Joy is a signal you can trust -- #Joy #Satisfaction #Insight

By Lisabet Sarai

About a week ago, I had an “aha!” moment. I’d been feeling terribly stressed due to increased demands at my job and my author commitments, plus some impending travel that will make it all the more difficult to fulfill my obligations. I was obsessing about everything, when it hit me: even though I have way too much to do, I enjoy almost all of the tasks on my long list —writing, teaching, research, making covers, reading, writing reviews, creating blog posts, entertaining friends, sending birthday cards, cooking, even exercising. When I asked myself what I’d give up, if I had to make a choice, I really didn’t have a good answer.

That realization flipped my thinking and drained some of the stress. First, I felt a surge of gratitude that my life is so full of meaningful activity and so rich in joy. Second, I understood that joy is a reliable signal as to whether you’re on the right path.

If it’s not fun, you’re doing it wrong.

Am I talking about sex? Yes. Writing? Yes. Keeping fit? That too.

The Calvinistic/Puritan tradition views life as bitter and hard, an exercise in self-denial, a continuous series of trials one must endure in order to reach the promise of Paradise in the hereafter. I just don’t buy that. It doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t match my personal experience.

For me, life is something to celebrate, a continuous unfolding, a twisting and often surprising path. And when I’m wondering which branch to follow, I’ve learned to turn within first, to ask myself how the path feels. Does it feel right? Does it generate joy?

I remember when I got my first job in my second career. (I’ve had several since.) I had no prior professional experience in this field, just a couple of university courses. I got hired on the strength of my academic credentials. When I started working, though, something clicked. I really “got” the concepts. I found I had an aptitude that I would not have expected. The job tapped into my creativity and developed my interpersonal skills. It was definitely the right path at that time.

When I met my husband (at a technical conference), I tried to give him the brush-off. We lived on different coasts and I didn’t want a long-distance relationship. Besides, I was already juggling four lovers. When he persisted, however, I discovered that being with him felt inexplicably comfortable. We spent the first three weeks of our life together driving across the US, a trip that could strain even a well-established couple. We had a fantastic time—and despite the newness of our relationship, the whole process turned out to be incredibly easy and natural.

Thirty nine years later, I understand: it was so much fun because we were obviously doing it right.

Note that joy is not exactly the same as happiness. It’s not about pleasure or entertainment. Joy is something deeper, a spiritual quality, a sense of satisfaction, order and symmetry. Sometimes it’s a quiet, soothing warmth humming under your solar plexus. Sometimes it’s laughter bubbling up out of nowhere, an urge to sing or to dance. Joy can be wordless, or it can spill out in poetry or paint.

I believe we are meant to feel joy and that when we do, we can trust we’re being our best and truest selves.

The fact that something kindles your joy doesn't mean it will be easy. Climbing a mountain, running a marathon, getting a degree, raising a child, or writing a book all take a huge amount of effort, but joy is the ultimate reward. And of course every life has its pain and its tragedies. But joy makes you more resilient.

Writing can be tough, frustrating work. We all complain when the words don’t flow or the characters don’t obey. We fight with incompetent editors, flinch at poor reviews, feel discouraged when our royalties don’t even begin to reach the level of minimum wage. In the face of all these negatives, why do we—why do I—keep writing? Out of love. Because of the joy.

Almost nothing compares to the sense of delight when I am in the groove, the words are flowing and the story is unfolding just as I’d imagined. It’s worth every bit of aggravation and every ounce of effort.

At least that’s how I feel. Your mileage may differ. But if you are truly suffering for your art, why bother? If what you're doing doesn't fundamentally satisfy you, give you that deep level feeling of rightness, maybe you are doing the wrong thing.

Not that I’m counseling my fellow authors to give up. Just stop and ask yourself: is it fun? And if not, what can you change so that it will be?

At Home in My Own Skin

I have a recurring dream I call the house dream. It tends to take two forms. The first is not so much scary as it is frustrating. In it I’m always looking for my dream home, usually with a pressing sense of urgency that’s never made clear to me. Every time I think I’ve found the perfect place, there’s some serious flaw that I can’t quite overcome. There’s a swamp in the back garden – or even worse a swamp in the gigantic bathtub. The stairs are too steep and too narrow to actually climb. I discover the house is the sight of a murder or some other tragedy. I discover the previous owners have simply walked away, and the house is still crammed full of their stuff, as though they might return at any moment. In spite of the obstacles, I really want the house, and in the dream, I‘m always trying to figure a way to get around the deal breakers.  

The second type of dream is the worst. It’s the forbidden room dream. This dream terrifies me every time I have it, and I often wake up crying out, usually drenched in sweat and breathing like I’ve just ran a race. Afterward, I’m never too anxious to go back to sleep again. The dream always involves me having lived in a big, usually very old, house for a long time. No matter how long I’ve been in residence, there’s always one room I never go into. No one goes into it because it’s locked and off limits, and yet every second I live there, I’m aware of that room, aware that it’s dangerous. I’m never really sure what it is that I fear, or why the space is off limits. Is there a ghost, an evil spirit, a body long dead? Is there a demon, a crazy person, a mad serial killer? I never know. And when I do go into the room, which of course I always must, I am so frightened I can’t breathe. And yet I never actually see what it is that frightens me. Sometimes I almost convince myself there’s really nothing to be afraid of, but I never quite manage it. At the very least, the room feels strangely off, disturbing in some way I can’t define.

