Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Night Games

(A Story of Anticipation)

She came out of the walk in closet holding a dark paisley neck tie and held it up for him to see.

“That’s my good tie,” he said. “Hell, no.”

“What then?” she shook it impatiently.

“Use the gold tie with the green stripes.”

“I gave you that gold tie,” she said, wounded. “You don’t like it?”

“It doesn’t go with anything.”

She walked back into the closet and came out with a rayon gold tie with hideous green bars like a school crossing zone. “Anyway, it’s made strong,” he said. “You can’t rip it, no matter what.”

“You just don’t like the stuff I pick for you, I know better than you. You get your shitty taste from your mother. Jesus Christ, that woman.”

He took the tie from her. “I don’t care, this is the right one for this kind of thing.”

She stood petulantly in the closet doorway. “You ought to consider what I want once in a while,” she said. She was already dressed for the evening. She wore pink bunny slippers and a tattered, pink bathrobe. Her hair was in curlers, maybe so he couldn’t grab ahold of a hank and drag her around by it. The curlers were hidden under a red Rosie the Riveter kerchief with white polka dots. The old bathrobe was tied off with a cloth belt in a simple loose slip knot, one that could be undone with one swift solid yank as he slammed her up hard against the bedroom wall screaming “Give it up, bitch!” so loud it always made his eyes pop.

Under the bathrobe he knew she’d be wearing her oldest pair of panties, probably with a small tear along the seam to facilitate one handed ripping while he squeezed her neck with the other hand. And her breasts would be bare. He liked that part. It was sexy, but practical too, just like the belt. As they grew older her breasts changed; swelled, sagged, saddened and the big down pointing nipples had become a little more wall eyed pointing away from her chest in opposite directions. They’d tried it the first time with a bra and discovered how very hard it was to rip it from her while running down the hallway, thrashing and fighting, all those straps and tiny buckles and damned little hooks. The movies made it look easy. In the real world it was like trying to rip the bridle from a panicked horse, until it became impossibly tangled around her ears and she’d laughed and cussed at him for ruining a pricey Toulouse Chez fashion bra and the moment was just hopelessly lost. Also it was nice without a bra. It was more exciting – more satisfying – to be able to tear her robe open and just have them hanging down there, ready for him to go to work on her with nothing in the way.

“So where you wanna rape me at?” she said. “Garage?”

“Garage floor is cold.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Last time you hit your head.”

“Don’t mind.”

“I changed the oil yesterday. Hard to get engine black off your back. And if you get skinned up, its bad for the wound.”

“Goddammit, Henry, did you get oil on the garage floor and just put that goddamn kitty litter on it? Did you? Don’t you clean up after your shit? Are you a grown man?”

“Nobody gets raped in a garage, Fran.”

“Plenty women get raped in garages, I’ll bet.”

“Those are parking garages they get raped in.”


“It ain’t, I don’t know, authentic, trying to get all raped to pieces in your own garage. It’s silly, is all. How about I go ahead and rape you on the bed?”

“Like that’s authentic? That the best you got for me? The bed?”

“Women get raped in their beds once in a while, more than the garage anyway.”


“I mean I want you should be happy and all, but come on. The garage?”

“You don’t want to haul off and rape me in the dark when I’m getting out of the car?”

“There’s cockroaches in that garage, Franny. You know about me and roaches.”

“I don’t know what kind of crazy grabasstic motherfucker rapist you think you’re supposed to be.”

“I’ll rape you up good and plenty on the bed just fine, you’ll see and I’ll give you a nice massage.”

“Ain’t no mean ass hell fire rapist ever gave a massage I ever heard of.”

“You might need one.”

“Oh bullshit. You wouldn’t know how to rape a damn chicken if somebody was holding it up for you. Okay, bed then.”

“Good,” he sighed. “I’m sort of tired anyway.”

“Some hellacious scary motherfucker rapist you are.”

