my opinion, this loses a bit of the meaning, but not enough to justify antagonizing the editor.

However, a second case occurred here.

“You’re a clever little slut,” Andrew muttered through gritted teeth. “I’ll wager this isn’t your first time eating a man’s prick.” He wound his fingers into her hair and held her head still. “Open!” Jerking his hips, he drove his cock down her throat with bruising force.

I refused to change this instance. Andrew has deliberately selected the term “prick” to embarrass and excite the heroine. Replacing this with some other term would weaken the utterance. There's also the problem of repetition, since I wanted to use “cock” in the following sentence.

Some authors agonize over every word. I have to admit that I don't do that. However, I can usually trust my instincts, especially in a sex scene.

I'm not a prima donna, I swear! You can even ask my editors. However, I'll stand up for my right to use the words that work in my story. Penis, cock prick, dick, dong, schlong, shaft, meat, phallus, skewer, screwer... there's a place for each one. Maybe even “hardness”. Words are my tools. I'm not going to reject any of them out of hand.

Reading in the Shade

by Jean Roberta

Lately, I’ve been immersed in two books: The Gilda Stories by Jewelle Gomez (Firebrand Books, 1991) and Where Thy Dark Eye Glances: Queering Edgar Allan Poe, edited by Steve Berman (Lethe Press, 2013).

I actually read The Gilda Stories when it was hot off the press and I was running a little one-person book-ordering service as a spinoff of the collectively-run alternative bookstore where I worked for awhile on a government grant. Jewelle Gomez’ vampire novel attracted a lot of attention in certain circles because it is about lesbian vampires “of color” who are not treated as freaks. Au contraire. The novel begins during the American Civil War, and Gomez’ vampires are appalled by the cruelty of the world. They make a point of taking only as much blood as they need while reading their victims’ minds, then giving the foolish mortals what they need in exchange for a little of their life-force. The vintage photo on the book-cover shows a gentle-looking African-American woman who is identified as the author’s great-aunt in Boston, circa 1900. At a conference in 2001, I met Jewelle Gomez and asked her if she thought her ancestor would mind being associated with vampires. Gomez said no, and I think she was right. Her vampires aren’t sparkly, but neither are they offensive.

The reason I am rereading this book is because I got an exciting email addressed to “Dear vampire scholar.” (I’m actually mortal, though easily sunburned.) Apparently I am now a “vampire scholar” because of my essay in a forthcoming book, now titled The Vampire Goes to College, an anthology of articles on teaching vampire literature at a post-secondary level.

The new email invited me to submit something for a new vampire anthology which will be interdisciplinary and focused on vampires “of color,” or vampires in a context of racial politics. I plan to send in a proposal for an essay on three vampire novels that deal with slavery and resistance to it: Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice (in which the narrator feels overwhelmed with guilt for becoming a supernatural predator in Louisiana in 1791, but not for enjoying the wealth produced by the slaves who work his plantation), Every Dark Desire by Fiona Zedde (an erotic novel in which the oldest and strongest of a “clan” of Jamaican lesbian vampires was “turned” in the 1600s while living in the hills as a refugee from slavery) and The Gilda Stories, in which the best resistance to oppression is shown to be superhuman strength and benevolent mind-rape (greedy, dishonest, racist and sexist mortals are given some new ideas). If my proposal is accepted, I will have until January 2014 to write the essay.

Where Thy Dark Eye Glances was a free gift from Lethe Press. It is a marvelous re-imagining of Poe’s gothic poems and stories, in which same-sex attraction is combined with Poe’s themes: the uncanny appearance of a doppelganger, the dire warning of a raven who croaks “Nevermore!” to a heartbroken lover, the grisly revenge of a dwarf jester on his aristocratic tormenters, the perception of a murderer, presumed “mad,” that his victim’s heart is still beating. The book is divided into three sections: “Poe the Man” (in which the known facts of Poe’s life are the framework for “what-if” stories), “Poe’s Writing” (the longest section) and “Reading Poe” (contemporary stories in which Poe’s work is a major influence on lonely, socially-marginalized characters).

This is a surprisingly varied group of stories that are so well-written and atmospheric that they are all likely to haunt the reader (groan – I couldn’t resist). Several of these stories provide satisfying explanations for elements that are obscure or mysterious in Poe. (“Telltale,” Clare London’s take on “The Tell-Tale Heart,” is a good example; in this version, the murder makes perfect sense and so does the murderer’s fruitless remorse.) “A Portrait in India Ink by Harry Clarke” by Alex Jeffers is actually based on a visual illustration of Poe’s story “Morella,” and the illustration is reproduced with Jeffers’ story, which takes place in Ireland in 1968.