I’ve done enough dream analysis to know that the house is me, whether I’m looking for my dream home or whether I am terrified of some room inside. Swamps, locked doors, steep and dangerous stairs, it doesn’t matter, it’s all me. All my hopes yet unrealized, all my issues, resolved and unresolved, all my neuroses, all my fears, all my quirks, they’re all right there in good old REM sleep. Okay, I get that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I also know the difference between a romp through the ragged depths of my unconscious and the old internal computer simply processing daily detritus. 

The efforts to find my dream house are just my battle to get comfortable in my own skin. The forbidden room is my unconscious’ way of dealing with my darker fears in order to make the Self more at home in said skin. Everyone has rooms they’d rather not revisit. And while those rooms may be places of terror in the dream world, they’re often places of true treasure when we’re willing to confront them in the waking world. That is never truer than it is for a writer.

I chose to share these dreams because for me the battle to truly come home, the effort to explore the immense geography of that home, all takes place inside my own skin. I’ve travelled a lot and lived in a lot of different places. My father got wanderlust every few years and uprooted us to yet another place where he was convinced the grass was greener. While Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz might click her heels together and declare, ‘there’s no place like home,’ I’m far more likely to shrug my shoulders and admit, ‘there’s no place that is home.’ I’ve lived in the UK now longer than I’ve ever lived any place. But what that means is that I’ve never lived anywhere long enough for a place to seep into my veins and into my soul. I live my life always ever so slightly disconnected, and I suspect I’m not the only one. 

Sorry Dorothy, but if home is where the heart is, then Kansas ain’t it. My dreams would suggest home is that vast undiscovered country inside my own skin – the place that fascinates me, delights me, frustrates me, terrifies me, and leaves me wondering how I’m ever going to explore it all and make peace with it before it ceases to exist. 

It’s no wonder that vast unexplored, often forbidden, dark places are a recurring theme in my novels. Nor is it any wonder that I gravitate toward bodies shared with demons and other entities, who appreciate flesh and bone a lot more than we who live in them often do, and who love nothing more than to tag along for the ride. The voices inside my head are the voices of my Self, and as a storyteller, I have perhaps the best way of giving them a little more autonomy. Story gives me the perfect way to let them out of their locked rooms for a little romp. I suppose that being the case, my novels and my stories, are the best representation of the geography of my true home. While the stories may be read and enjoyed by

anyone, only I have the true map -- well at least the map of what I’ve managed to explore so far. That map gets extended a little bit with each tale I tell.

It’s also no wonder that my stories are physical, that the body plays as powerful a role in the narrative as do mind and

motive. My characters are flesh and blood. Their drives and desires are my own -- sometimes in darker shades, sometimes in higher contrast. They are the best way of exploring the parts of me that are not safe to be allowed a more physical manifestation. They are the best way to deal with my fears and my neuroses. They are, in so many ways, my efforts to be Lewis and Clark, and Freud and Jung all rolled into one. After all, my body is the vessel that carries that terrifying consciousness, that prodigious geography that is truly my home, and those boundaries are more permeable than I’ll ever fully understand, thus the forbidden rooms, thus the swamps in the bathtub.  

Location, location, location

By Tim Smith

Like many authors, I tend to write about what I know. That’s especially true when it comes to deciding on a setting for one of my stories. Here’s where it gets tricky for me, though. I live in southwestern Ohio (Dayton), but the majority of my fiction takes place elsewhere. Out of the 20 books I’ve released, only 3 were set in my adopted hometown. It isn’t that there’s anything wrong or unromantic about Dayton, but when I’m writing a mystery/thriller that’s heavy on steamy romance, I can think of better places to use as a backdrop.


I have two continuing series. One involves two former CIA spooks who live in Key Largo, Florida. The other centers around a footloose former cop turned private eye who lives in Sandusky, Ohio on the Lake Erie shore. Why this fascination with water-bound locations? I don’t have an answer, other than enjoying vacations there. I first visited the Florida Keys a few years before I wrote my first novel, and when I had to choose where this former spy with a checkered past would hang out, The Keys instantly came to mind. As to the private eye, I grew up near Sandusky, and had Lake Erie practically in my backyard.


When I write locations, they become a character in the story. I research carefully, usually when I visit these spots. While most people return from vacation with kitschy souvenirs and coffee mugs they don’t need, my bounty consists of area maps, brochures, and a local newspaper or two. I strive for accuracy because I don’t want someone who lives there to read one of my books and wonder if I’ve ever set foot in Key Largo or wherever.

Apparently, this diligent fact-gathering has paid off. I’ve had more than a few readers tell me they felt like they were in the scene with the characters. It doesn’t get much better than that. Here’s an example from “Memories Die Last” (Nick Seven Book One):

The early evening sun descended over Key Largo Bay, reflecting off the water’s smooth surface. The bright blue of the Gulf of Mexico mixed with the orange tint of sunset. A gentle breeze wafted in as seagulls lazily flapped their wings in symmetrical patterns, swooping lower with each pass, hoping to catch dinner. Yachts slowly cruised into the marina, their masters having finished another day of rest and recreation, ready to put away their expensive toys for the night.