He wrapped the tie around his left fist and looked over at the bed. What was the matter with a perfectly good bed? It was solid brass, with heavy vertical bars on the head board you could tie a woman’s hands to, nice and tight. Took two men to lift it. Franny wouldn’t be going anywhere tied down to that thing. Hell, you could hog tie a woman like Franny to that headboard and go to town on her up one side and down the other. Tie her legs up to the foot board too if that’s what she wanted. Rape the holy shit out of her all night long if she wanted it that way. What was it about some dirty garage that seemed to get her off so much? Any sensible woman would rather get it on a nice clean bed any night. She’s plain crazy.

“What do you want for work tomorrow?” she said. “I got to get my ironing done first.”

He went in the closet and picked out a blue cotton dress shirt and navy khakis. And that blue paisley tie, to tick her off. He handed them to her. “Back in a few minutes, honey, you know I won’t let you down,” he said. “Just be ready.”

“You be ready,” she said. “Get your pecker up good or you’re gonna have a long night, I guarantee.” She turned to him as he was leaving. “Henry.”

He looked back, “Yes, Franny?”

“You’re good to me, Henry. Love you.”

He closed the bedroom door and heard her inside setting up her ironing board and turning the TV to Miami CSI. He listened to the voices hum as though underwater.

He rolled up the tie and put it in the back pocket of his jeans and began going around the house methodically turning out the lights. He checked the cat’s dish to make sure it had Purina and let himself out the back door.

The cool early October air was sharp and refreshing. He felt a little more alive. He walked to the end of the backyard and stood in the dark looking up at the moon and stars. The house was dark now except for the light in their bedroom. The windows were closed so that she could scream for help and howl and beg for her life and raise hell generally without the neighbors down the road getting the wrong idea.

Close to the moon he picked out the Big Dipper. He followed the dipper’s leading stars and picked out the North Star, there it was, and over there, that was Orion. Orion was the second constellation he’d learned as a Cub Scout. He pointed and followed down Orion’s belt to the sword holder thing – there. Now, that star, the second star, that wouldn’t really be a star at all it was a nebula. Hell, he thought, that’s where they make stars. Ain’t nature something?

He saw the light change in the bedroom. She’d have packed up the iron. She was ready, but he wasn’t. His pecker wasn’t up at all. . He unzipped his pants, felt the cool air on his balls and felt them retreat into his body. He spit in his palm and worked it a little, trying to get it up but it wasn’t cooperating.

He imagined a scene, maybe in a women’s prison and he was the only man, locked in among the women by mistake. The only hard dick around for a hundred miles. A murderously horny, vicious, Mexican drug dealer lady, big breasted and hairy. Standing naked next to him in the prison shower yelling at him - “Get it up, bitch!” She’d holler insults at his manhood, stepping her legs wide apart. “Get that pecker up bitch!” That got a little bit of a rise. He tried to imagine terrorized Franny tied to the bed weeping and pleading, nononono, please no, not me no, but with legs cooperatively spread eagled, as he shouted threats at her. He got a little harder. But still. Well. He spit in his palm and worked it a little more, imagining himself satisfying the hairy horny Mexican murderer lady up against the wall of the shower room as the other women masturbated and cheered him on.

That worked. That usually worked.

Here we go. Got it up bitch.

He zipped up and moved silently across the lawn, taking his shoes off at the door. He turned the knob slow and opened it carefully, wondering at himself, knowing he could raise a huge din and she’d never hear him coming over the TV sound. He closed the door behind him and passed the kitchen table. Pile of mail. Huh. He opened the refrigerator a crack for the light and picked up the envelopes and sorted through them. Junk. Junk. Junk. Gas bill. Shit. He tore it open, listening for the sound of the bedroom door but it remained closed. He always came in through the adjourning bathroom door anyway. Just more stealthy somehow. Fuck this bill. It’s way up for this time of year, he thought. Its laundry. Running that damn laundry machine every damn day like hot water grew on trees – she think we’re running a hotel here? Why she gotta do laundry every day? Talk to her about that later, big man. Gonna go show her what happens to women who think they gotta do the laundry everyday. Show her good and righteous, fuckin’ A big buddy.

Give it up, bitch!

He tossed the mail on the table and took a step away and his foot hit something on the floor that rolled to the wall, bounced and rolled back. Snowball’s red rubber ball. He picked it up. He held it to his face and opened his mouth, touching it to his lips. Just right. Now that, that was a real nice touch. She’d love that. Hell, next time he’d put chocolate syrup on it.