I almost wish I had asked whether I could submit my own lesbian Poe-inspired story, “Down Below” (based on “The Cask of Amontillado,” but in my story, the “victim” is temporarily bound in a cellar, not permanently walled into a crypt) even though it was published twice. In any case, my story is probably too obvious a sex fantasy to fit in with the stories in this book, which are respectful, multi-faceted explorations of Poe’s life and work.

As in other good anthologies, every story deserves to be mentioned, but few readers seem likely to read a review that is almost as long as the work under discussion. I’ll have to ponder this dilemma before writing a more thoughtful review of the Poe anthology.

Maybe a veiled, mysterious Muse will appear in my dreams to give me advice on my two writing projects. I can imagine her leading me down a dark corridor with only a smoking candle for light. Inspiration so often comes from the shadows.


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Angels, Jazz and Blue Guitars

by Amanda Earl

EROTICA

"A Matter of Possession" by G.C. Scott is my current wank book. Scott's "Travels with a Whip" is one of the most diddle-worthy books in my smut collection. A woman en route to a kinky ranch for a vacation is kidnapped (albeit consensually, sort of), tied up, naked & helpless to resist various pleasures heaped upon her & of course, the taste of the whip. "A Matter of Possession" about a woman with a desperate need to be restrained who finds what she's looking for in the form of a few kinky and in one case dangerous lovers was overly bondage heavy for my tastes at the start but moved into more classic power play, so I'm getting my rocks off. For those who enjoy scenes of self-bondage and F/f in particular, this book should prove to be a clit tingler/prick stiffener. I am turned on by power dynamic scenarios not bondage or corporal punishment per se.  I prefer D/s fiction where the submissive is powerful but yields out of choice and desire, rather than because said submissive is a doormat who would kneel for any dom with a commanding manner. And G.C. Scott, who has written numerous D/s novels, depicts power play in exactly the way I enjoy.

I recently read  Lisabet Sarai's "Incognito," which presents a cornucopia of debauchery through the character of Miranda/Randy and is also a delightful homage to Victorian erotica. This book was clever & sexy as hell, something I've come to expect from Sarai, who aside from being our OGG maven, is also a damn fine erotica writer.

I just started a book by another one of our OGGers, Lily Harlem. "Hired" is the first novel in her "Hot Ice" series. Some very steamy sexy and compelling characters. Must be the Canadian in me, I have a total thing for hockey players. 

ROMANCE

Just finished Luanne Rice's first novel, "Angels All Over Town," which was written in 1985 and re released in 2006 [I suspect with a bit of updating as some of the references were 21st C]. I don't read romance novels too often these days, but I used to read a lot of Rice's books when I was in my twenties, along with the novels of Maeve Binchy and Rosamunde Pilcher because their novels allowed me to get lost in the stories for a short while and at that time in my life, I desperately needed to get lost.  In "Angels All Over Town," we get to know, Una, who is a soap opera actress haunted by the ghost of her dead father. I quite liked her character and that of her sisters. Also fun is the beach setting, which is one of the things Rice is renowned for. It made for a good summer read.

CANLIT

The title of "The Blue Guitar" by Ann Ireland comes from the Wallace Stevens poem "The Man with the Blue Guitar," which is itself inspired by Pablo Picasso's painting "The Old Guitarist," probably one of the reasons I picked the book. Also for years I have loved for the Cowboy Junkies song "Blue Guitar," which was a collaboration by Townes Van Zandt and Michael Timmins. Van Zandt's widow gave his unfinished lyrics to Timmins who finished the lyrics and wrote the music. 

Amazing where books can take you, isn't it? Ireland's novel is about a former classical guitar prodigy named Toby who choked on stage in Paris as a young guitarist and his return to the stage after many years. I love fiction about music. One of the best I've read is Esi Edugyan's "Half-BloodBlues" about a group of black jazz musicians in WWII in Paris and Berlin. HBB in particular had me searching for the music referred to in the book. A new poetry manuscript I am working on has been inspired by all the references to jazz in Edugyan's book. I can't even fathom those writers who don't read because they are afraid of being influenced. I read in order to be influenced. It is essential. When I don't read, I am much less prolific and creative. One sentence in one novel or one imagine in a poem or a book of short stories can be the spark for a story or poem or whole poetry manuscript. Just as a painting or a piece of music can be. 