Nick Seven took in this routine ritual from his usual vantage point at Cricket’s Bayside—corner glass-topped table on the outside deck, always set for two but usually occupied by one, where he could observe with amused curiosity the comings and goings of the rich and not-so-famous. He had a glass of scotch and soda in front of him, a smoldering cigarette in the plastic ashtray. All around him he could hear the clinking of glasses and the low-key chatter of drinkers and diners, all mixing with the sound of soft jazz emanating from the sound system.

***

For contrast, I submit this one from “The Bundle” (Vic Fallon Number One):

Vic eased the Jeep onto the ferry on Marblehead Peninsula and set the parking brake. When the boat was underway he and Kimberly got out and walked to the railing. Kimberly zipped up her jacket and inhaled deeply.

“There’s something different about the smell of the water coming off the lake,” she observed. “Not like the ocean. Have you ever noticed that?”

Vic smiled and recalled trips to the beaches in Florida. “You’re right, it is different.”

Kimberly looked at the fading shoreline as the boat made the twenty-minute trip to Kelleys Island. She pointed at the roller coasters of Cedar Point silhouetted against the sky several miles away. “Too bad the park’s closed for the season. I haven’t been to The Point in years.”

Vic moved a bit closer and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Next time you come to town, do it earlier in the year and I’ll take you.”

She looked up into his eyes. “Promise?”

He gave her a brief kiss. “Promise.”

Kimberly shivered and held him tighter. “Guess my blood’s too thin for these fall Ohio days. Should’ve packed for the weather.”

“You’ve been away from home too long, Callie.”

She smiled at him. “I like it when you call me Callie.”

Vic returned her gaze. “I’ll make a note.”

The Geography of You (#flashfiction #gayerotica)

I let myself in the apartment and put my suitcase by the door, quickly going in search of you. I find you. It’s not difficult. You’re in bed—naked and waiting for me.

In the near dark, I see your eyes glisten. You’re awake, you’re watching me, but you’re still lying there...teasing me. You’re drawing out this moment, making me take the lead, inviting me to explore your body.

I take off my clothes, trying to appear casual and not as rushed as I feel.  Three weeks. I’ve been away three weeks—away from you. I need you. I need to be in you.

Now naked as you, I crawl onto the bed and kiss your feet. They’re strong and sturdy, yet clean and soft. You’re freshly showered; you knew I’d want this as soon as I came home. I drag my tongue up your shinbone and caress your other shin with my hand. I’m easing my way up your body. You want to draw this out for me? I’m going to draw this out for you.

I kiss your kneecap—first one, then the other—then I inch up your legs, kissing your inner thighs, climbing higher with every feathered touch of my lips on your hairy legs. Soon my nose is under your balls as I kiss the top of your thighs, as I flicker my tongue out across your taint.

You groan in pleasure and your body shifts. You want it bad. So do I—my aching erection is proof enough—but I’m going to torture you with pleasure.

I press more kisses to your body, climbing higher, curving to the front of your pelvis, carefully avoiding your cock and balls. They don’t get pleasure—not yet. But I don’t ignore them. I lift my mouth off your tantalizing body and exhale my hot breath along your length. You groan again, shift your hips up, desperate for contact, but I always keep my lips away from your shaft.

Moving further north, I dip my tongue into your belly button, swirling around and around. I take a moment to adjust my own position, bringing my legs closer to the core of your body. You spread your legs, lifting them a little, allowing me to get close to you and simultaneously inviting me to get even more intimate with you. Shifting even closer, the head of my cock—wet and sticky with pre-cum—makes contact with your tight, wrinkled flesh. I almost lose it and by the deep groan you let out, you almost lose it too.

I abandon your bellybutton, now glistening with my saliva, and move north, kissing each of your abs along the way, enjoying how your skin gets hairier and hairier under my gentle touch.

As my kisses approach your chest, I hook my hands under your knees, gently folding you, exposing that tightness even more, that tightness that I’m aching to plunge into. As I press against you, I feel a slickness I didn’t expect, as my shaft slides effortlessly against your tightness, moreso than the ease that my pre-cum would provide. You’re prepared for this moment, lubed up and eager.

I shift my hips a little, angling myself so that the head of my cock presses hard against your hole. I press forward a little, just enough to tease the opening, to judge how eager you might be.

And I find that you are very eager.

You want me inside you. You need me inside you.

I kiss across your torso until I reach a nipple—and as I clamp my teeth down on it, eliciting a yelp of painful pleasure from you, I shove my hips forward, plunging full-depth into you. Your yelp of pain turns into an incoherent shout of pleasure.

I bite down on your nipple hard—the way I know you love me doing—and thrust again. I can feel you losing control—not like you’re about to blow your load, but like you’ve lost all coherent thought, like you’re a being of pure pleasure, like you’ve given control of yourself and your release over to me.

I start pumping myself in and out of you. I kiss your tender nipple, easing the fire caused by my teeth. I give your other nipple a little bite and a lick, so it doesn’t feel neglected. But I’ve moved on from your nipples. I want more from you. I want all of you.

I drag my tongue across your chest and to your neck. Your five o’clock shadow is scratchy against my skin, rough against my tongue. You press your head back into the pillow, flexing your neck upward, pressing your Adam’s apple into my mouth.

I suck on your neck, kiss it, press my tongue into that sensitive spot that drives you wild. You moan incoherently, an endless sound of pure pleasure that contains no words, and I thrust harder into you, changing my angle to hit that spot inside you that sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your whole body.

You’re gasping, writhing, begging for release, desperate for orgasm.

Then I claim your mouth.