He rinsed it under the faucet and dried it with a paper towel, in case she asked later. His pecker had sagged considerably in the meantime, mostly because of the gas bill, and he had to conjure the hairy horny hideous Mexican drug dealer woman, banging her hard against the shower wall tiles while women prisoners cheered and bringing himself back into the spirit of the thing. He continued down the hall. He was inside the bathroom. He hesitated outside the connecting door to the bedroom, readying himself to burst in. He put his hand on the door knob.

Give it up bitch! He mouthed the words.

In the kitchen something fell on the floor. He froze listening. He waited. There was only the TV. He stood listening.

Had he locked the door? He thought he had. Did he? The hall seemed somehow a tad brighter. A light?

“Somebody there?” There was no answer. He stood still and waited. Maybe nothing.

But why was there light?

Hunching slightly he padded silently down the hall towards the kitchen, listening.

The refrigerator door was ajar, the light was on, shining dimly in the kitchen like a candle. But he’d closed it. He was sure he’d closed it. Pretty sure. Well, maybe sure. Sometimes stuff pushes it open. He stood still, listening to the far away voices in the bedroom, thinking of her in bathrobe and curlers waiting. Grabbing. Resisting. Tearing. Breasts swinging – give it up bitch!

Standing in the kitchen, he felt in his heart, deep inside something he would have thought impossible. A gathering darkness, a quiet flowering of evil.

This is how its done, he thought. Real world. This is what it’s really like to do this to somebody. Goddamn, it . . it . . . feels powerful.

The stranger’s sleeping house. The woman alone. The fear, the leering thrill of standing and listening, waiting for the inner signal to take the next step. The rubber ball in his fist. The unbreakable necktie rolled up in his back pocket.

I want to hurt her, he thought. It seemed like a revelation. He felt the darkness move and for a moment he feared for her.

He pushed the refrigerator door closed with his fingertips. He stood still, listening in the dark, tasting it. He’d never been this urgently erect in his life. Oh, he was ready now. Oh amen, yes Franny. Daddy’s coming.

He turned to the hallway, stepped away from the kitchen. Unfastened his belt and dropped his pants on the floor in a heap and kicked them away. Felt a sudden cold breeze that made him turn.

The back door was open. That couldn’t be.

Hot breath on his neck. A hand on his shoulder. Sharp metal sticking the skin of his back. Burning as it went in.

A man’s hard voice in his ear.

“Time to give it up, bitch.”

C. Sanchez-Garcia

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Just The Way You Are

I don't deal well with anticipation. In fiction, yes. I love the fook out of the kink Kathleen's just actually put a name to. Edging. I didn't even know that was a thing! I thought I just kind of liked writing about summat that had no real definition, but I guess I should have known better. Everything's got a name in Kink Land.

But I digress. When what I really wanted to talk about is the kind of anticipation I hate - the waiting for something that you kind of know is going to happen but maybe it won't and oh God you can't bear it.

I've learnt not to feel that sort of anticipation. I hide myself away from it, I pretend it isn't there. I won't look it directly in the face, in case it explodes.

Anticipation almost never comes to the boil when you're looking at it. You anticipate, and everything slides sideways and falls off the edge of the earth. Either that, or it takes years to come to fruition. You were expecting days, and then suddenly you're an old lady living in a Devon retirement home, and that shit still hasn't happened.

I imagine anticipation - and its sister, hope - are magical things to most people. That cake is in the fridge, just waiting for you to eat it. That huge promotion is coming your way at work, tomorrow. But to me, as a writer, I despise it.

Things almost never turn out as you imagined they were going to. You're expecting that contract with so and so over at such and such, and what you actually get is a piece of tissue someone accidentally blew their nose on, yesterday.

You can't wait to start writing, because this story is just about to take a wonderful turn...and then suddenly it all turns to dog poop in your hands and your hero is saying things you didn't want him to and your heroine is being a dipshit and oh for fook's sake, writing, why won't you let me be great?