I learned about my current read "Magnified World" by Grace O'Connell through Shelagh Rogers' interview with the author on CBC Radio's "the Next Chapter," a weekly show  and podcast that features contemporary authors. If you're a book lover, I highly recommend this show. The novel centers around a young woman named Maggie who is having a difficult time after her mother killed herself by drowning in Toronto's Don River, her pockets full of zircon stones.

Next on my list of Canadian literary fiction to read is Katrina Onstad's novel "Everybody Has Everything," about a childless couple entrusted with the child of  friends who died in a car accident. I also learned about this book in the same episode of "the Next Chapter" which featured O'Connell's novel. I think the thing that piqued my interest was Onstad's musing that we all have so much in life, so much that we take for granted. It is something that resonates with me in my own life.

NONFICTION

 "Becoming Modern: the Life of Mina Loy" by Carolyn Burke is a biography of a twentieth century visual artist and poet, who was unfortunately obscure in her time (like so many poets), but her associations with the Russian Futurists brought her a wee bit of glory later on. A dear friend loaned me Loy's poetry collection "the Lost Lunar Baedecker" a few years ago and I enjoyed its surrealistic nature and her candour. I gobble up books about the wild times of previous eras, particularly Paris between the wars, but also previous centuries. I have a sizable collection of fiction and nonfiction portraits of the era of Paris between the wars, the most recent being "Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald" by Therese Fowler, which puts Hemingway in the worst light I've ever seen him portrayed and makes Zelda seem much more intellectual and literary than she is portrayed in other novels and works of nonfiction.

POETRY

 "The Small NounsCrying Faith" is the latest poetry collection by Canadian poet and Governor General Award winner Phil Hall. It was  published by Toronto small press publisher Book Thug. Hall's poetry is minimalistic, thoughtful, imaginative, unpretentious and unique. He has a way of turning a phrase just slightly so that it becomes something entirely unexpected and yet it makes sense. For poets the balance between the play of imagination, the plasticity of language and the dictates of sense and coherence is always a difficult one to maintain but Hall does so adeptly.

“To feel most beautifully alive means to be reading something beautiful, ready always to apprehend in the flow of language the sudden flash of poetry.”  Gaston Bachelard

Books have always been my steadfast companions. They have helped me through difficult times;  they have led me to explore and learn new things; they have cultivated the garden of my imagination. They are the chief reason that I wanted write. I hope in every one of my current reads posts, I communicate to you my love of reading and inspire you to take the time to read and to read from a variety of books. From the point of view of writing, every book that I read is contained in my own work in some form or another. 

No Room At The Inn

by Daddy X

Wow- Back to the reading topic already? Seems we just wrote about this, and in fact, that was the first topic for the ‘new crew’ when OGG invited me to join, along with several others.

It’s been difficult times with Momma X’s emergency operation in early May and subsequent complications, now resolving. Thanks to all who knew and expressed concern, both on and off-list. 

Three days after returning from a trip back east for my 50^th high school reunion, we ended up in the ER.  Earlier that night, we had been out with poet Michael McClure and his wife, sculptor Amy Evans McClure, for a Jason Moran evening at SF Jazz. That may seem like TMI at this point, but there is a tie-in below re: the ‘Beats’.

I did have a chance to finally finish Charles Jackson’s “Lost Weekend”, the novel behind the 40’s film of the same name, starring Jane Wyman and Ray Milland. Depressing stuff, a painfully accurate portrayal of a binge drinker, but so well written I couldn’t put it down. Although I knew a few, I never was a binge guy. More of a sip, sip, sip, all day long sort of a thing. But still kinda got too close to home, as you may have seen in my bio.

Then there was Paul Auster’s “Brooklyn Diaries”, a bit of a lightweight for Auster. In his older years, he seems more sentimental and employs less symbolism than when he first came on the scene with one of my faves, “The Music of Chance”. Auster can be quite a straightforward storyteller as well as surreal symbolist, evidenced by the seemingly random events that coalesce neatly at the end, putting one in mind of a ‘Seinfeld’ TV episode.

Most recently, I read an as yet unreleased book on the famous/infamous Chelsea Hotel in New York. Written by James Lough, “This Ain’t No Holiday Inn” will be out by the time of this post. Momma X and I had the pleasure of meeting him at a local reading last month at The Lovable Rogue bookstore.