I kiss your lips, sweep my tongue across yours, suck up your moans of pleasure. You kiss me back—or at least you try to, as much as your pleasure-wracked mind can accomplish.

You bring your hands to the back of my head—the first real sign of movement I’ve seen from you—but with one quick movement, I grab your wrists and pin your hands down past your head. This isn’t about sex; it’s about me rediscovering the geography of your body.

The geography of home.

I thrust into you again and the reediness of your wail tells me that you’re close. You’re so incredibly close. But I’m not ready for you finish yet. I don’t let you cross that line, don’t let you dive off that cliff—instead, I tease you at that line, slowing down enough to keep you there, but not push you further.

Your whimpers turn desperate, but I’m not ready for you to finish.

I’m not done re-discovering your body.

I drag my tongue across your cheek, across your rough stubble, and suckle on your earlobe. You gasp again, a gasp full of such pleasure that I fear I’ve gone too far. But your gasp turns into a begging mewl and I know I’ve still got the upper hand. I know I’ve still got control over your body.

I let go of your hands, no longer pinning them above your head, and you instantly wrap your arms around me, pulling me close. I give in and press my body to yours, our chests hard against each other, our arms holding each other, and when I kiss you again our breath interchanges between us.

I thrust one more time—harder, deeper, longer—and you whimper into my mouth, a whimper that turns into a wail. And I know I’ve done it, I’ve pushed you past that line. Your body shivers and quakes as you try to contain it, but the floodgates give and you finally lose control.

You hug me even closer, pressing your mouth harder against mine, and I feel an exploding wetness between our bodies. And at that moment, your body clamps down on mine, tightens around my length, squeezes me so hard, and you drag me over that edge with you.

I, too, struggle to hold it back and shudder with the effort. But then I give in—I give in and pleasure shoots through me, and my essence fills you.

I shiver with the last of it, shake with the seemingly endless pleasure, and then let out a long breath when it finally abates. My body relaxes—so does yours—and I lay on top of you, listening to your heartbeat as it slows down from its racehorse pace.

I’ve missed you. I know you’ve missed me too.

But now I’m home.





Cameron D. James is a writer of gay smut. His upcoming publication is the (surprisingly smut-free) gay YA romance, Gay Love And Other Fairy Tales, under his YA pen name, Dylan James.

A Tale of Three Homes

Sacchi Green

I tend to get deeply attached to places, and disoriented when I travel frequently from one to another of the three that feel like home. That’s a problem I’m not likely to have much longer, although those places will linger in my dreams or in my writing
.
I mentioned a few weeks ago that for some reason my dreams are often set in my old home, the house where I lived from ten years old to twenty-two. I’m on the very verge of selling that house for my father, who is now, at 98, in a long- term care facility near me. For all the stress and trauma of cutting my ties to that house and land, I hope my dreams will manage to cut those ties, too. Why shouldn’t my continuing home here for the last forty-odd years be the go-to site for random dreams?

Dreams aside, I don’t think I’ve ever used either the old home territory or the current one as settings for any of my stories. That honor—for lack of a better term—goes to the third home, my treasured retreat for many years on the banks of a river in the Mount Washington Valley of New Hampshire. That area has been the setting for…let me count…well, at least nine stories, and influenced several others. It will probably continue to influence my work even after I’ve sold that cabin and land, which will probably be within the next year.

So it’s excerpt time! But not for all nine pieces, just a few. Maybe just one, in fact, a story that’s been posted for free on my blog for years but was originally published in Ultimate Lesbian Erotica 2005 from Alyson Books. It will be hard to choose just a few excerpts, but here goes.
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Healing