You're just like The Sims 3. And if you don't believe me, head on over to here where I've written extensively about my problems with that particular culprit:

In short: I hate anticipation. I hate how pathetic and needy it makes me, how much time I have to spend not thinking about the thing I'm anticipating. And then suddenly the thing comes, the hero does something right, my heroine was not a dipshit after all and I'm sorry, anticipation.

Oh, I'm so sorry. I was wrong. You're amazing.

Monday, August 29, 2011


by Kathleen Bradean

Edging is delaying orgasm to extend the delicious anticipation of release. It doesn't seem to appear as often in heterosexual erotica as it does in gay erotica, but this is a game that anyone can enjoy. It can be part of light or heavy power exchange play or, in the case of fans of tantric sex, it can be all about self-control. Try it sometime. Get yourself or your partner to the brink then back off on stimulation until orgasm is no longer imminent. Repeat the cycle until there's no holding back, or until your partner begs nicely for release.

Years ago, Patrick Califia said that writing erotica is topping the reader. They have no idea where you're taking them and no control. So play the edging game with your reader. Trust me, they won't mind.

Sometimes it's fun to plunge right into sex and go balls-to-the-wall until the climax. That's sort of the equivalent of having the psychopath axe murderer jump out at the main character ten seconds after the opening credits of a horror movie and spend the next hour and a half in constant peril with little or no respite. I'm not saying that couldn't be an intense, well-done movie. I'm just saying that isn't the only type of horror the audience likes to see. The same is true or erotica. Sometimes the readers want it fast and hard and graphic (but never artless).

But other times, you might want to linger over the sensations so your reader will enjoy the journey as much as the destination. That's the time to get a little- pardon the term- cruel. Tease them unmercifully. Apply each layer of stimulation with delicate care, like the whisper of a sable brush over engorged flesh. Each word, sentence, and paragraph should build to a crescendo as that delicate whisper turns into a light pinch followed by stronger, bolder, focused touch. Get your reader tingling, then panting, and squirming.

Since you can't actually touch all your readers, you're going to have to seep into their imaginations and get them to do the physical work. Grab out your toolbox of sensory writing because that's the key to the lizard brain's cage. Go deep with your sensory input. I don't mean long sentences of purple prose. Use direct, focused writing with strong verbs and words that pack an emotional impact.

I wish I could remember the movie director's name, but he said (paraphrased) that the difference between porn and erotica was suspense. (Not that there's anything wrong with porn). Erotica readers expect that there will be sex. So where does the suspense come in? Delicious delayed fulfillment. Weave the spell of words around them so they want to get off as much as they want to hold back, and the conflicting desires have them breathless with anticipation. Hold them on the brink as the cliff grows narrower and their grip more perilous. Then do them a favor and shove them over the edge.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Waiting Outside the Door

By Lisabet Sarai

Three years since I last saw him, and now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension winding me tighter with every moment.

It’s always like this. My chest aches. It’s difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.

I hover between joy and terror. It has been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my bared butt. I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage separating us even as our history and our fantasies draws us together.

Today will be different. I’ve booked us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the airport for my master.

From "Reunion"


Sometimes I think that anticipation is what separates erotica from porn.

Porn is about getting off. Sex is the main event. Usually, there's minimal preparation, little time spent setting the scene or exploring its meaning for the characters. Nothing wrong with that. Why should you wait for what you really want?

Erotica, in contrast, is more about the experience of desire than the sensations of sexual activity. Desire has physical effects but fundamentally it is seated in the psyche - mind, heart, spirit, whatever you want to call it. Thinking about fucking an object of desire can be as arousing as the actual act - sometimes more so. Anticipating the connection with one's lover can provides an intense erotic charge quite independent of the actual meeting.

Anticipation can evoke a variety of emotions. Fear or nervousness may be a significant component, especially when you know you're about to push beyond your previous limits.


It was just an ordinary door. Solid core, Yale lock, standard peephole, identical to all the other doors on the fourth floor of this unexceptional building on the corner of West 14th and B Street.

So why was he sweating and trembling as though he stood before the gates of hell? No, that wasn't quite right. He knew the door led through damnation, to salvation. He craved the peace, needed to be redeemed. But he was, as always, afraid to take that first step.