The Chelsea is located on W. 23^rd St., New York. At eleven stories, it was the tallest building in the city when built in 1883. Around the turn of the century, the business was purchased by the Bard family, Hungarian aristocrats and great patrons of the arts, who targeted an artistic clientele for their ‘residence hotel’. The mercurial manager, Stanley Bard, loved and feared by all, became the soul of the operation in 1955. He often gave artists a break, taking art (or promises) in lieu of rent. The policy lasted until the 1990’s when it was sold to a conglomerate, with money rather than community now the top priority.

And what a community! The eleven floors created a sort of social structure that went up in respectability as the level from the street increased. On the lower two floors were what the hotel labeled ‘transients’, and at the top lived luminaries like Tom Waits and Virgil Thompson, music critic for the now defunct New York Herald Tribune. 

It has been called the world’s longest-running art colony cum insane asylum, among other things. Everyone stayed there: from Mark Twain to Sarah Bernhart, Arthur Miller (nursing wounds from his failed marriage to Marilyn) Vladimir Nabokov, Gore Vidal, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen and Janis Joplin, who blew Cohen in a room at the Chelsea. (See: Chelsea Hotel #2 by Leonard Cohen.)  There were also many hangers-on and wannabes roaming about—poseurs among the royalty.

Viva and daughter Gaby Hoffman, Edie Sedgwick and others of Warhol’s ‘Factory’ scene were considered aristocracy. Jimi Hendrix, Sid & Nancy (she was stabbed to death in room #102) and Dee Dee Ramone all spent time there. Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe roomed together. Stanley Kubrick argued with Arthur C. Clark in a Chelsea room over “2001: A Space Odyssey”. Dylan Thomas died in a drunken stupor at the hotel. And don’t forget male impersonator (and bouncer) Storme’ De Larverie’, who threw the first punch at Stonewall.

The major focus of the book is the Bohemian scene. In a pseudo-Terkel oral history, the author introduces us to the real deal. He examines the period between 1980-1995, at the end of which, the Chelsea, like other New York institutions, abandoned its roots and went upscale. The outlaw life led by the likes of Marty Matz and Gregory Corso is gone away now. Herbert Huncke, a beat writer/junkie who had a 100mg daily Methadone habit at 80 years old, still did heroin to get high. He is the acknowledged coiner of the term ‘beat’ —“How ya doin’, Huncke?” … “I’m beat, man. (See: “The Herbert Huncke Reader”) 

That’s all unlikely to return in modern Manhattan, where struggling artists are now literally priced out. Up until then, anybody in the arts who was down and out just knew: “Well, I can always get a room at the Chelsea.”

Some of these Bohemians were not lovable folks. Many had done hard prison time, and thought nothing of hustling the street (or each other). It’s all the same to junkies, pimps and con artists. Drugs of all persuasions were freely available at the Chelsea—visible   mostly on the lower floors, but accessible pretty much everywhere in the building.

The last chapter, IMO the best and most insightful writing of the book, is a lament of the loss of these low-rent enclaves for artists in major cities and contemplates our cosmopolitan artistic future. Although the book has neither the depth nor skill of something from Studs Terkel, there’s a bounty of information for anyone interested in the beat culture (not what SF columnist Herb Caen labeled ‘beatniks’, which the beats hated).  

 “This Ain’t No Holiday Inn” is a fun read that investigates an endangered slice of artistic history. Chances are some of us have stayed there or know people who did. The arts and artists the Chelsea embraced have provided a lasting memory of our modern culture.

The Chelsea Hotel is now closed for renovation by the new owners. It will reopen as the Hotel Chelsea.

Wanna know what's on my iPad?

By Desiree Holt

I make it a habit when reading for pleasure to read the opposite of what I write. I don’t ever want to take the chance of another writer’s voice bleeding into mine. I love reading what other erotic authors write but since I’m usually ass deep in at least two projects I don’t get much chance to indulge. Instead, I’ve found genres that really keep my interest.

Straight romance is one of them, the kind that gives you warm and fuzzy feelings. I am addicted to Marie Force’s McCarthy’s of Gansett Island series. So much so that I have actually reread most of the current eight books at least three times, some of them even more. Oh, not the entire book, but the really feel-good sections that put a smile on my face. She had an incredible way with words and is an exceptional storyteller. Having a hard day? Upset about something? Wish it would stop raining on your parade? Pick up one of these books. They’re better than a glass of wine, and that’s saying something.

I also love to read thrillers. My current favorite authors are Brad Thor, the late Vince Flynn and Allison Brennan. They all know how to pull you into the story from the first page and create unforgettable plots. The problem with their books is once you start one you can’t put it down. I’ve spent too many late nights propping my eyelids open because I just had to finish the book. Pick up anything by any of these authors. You can’t go wrong.