Sacchi Green

     Sunlight filtered gently through hemlock branches where an hour ago it had blazed onto the water-smoothed granite. Radiant heat still penetrated into places I'd thought would never feel warm again. My body adjusted to the stone's contours and felt, briefly, at peace.
     A rustling among the trees on the bank above made me tense. Someone stood there, watching. Move on, damnit, I thought, hating the unfamiliar sense of vulnerability, the suppressed jerk of my hand toward a gun that wasn't there. I kept my eyes closed, trying to block out everything but the ripple of water and the scent of balsam. Far below, where the stream leapt downward in the series of falls and slides known as Diana's Baths, there were swarms of vacationers, but they didn't often climb up this far. I'd hoped, foolishly, for solitude.
     Maybe I was only hallucinating being watched. Maybe the Lieutenant was right. Maybe I really wasn't ready to get back into uniform. After seven years, it wasn't as though I had anything left to prove about a woman being as good a cop as any man. There might still be something to prove to myself, though.  
     I sat up abruptly. A hemlock branch twitched, and through its feathery needles a pair of bright eyes met my challenge. A child, I thought at first, glimpsing tousled russet curls and a face like a mischievous kitten. Then she moved into clearer view, and I got a good look at a body that could have held its own on one of those TV beach shows. So, for that matter, could her bikini.
     She looked me over just as frankly. "Hi there," she said throatily. "I'm afraid I've got myself lost."
     Eye candy or not, I resented the intrusion. "Well, there's upstream, and there's downstream. Take your pick."
     "They both sound so good, I can't decide!" Her glance moved deliberately from my face over my body down to the long, semi-healed scar running from mid-thigh up under my cut-off jeans. The scar didn't seem to startle her a bit. I began to suspect a plot.
     It's not that unusual for women to come on to me when I'm in uniform, and I've taken advantage of their fantasies a time or two, but I was in civvies, and this was way over the top. She was so blatantly acting out a scene that I was more amused than anything else. Well, maybe not anything else. It had been a long time. A definite tingle was building where it counted most, and my nipples threatened to assert themselves through my gray tank top. I pulled on the sweatshirt I'd been using as a pillow. The New Hampshire State Police logo on the front didn't seem to surprise her, either.
     I looked downhill. "Hey, Dunbar," I called to the head poking around a mossy boulder, "who's your little friend?"
      "How's it going, Josie?" Jimmy Dunbar emerged from concealment. "I'd've introduced you, but you cruised right on by without so much as a nod for an old friend."
     "Sorry," I said. "Been a bit preoccupied lately."
     "So I heard. You okay?" He looked toward my injured leg and then met my eyes with genuine concern. Aside from his taste in practical jokes, Jimmy's not a bad sort, and we'd been friends since our teens when we cleared trails and packed supplies up to the Appalachian Mountain Club huts.
     "Can't complain," I said shortly. "A couple of weeks of enforced R&R and then I'll be back on the job. What are you up to these days?" I should've known better than to come where I'd be recognized. The newspapers had made the hostage case into a big deal.
     "He's building sets at the playhouse," the sex kitten chimed in, clearly tired of being ignored by everything but the mosquitoes. In that outfit, she was damned lucky black fly season was over. "We open with 'Oklahoma' tomorrow night. I could get you a ticket if you'd like." She picked her way carefully down the bank, gripping bushes and gnarled, exposed tree roots. Any bits of previously covered anatomy were revealed as she bent and stretched. I was willing to bet her breasts owed nothing to silicone. It might not have been entirely gallantry that prompted me to help her down the last, steepest bit, but when she tried to cling I spun her around and set her on her feet at a safe distance.  
     "This is Katzi Burns. She plays the 'girl who can't say no.'"  Jimmy sang the last part. Instead of grabbing the line and running with it, as I expected, she shot him a fierce look.
     "I should've had the lead! But at least I can have a little fun with this role. I'm so sick of doing 'wholesome' I could puke!"
     "That's what you get," Jimmy said unfeelingly, "for starting your career playing Daddy Warbuck's little 'Annie'."
     She yowled and took a swipe at him, and, while I figured he deserved a good clawing, my peace-keeper instincts kicked in. "So Katzi," I said, with a hand on her elbow, "what kind of parts would you rather play?" Then it hit me. "Holy shit! 'Annie'? How long ago?"
     She turned that feral kitten snarl on me. The anger in her amber eyes was a lot more attractive than the bimbo act. "Long enough! I'm legal! You wanna see my driver's license?"
     I grinned and looked her scanty outfit over appreciatively. "You bet, if you've got it on you somewhere."
     Her scowl cleared. "You could search me," she teased.
     I just patted her cute round butt and turned to Jimmy. "I hope you two have some clothes stashed somewhere. As soon as the sun gets a little lower the mosquitoes will be fierce. I don't much care what they do to your scaly hide, but it would be a shame to let Katzi get sucked dry just before opening night. The bites would be kind of a challenge for the make-up department, too."
     "What time is it, anyway?" Katzi asked, with a stricken look.
     "Close to five," I told her.
     "Oh damn! I'm screwed!" She slid and lurched down the hill toward where they'd left their clothes and towels. Jimmy and I followed, ready to pick up the pieces if her fashionable sandals skidded on the loose layers of leaves and needles.
     "So what the hell is that all about?" I asked Jimmy. "I may be on the injured list, but I can still manage to do my own hunting."
     "Hey, little Katzi takes hunting to a whole new level. She's only hanging out with me because she wants to meet you, and I said I'd heard you were back in the Valley. She clipped your picture out of the paper. Lord only knows what she does with it!"
     And Lord only knows what you've told her about me, I thought, and swatted him, on general principles. Maybe I should just just go back to communing with nature. Then I watched Katzi's sleek legs keeping up with our longer ones on the trail out to the road, and reflected that nature's blessings are many and wondrous, and not limited to rocks and trees. Being back in the mountains had always healed my spirit, but surging hormones might well spur the healing process of the flesh.
_______________

Snip, snip, skipping past much of the story:
_______________

When she'd gone into the playhouse I sat there for a minute, hardly noticing the people strolling along the village sidewalk. Then I headed north, up through Pinkham Notch, needing to center myself in the mountains.
     The peaks loomed dark against a backdrop of moon-gilded clouds; Madison, Adams, Jefferson, and, crowning the range, Mount Washington. I'd never needed more to be up there, on the slopes above treeline, looking down on a world made tranquil by distance. Or, even better, looking down on clouds filling the valleys with a ghostly sea while the stars above seemed closer and more real than the shrouded earth.  Best of all would be to watch the dawn, when the air is cold and still, and nothing exists except stone, and space, and the coming of light over the edge of the world.
     My gaze followed the contours of the mountains, my hands almost feeling their harsh ridges and swooping ravines. Then the thought of Katzi's softer curves and sweet valleys beckoned me with increasing urgency. I didn't want solitude, after all, at least not right now, I thought, as I drove back down the winding highway. Just a quick fling, I warned myself, a little summer diversion. She'll head back to New York or wherever soon enough. That's all you want. That's all she wants. Nobody gets hurt.
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Snip, snip, and the final few paragraphs:

_______________

We didn't manage to see sunrise, but the morning light was still fresh and clear when I went down to the river and waded into the deepest part. The cold water rushing down from the mountains could always sweep away sweat, doubt, confusion. Then I sat in the sun on my favorite boulder and tried to clear my mind of everything but the intense blue of the sky.
     "You look like one of those paintings," Katzi said, coming to stand below me. "You know, the ones with girls sitting on rocks with mountains and waterfalls and stuff."
     "Maxfield Parrish?" I asked, without turning.
     "That's the guy. You look like what I wish he would have painted, instead of all those cute fluffy girls."
     "You'd have fit right in," I said, "but I always wondered how they got up onto those jagged mountains with bare feet." I wriggled my own river sandals, which were all I was wearing.
     She looked at my feet, then my legs; I steeled myself not to clamp my naked thighs together, and let her look.
     "Oh, Jo," she cried, aghast at the full extent of my wound. "Did he cut you that way on purpose?"
     I couldn't bottle up the anger, the guilt, forever. "Yeah. Probably. His wife had been going to leave him for a woman, but luckily the papers didn't get hold of that tidbit. We could've charged him with a hate crime, I suppose, from the names he called me, but there wasn't any point. Even if he'd lived."
     Her hand was on my thigh, and she could feel me trembling. "You had to do it, Jo, it was self defense, and who knows what else he'd have done to them?"
     I remembered the woman's screams, and the child's terrified cries. I remembered climbing the back of the building, finding foot and finger holds on ledges and chinks in the bricks, while my partner watched the front. Then came the shatter of glass as I dove through the window,  and the flash of the knife as I wrestled with him. I hadn't been able to climb with my gun drawn, and then it was too late. What I remembered most vividly was the crumpling of his larynx  under my hand.
     "There had to be another way," I muttered. "If...maybe if I had been different, gentler, softer somehow, I could've talked him around. That poor little kid had been through enough, without having to see all that."
     "But the mother lived, didn't she? My God, Jo, how can you kick yourself? I know it must have been awful, but..." She stood on tiptoe and laid her head against my side, and I bent to hide my face in her soft curls. Then she worked her lips gently downward toward the scar. "Let me, please..."
     I began to tremble in a different way. I wasn't sure I could bear to be touched. She looked up at me with such tenderness in her eyes that suddenly I couldn't bear not to be touched, by her hands and mouth and even more by her indefinable flame of life that warmed something in me deeper than the flesh.
     I leaned back with my arms braced against the rock and let my thighs spread farther apart, let Katzi's mouth move up, and up, toward where I needed it most. She reached her arms around my waist and pressed her lips and tongue against me so softly, gently, that I felt no pain, only a tantalizing stimulation I thought would drive me crazy. I tried to pull her head closer, harder--maybe I was healed enough!-- but she resisted. "Trust me," she murmured against my flesh, and I had to, even had to let her hear me whimper and moan. She kept on and on, driving me closer and closer to the brink, like hurtling on skis toward the headwall of Tuckerman's Ravine--and then I plunged over in an avalanche of fierce joy.
     Much later in the day I kissed her, told her when I'd pick her up, and watched her hurry into the playhouse. I really was healed enough, I realized, to go back on duty. Why rush it, though? I could still taste her, still feel her body against mine, still smell her scent clinging to me. Maybe something of her would always cling to me. I couldn't handle thinking about the future yet, but I was going to savor every moment of the present, and the healing force of nature that was Katzi.
_______________

That should be all, too long already, so just consider this next snippet a postscript. It appear in my story “Meltdown,” first published in Don’t Be Shy from Ylva Press, and will be in my upcoming collection from Dirt Road Books. The setting of the flashback is a secluded, maybe even secret pool along a river that means a lot to me.
_______________

Sigri was shaking her head by the end of my revelations. I picked up my drinking horn and took a sip of mead. “As you said, that’s enough about that. Too much, in fact.” Another sip. “Hey, this is really fine stuff! Smooth and intense. Wish we’d had something this good back in the day.”
“Nah, we’d’ve been too dumb to appreciate it.” She sank down on the couch by my side, took a longer sip than I had, licked her lips, and looked slantwise at me. “We were too dumb to appreciate a hell of a lot.”
“No kidding.” I raised my horn. Hers met it halfway. “Here’s to our wasted youth.”
A few more sips of mead later, I was on the verge of blurting out a maudlin confession, but Sig beat me to it.
“That pool.” She looked into the fireplace, not at me. “That day…”
I finished for her. “We bushwhacked off the Slippery Brook trail, discovered that huge gorgeous pool, and went skinny-dipping. The goddess place, I called it, and you told me not to go all woo-woo.”
“But you did. And you scrambled naked back up that rock to where we’d left our stuff before we jumped off, got your camera, and yammered on about how the rocks on each side of the little waterfall looked like spread thighs, and the knobby stone in between with moss on it was the pussy, and the—the water of life, I think you said, was pouring into the sacred pool.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I said. And you dived into the deepest part and came up with handfuls of pebbles that you kept throwing at me while I tried to get pictures from just the right angle.”
“Well, maybe I was as bad as your Maura at foreplay when it came to somebody like you. Girly types, no problem, but you? I figured you’d either laugh in my face or punch it if I made a move.”
I shook my head in self-disgust. “And I just kept on yammering to keep from jumping you and getting slammed for it. Talk about dumb kids! When you got fed up and left, I was desperate for the chance to jerk off, fantasizing about what it would feel like to be in a clinch with you.”
“Hah! I only made it to that other stream coming out of the beaver pond before my hand was in my pants. If you’d caught up with me then…”
I reached for the decanter of mead, poured us each a little more, and raised my horn again. “Well, here’s to the years of steamy dreams inspired by the sight of you naked in that pool.” Just as well not to reveal that I’d snapped a picture of her from behind that day, right when her muscular body arched, butt high, into the dive that got her those pebbles to throw at me. I’d carried a print of the photo around with me until I literally wore it out.
____________

Far from Gotham

by Jean Roberta

Please excuse my lateness in posting this. (I usually post on the first Friday in a topic cycle.)