His cock was already an iron bar in his worn jeans. His heart jack-hammered against his ribs. Don't be a pussy, he told himself. Get on with it. His work-reddened knuckles hesitated, inches from the door.

Without warning, it swung open. His heartbeat raced into overdrive. He could hardly breath.

From "Poker Night"


I seem to write a lot of scenes where my characters hover outside a door, anticipating the pleasure or pain that awaits them on the other side. Thresholds and gates are potent symbols, I guess. I believe that sex has the power to reveal new truths, new sides of our selves. The doorways in my tales lead my characters into new realms of knowledge as well as sensation.

The other aspect of waiting outside a door is the notion of choice. Aroused, trembling, fearful of what will be revealed, the character must decide to take that fateful step into the intoxicating unknown.


The next two hours were possibly the longest in my life. I couldn’t focus on my book; I kept hearing Geoffrey’s velvet voice: “If you’re ready for more...”

I wasn’t ready. Maybe I’d never be. I knew, though, that I couldn’t, wouldn’t, let this chance slip away. My body buzzed with tension, anxiety and lust more or less indistinguishable. I tried to picture what it would be like, but my imagination was not equal to the task. What did I know about dominance and submission? Sure, I’d seen “9 ½ Weeks” like everyone else, but I figured that was just fantasy—though the film did affect my dreams for days afterward.

“You must give me your trust,” he had told me. Could I do that? Was that even wise, to surrender myself to someone who, despite my knowledge of his reputation, was basically a stranger?

I replayed his delicious kisses over and over. My pussy grew wetter and more swollen with each passing minute. I considered pulling my vibrator out of the drawer, to cool myself down and bolster my rational capacity. I knew somehow that Geoffrey wouldn’t approve. He wanted me to wait, to build up the pressure. That was why he’d barely touched me in the foyer. He wanted me hungry.

Lying fully clothed on the chenille bedspread, I was acutely aware of my body—aching nipples, damp thighs, pulsing clit. I circled a wrist with my finger and thumb, wondering about sensations of rope or leather. I would have sworn that I was one hundred percent alert, counting the seconds until my summons. Yet somehow I drifted off into sleep.

I bolted upright some time later. My bedside lamp made a lonely pool of brightness. The window showed a square of solid black where there had been deepening twilight before. I snatched my alarm clock and peered at its face. Eleven oh five! Fear shot through me like an electric shock.

Shuffling into my sandals, I raced down the hall to his door at the end. My heart felt as though it would split my chest. I sucked in a lungful of air and knocked.

“Enter.” One word only. A command. An invitation. I turned the knob, my knees wobbly, feeling like I was moving through jello.

From The Understudy


I think I may actually enjoy writing the premonitory arousal even more than the sex itself. I spend a lot of time fantasizing about sexual scenarios, and so do my characters. What happens in their heads is at least as real as the events in the bedroom or the dungeon.

I also realize, reflecting on my own work, that anticipation is perhaps most potent in the case of BDSM tales. I suppose this isn't surprising. A skilled dominant knows how to stimulate the submissive's imagination as well as her body. The step across the threshold from vanilla normality to kinky excess is easier when one is mentally prepared.

But it's never that easy...


The hotel lobby was bright and noisy with tourists. Kate felt conspicuous and embarrassed as she crossed to the elevators, as if she were already naked.

In the elevator, a western man and a Thai girl fondled each other, whispering and giggling. They left at the sixth floor. The ride to the twelfth seemed to take a long time. Everything was hushed, muffled. Her heels made no sound on the thick carpet. Her heart beat in her ears, absurdly loud.

Kate hesitated as she turned the key in the lock. Seized with sudden fear, she nearly turned and ran back down the hallway to the elevator. This was irrevocable. She knew that. In opening this door, she would open her well-ordered life to chaotic and irrational forces that she did not understand.

She remembered Gregory's words. “You were born to this,” he had said. And “I will teach you.” She swallowed hard and turned the doorknob.

From Raw Silk

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Sexy Love

My thanks to the people who rule Oh Get A Grip! for having me here today.
It’s a great topic for a Romance writer, isn’t it? Sexy movies – or should that be Sex-ay! Movies?