And now I’m reading a book that doesn’t belong in either genre. Do you watch LONGMIRE on television. I have to say, first of all, I am in love with Robert Taylor, the actor who plays Longmire. He can put his shoes under my bed any time. My friend Camryn Rhys recently was able to get me a signed copy of A Serpent’s Tooth, the latest in the series by Craig Johnson, on which the series is based.

Lordy, that man can write. His prose is clean, his dialogue crisp, and he really makes you “see” his characters. He has the uncanny ability to inject just the right touch of humor in a serious plot. I am actually trying to force myself to read this more slowly than I usually do because…I don’t want the books to end!

I am pretty stingy with the reviews I post but these authors are always on my Must Review list. Try them! You’ll like them!

And come visit me whenever you can.

Twitter: @desireholt

Facebook: desireeholtauthor

Web: www.desireeholt.com

Blog: desiremeonly.com

Pinterest: desiree02holt

Book Nostalgia

Sacchi Green


Like Giselle, I’m currently on vacation, in my case in the White Mountains of NH where I have a cabin, and very slow dial-up internet access. The books around me tend to be trail guides and histories of women climbers and that sort of thing, but I also see Black Beauty and Tom Swift: Young Inventor and Brighty of the Grand Canyon (Brighty is a mule, as one might expect from Marguerite Henry, who also wrote Misty of Chincoteague.) If you think this sounds as though I have someone young here with me, you’d be guessing right. My seven-year-old granddaughter has her nose in a book much of the time, but she’s also enjoying playing/swimming in mountain streams and riding the Alpine Express with her father at the local ski resort, along with its other summertime offerings that mainly involve one kind of high-tech bouncing device or another.

All of which makes me nostalgic for the books of my childhood, and somewhat amused to recall the books of my adolescence. Horse stories, certainly, and dog stories, and what there was for strong girl stories; Little Women, Harriet the Detective, Nancy Drew (and every boy scout adventure book in the library, because there weren’t any equivalents for girls.) And nurse romances, and National Velvet, and the British Theatre Shoes, Skating Shoes, etc. series, moving along to Jane Austen and her less literary follower Georgette Heyer. By the time I was 14 or so, though, I was reading historical dramas with plenty of sex (for the times,) Horatio Hornblower, and Mika Waltari’s Egyptian-themed books, among others.

I worked shelving books and sweeping floors at our small local library, and had access to everything. The librarian was the wife of our church’s Minister, but broadminded; one day she called me aside to say that she knew my mother didn’t mind if I read from the adult section, but the mother of one of my friends had complained because I was bookmarking the spicier passages for my friends (who would never make it through the complete books.) That taught me a lesson, and when I found a real gem in the Hospital Guild Thrift Shop, The Sheik by Ethel M. Dell, I didn’t share it. The book was old by then—I’m old, but not old enough to remember the Rudolph Valentino movie version—but with the same sort of impact I imagine 50 Shades of Gray has today, with the added benefit of wild adventure. Not explicit sex by modern standards, but my imagination was quite equal to the challenge of extrapolation.

Eventually the bodice-ripper genre came along. Kathleen Woodiwiss was a pioneer there. Historical flamboyance and storms of lust. I vowed that I’d never bother with sexless romances again. Then by college I’d discovered Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Fanny Hill. I knew I was going to be an erotica author someday. A friend and I trying sending stories to men’s magazines, with no luck--my rejection was fairly positive, but said I made the male protagonist look like too much of a sexist pig, which I’d thought was just what they wanted.

“Someday” turned out to take a long time coming. Procrastination and raising a family got in the way. I finally started out with science fiction and fantasy, and about the time I saw opportunities for publishing erotica I’d begun selling a few stories to anthologies for kids, and thought that might be the main way I’d go, so I used a pseudonym for the sexy stuff—which then pretty much took over. I keep thinking that now that my granddaughter is such a voracious reader, I should get back to writing for kids and YA, but it hasn’t happened yet.

As to what I’ve been reading lately, well, I have to admit that most of my reading (aside from social media) has been of books I’m supposed to review for the Erotica Revealed website, or have been asked to review or blurb by their authors, or am reading as research for stories. It’s been interesting sometimes going outside my comfort zone while still acknowledging the different parameters of some other readers’ comfort zones—not a good way to put it, though; to paraphrase the song, “What’s comfort got to do with it?”

Back to the present moment. It’s about time to go out for ice cream, as I promised the not-so-little imp princess. She’s up to my chin now, at seven! Better get moving writing stories her mother will let her read.