Particular settings make narratives memorable.

Here is some history of how large numbers of people have changed their real-life settings: the population of North America became much more urban in the first half of the twentieth century as young, ambitious adults moved off the family farm to seek their fortune. After World War 2, “nuclear families” (husband, wife, kids) began moving to the suburbs: places that offered some of the greenery and sense of community that could be found in a village or an extended family, but with close proximity to jobs, shopping and entertainment in the heart of a city. Since then, the gentrification of former slums has pulled some people back to densely-populated neighbourhoods. Divorce and the rise of LGBT enclaves have created a demand for single-person accommodations.

The New York writer Sarah Schulman uses the broad term “urbanity” to define several social trends she considers related: leftist movements for social change, creativity, a diversity of cultural roots, flexibility in relationships (queerness, polyamory, living alone, childlessness and childraising outside of heterosexual marriage). She traces all the big trends in politics, popular culture and fashion to urban communities.

What all this boils down to is that most readers on this continent are: 1) American, 2) culturally aware, and 3) living in cities with over a million inhabitants. Even Canadian readers are likely to live in a few cities that are known outside the country. (From west to east: Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg, Toronto, Montreal, Halifax.)

When I read current fiction, I usually notice very specific references to streets and landmarks. (A story set in Toronto describes a woman’s fashion sense as very “Queen Street West.” Or was it East? Anyway, I had to look it up.) An erotic story from a few years back describes a lesbian seduction on the Coronado Bridge in San Diego, California. As far back as the 1960s, Simon and Garfunkel wrote a now-classic song about the 59th Street Bridge in New York City (also known as the Queensborough Bridge, and not nearly as conducive to restful contemplation as the song suggests).

When teaching poetry, I sometimes compare the Simon & Garfunkel song to Wordsworth’s sonnet, “Lines Written Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802.” Wordsworth’s love-poem to the city of London, England, was written in a time when it had a population of 200,000 people, making it one of the world’s largest cities. The town I live in (which even most Canadians would have to look up) is approximately the same size now, although the site was unpopulated* grassland in 1802. (*This place was not permanently populated by people. Nomadic native bands followed millions of roaming buffalo.)

I sometimes describe urban settings (i.e. urban by today’s standards) in my stories, but I’m always afraid of getting the details wrong. I’m lucky to have visited various cities in Canada and the U.S., plus London, England, and a relatively green area within commuting distance of London called “the Surrey stockbroker belt.” (This has probably changed beyond recognition since 1973.)

So the settings of my short stories are often generically urban. Any two or more characters could plausibly meet in a coffee shop, which might be part of big chain, e.g. Starbuck’s, even here in Regina, Saskatchewan. (Note: the first Starbuck’s was in Seattle, Washington, on the American west coast, hence the mermaid logo.) However, if I don’t name the town, I assume urban readers will simply imagine the place where they take their own coffee breaks or compose their own fiction on a laptop.

Regina also has nightclubs (including the last community-run LGBT bar on the continent), shopping malls, a human-made lake in a park full of planted trees, two levels of government (municipal and provincial), a university, crime, and even crystal meth addicts. The vibe here is more urban than many readers in coastal cities would guess.

From the time Regina was founded in the late nineteenth century (and named for Queen Victoria), it has always had a racially-divided white vs. indigenous population, but the specific racism here isn’t really transferable to bigger North American cities, where the early white-settlers’ dream of killing off or assimilating the local native population has largely been accomplished.

When starting a narrative, I have to decide how much to explain. If the story is set in a generic city, I can focus on characters without describing the setting beyond a few lines. Judging from the number of my stories that have been published, this strategy seems acceptable to editors on both sides of the Atlantic. And if the story contains explicit sex, presumably readers are more interested in bodies than in surroundings.

In a novella or a novel, however, the need to set the plot in a particular place seems more pressing. So unless I seek out information about other places and/or other eras, I need to explain my actual setting for readers who have never seen it, and probably never will.

There are advantages and disadvantages to being a virtual tour guide for outsiders. Unfortunately, the natural environment isn’t really wild enough to appeal to those who want a wilderness adventure, and the town is no longer a cozy village where everyone knows everyone else. On the other hand, both the town and the surrounding province of Saskatchewan have a distinct history and demographic makeup which I sometimes use to try to lure readers in. I can even combine several public buildings, historical events, or actual people for dramatic effect, and I assume I won’t be confronted about my fictionalizing because most readers have no idea what’s real here.

As I say in my bio, I live on the Canadian prairies, where the vastness of land and sky encourage daydreaming.
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[Not an accurate image of local wildlife.]