I started thinking about what movie to write about. Usual contenders popped up such as 9 ½ weeks, but my reaction was ‘blech’. More thinking, more thinking. Sexy, sexy, sexy, come on, in a medium that everyone complains there is way too much sex, it shouldn’t be difficult to come up with a sexy movie or two.

Then it hit me. To me, onscreen sexual imagery does not make a movie sexy (if that’s all it took, there would be no sexier movies out there than porn, right?) What is needed to make something sexy, to make my breath hitch at seeing these two people together?


I’m a Romance writer! Yeah, I fall on the hotter edge of the Romance spectrum when it comes to portraying sex in my books, but that doesn’t negate the fact that to me, everything stems from the love that is building between these characters.

So with that in mind, I present two movies I find sexy:

Last of the Mohicans – OMG, was this the hottest movie that I ever saw! Ice cubes were needed while watching. We had Daniel Day-Lewis at his absolute hottest and going shirtless most of the time, and focusing that laser intensity on one lucky woman.

The outside conflict was a frontier story with various factions (English, French, Native American) fighting over the future path of a very young USA, but none of that mattered when contrasted between the love story of a young English miss and a frontiersman.

Oh, and when he tells her, “Stay alive no matter what happens. I will find you. I will find you.” I was hitting my own chest to get my heart restarted over that.
And no one got naked during the movie!

Terminator – very weird choice, I admit. However, after recently re-watching it, it reminded me once again of why I love this movie and why it has held up so well. Yes, it’s a sci-fi story of an assassin robot sent from the future to kill the mother of the future savior of mankind, but what gives this story that extra several layers of depth that separate it from its less effective sci-fi brethren is this – underneath everything is a love story.

Kyle travels to the past to save Sarah because he loves her. All the other reasons are important, but in the end, they are just window dressing. Even knowing he’s going to die, you can see in his eyes that to him it’s worth it to be able to spend these few precious days with her. When Sarah is breaking down and asking why would he ever travel back in time, he tells her of everything he’s learned about her from John, how he had her picture with him always, and ends with, “I came across time for you, Sarah. I love you. I always have.” That truth practically vibrates from him and during their lovemaking he is entwining his fingers with hers and holding tight. That’s the moment the power of the love scene hits you, making it far sexier than two people showing selections from the Kama Sutra.

Danielle Monsch is a Romantic Geek Girl Writing in a Fantasy World. Besides torturing her poor, poor editor about her latest story, Dani likes to read manga and watch anime, debate the merits of DC vs. Marvel, and geek out over the latest and greatest romance novel offerings. Catch up with Dani at her website, twitter, or facebook

Friday, August 26, 2011

Dangerous is Sexy

Writing about sexy movies at the end of the week is difficult. There have already been so many fantastic movies mentioned, with me nodding enthusiastically and saying, "Oh yeah, I need to see that!" about almost every one of them. I love movies, all kinds of movies, and it doesn't take much for me to enjoy a film and find something redeeming in it. (Though I might be hard pressed to say that about the remake of Footloose. I mean, really? Sheesh.) But liking a film and labeling one (or more) as sexy are two entirely different things. FIlms that are labeled "erotic" or "sensual" often seem awkward and forced to me. (Eyes Wide Shut immediately comes to mind.)

I had thought about exploring the porn genre and highlighting the best and sexiest of the bunch. But the reality is, I don't watch much porn. At least, not the 90 minute feature films with plots and costumes and exotic settings and whatnot. I suppose I could take this opportunity to study the genre and report back (it's a tough job, right?), but perhaps I'll save that for another time.

I have blogged about one of my favorite movies before, which also happens to be one of the sexiest movies I've ever seen. Dangerous Beauty is a beautiful, lush film and has the added bonus of being based on the true story of Veronica Franco, a sixteenth century Venetian courtesan. Having written about it before, I figure I should probably write about a different sexy film. But I can't resist sharing a clip from Dangerous Beauty just to entice you.

Trust me, the entire movie is just as beautiful and sensual and surprising.