The Value of a Dollar (or "Buddy, Can You Spare Five Bucks?")

a post by Giselle Renarde

Mother's Day, I was coming back from visiting my grandma at the retirement home. As I sat there on the subway, a middle-aged man came around asking for change. So I reached into the pocket of my jacket, pulled out all the money I had in there, and placed it in his hand. I'm not sure how much I gave him. I remember it was 4 coins, and we don't use pennies anymore in Canada, so it could have been as little as 20 cents. Whatever it was, it was all my change.

The guy looked at the money, looked at me, and said, "Is that it?  Don't you have more?"

I burst out laughing.

Every time I tell this story, the person I'm telling is either highly scandalized or highly concerned for my personal safety. I get reactions like "Weren't you scared?" (nope) and "How rude!" (*shrugs*). I thought it was the funniest thing ever. I must have a warped sense of humour, because nobody else gets the joke.

Anyway, when the guy asked "Don't you have more?" I actually reached back into my pocket to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I hadn't.  I told him, "Dude, you've cleaned me out. That's all I got."  Maybe it's my winning smile, but I finally got him to laugh along.

The audacity! You ask a stranger for the money and they have the nerve to give you only...

...only...

...only... what?  How much is too little?

If this had been an isolated incident, it would have stuck with me as a funny story, nothing more. But here's the thing: it happened again.

There's this other man--and if you've taken the subway in Toronto any time in the past 30 years, you're picturing him already--who asked me for change last week.

I've got a special set of feels for this guy, because one time 20 years ago I was really rude to him. I'm a much more empathetic person now than I was back then, so every time I see him, I make sure to give him my change and be extra-extra sweet and lovely. I've never heard his voice. He just comes around to each person on the subway car and puts his hand out until you acknowledge him--whether that means giving him some money or saying no you don't have anything, or even just shaking your head.

So anyway, he came over to me and I gave him all the change I had in my pocket (it was less than a dollar, I'm not sure how much exactly) and every other time we've had this exchange, he's kind of bowed to acknowledge the donation and gone on to the next person.

This time, he looked at the money I'd put in his palm, and he didn't move on.  He looked down at my purse and sort of indicated with his hand that he'd like some wallet-money please. Pocket money wasn't enough.  I told him I was sorry, I'd given all I had (which wasn't strictly true--he was right, there WAS money in my wallet, but like... not a lot! heh).

He still didn't move on.

Awkward.

I'm used to this guy. We've been having these exchanges for years. Decades. The wanting more was... new.

Finally, I said, "Have a good night," and he bowed and went on to the next guy. Maybe I'd forgotten my line?  Maybe he was waiting for the goodnight? No, that's silly.  He wanted more money from me. And I can hardly blame him. The last few times I've watched him make his way through the subway car, I haven't seen even one other person give him anything--not even a word. The rich white lady he'd gone up to before me refused to even acknowledge his existence.  She just kept talking to her husband until he told my old friend to go away.

A couple years ago I was walking along Yonge Street and an older man was standing outside Tim's shaking an empty cup.  I said to him, "Let's see what I've got in my pocket today" and it turned out to be... not a lot.  I was kind of sheepish, like, "Okay... well, this isn't much but you can have it." He told me he appreciated the money, but what he appreciated even more was that I'd stopped and said hello.

I don't expect everyone who asks me for change to take this approach, but I love when it happens--because time is something I have for just about anyone I see on the street.  I probably sound like a huge Pollyanna in this post, but the truth is that I'm a total cynic. I don't trust people. I assume pretty much everything I hear is a lie. But I reached a point, a few years ago, where I decided I didn't care. People were always going to lie and cheat. It's part of human nature. I can choose to be kind regardless. That's not naivete. It's sublime.

Anyway, I'm veering off track.  As usual.

What I really wanted to focus on was... well, exactly what I put in the title of this post: the value of a dollar.  Because I'm coming to realize, more and more, that a dollar is a different animal, depending on who is looking at it.

If I sell a book for $0.99 at Amazon, want to know how much I earn in royalties?  You probably know already.  It's 35 cents.  So when I hand 35 cents off to someone who asks for change, to me, that 35 cents denotes one book, one sale.  It was probably a short story, if I was selling it for $0.99, but regardless.  It has value to me.

Now I'm realizing that, to most of the people in my city, whether they're living on the margins or they're the types who have so much money they won't even acknowledge someone living on the margins, 35 cents is... an insult.  It's not even nothing. It's worse than nothing.

But... but... but... I love my 35 cents.

One time, about 10 years ago, I was at Buskerfest watching this busker who was really entertaining and funny and impressive.  I wanted to give him some pocket money.  When his act was over, before he passed around his hat, he said, "Busking is my profession, so please take that into account when you make your donation. I'll take your paper money, loonies and toonies..." (those are $1 and $2 coins, for anyone who doesn't speak Canadian) "...but if all you've got is small change, keep it in your pocket and I hope things pick up for you."

So I didn't make a donation, even though I really enjoyed his performance, because all I had was small change and he specifically stated that he didn't want any.

But the part about hoping things pick up... I don't think that way. I'm happy with my lot in life. A dollar still means something to me.  I get excited when I find a nickel on the sidewalk. And I like that about myself.

Before I go, I just want to invite everyone over to my place (meaning my Donuts and Desires blog) in September.

I'll be posting FREE EROTICA there every day!

And I won't even pass a hat.  It's yours to enjoy. 

Details here: http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/2018/08/exciting-news-about-erotica-every-day.html