Interestingly, the film I've been thinking about the most lately in terms of it's sexiness quotient hasn't even been released yet. A Dangerous Method is a fictionalized account of Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung and the woman who comes between them, Sabina Spielrein. In addition to being another period film based on real people (as well as having the word Dangerous in the title), I'm intrigued by the potential eroticism of this film. The trailer certainly suggests it will be sexy. Or is it just me?

Makes me want to go back to college and get a degree in psychology...

Thursday, August 25, 2011

What Do You Mean?

“What are you doing?” asks a woman when another woman comes on to her. Meaning: where is the plot going? Are you really attracted to me or (since this is a Hollywood dreamscape) are you just trying to mess up my relationship with my actual or potential boyfriend? Are you a psychopath? When should I scream or whack you?

This is a scene from the lesbian thriller Bound, in which Jennifer Tilly and Gina Gershon not only hook up, but join forces to outwit the Mob by stealing a stolen fortune and taking off with it.

They stay loyal to each other! They don’t get caught! Neither of them dies! Who ever heard of such stuff in mainstream movieland?

In her heyday, Audrey Hepburn starred in a movie (I think it was Breakfast at Tiffany's) in which she responds to a suggestive remark by asking, with great hauteur: "What do you mean?" It's the question that leads the conversation into a detour off the expected path.

When the person being cruised or flirted with or tested demands an explanation, the audience holds their collective breath.

For me, the essence of sex is mutuality. If the object of attraction is shocked or insulted or disgusted, it's game over. If she (or he, but usually she) is surprised and intrigued, the dance takes on more momentum. In the moment of loaded silence between the question and the answer, anything could happen.

Lesbianism in mainstream movies is usually implied rather than shown openly. So the question "What do you mean?" is never asked or clearly answered. Two bff's live together for years. In some cases, one of them has a baby that they both raise together. Their relationship could be taken to mean that a good man is hard to find.

The answer to "What are you doing?" in the movie under discussion is (as I remember) "Isn't it obvious?" Well yes, but it's not usually defined. The mutual acknowledgment brings the audience into the dance. We know who wants whom else, and we like to watch. We would like to be one character seducing the other, or we would like to be seduced. We can even change our minds mid-plot about who we would like to be.

In Bound, suspense isn't based on the question of how these women feel about each other. That point is made early on. They want more: they want to elope with a fortune that was stolen by bad guys who don't deserve to keep it. But will the women get away with their daring plan, or will one crumble under pressure and the other get killed?

Warning: spoiler ahead!

The tension mounts. Step by step, they go through their moves, separately and together. Each move brings them closer to a climax of Happy-Ever-After.

There's nothing like unexpected lust and a passionate response in a movie that seems aimed at a "mainstream" audience. But maybe the biggest surprise is that "mainstream" contains all sorts of barely-hidden kinks.

Maybe another surprise is that I couldn't think of anything more enlightening as I enter a new decade on my birthday. :~)


Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Onibaba ("Demon Old Woman")

I want to tell you about a movie that frightened and aroused me. Maybe it won’t frighten or arouse you, but that's all right. I love horror movies, and yet the number of horror movies that have gotten under my skin so that I felt like I had to look away I can count on one hand and have enough fingers leftover to crack pistachios. This is the story of one of those movies.

You may ask, so what? Fair enough, my fears are not your fears, which is the problem a writer faces when writing sex or horror, anything visceral. If you're a writer, there's something in this for you, I promise. I'll tell you in a minute.

The movie is "Onibaba", an old black and white Japanese horror flick from 1964. Usually when westerners think of Japanese horror movies they may think of "The Ring" with swampy girls emerging from TV sets, or childhood Saturday afternoons plunked in front of the TV watching a guy in a rubber lizard suit stomp down sky scrapers while Japanese men scatter like roaches or cover their forehead with an arm and cry "No one can save us now! It is the worst it has ever been!"

This ain't one of those.

Onibaba is loosely based on an ancient Buddhist kwaidan, retold in Noh and Kubuki plays. It is the story of two women, one old and one young, and a man and a demon mask. The story is set in medieval Japan just after the epic Battle of Minotogawa. The two women, an old woman and her nubile daughter in law, live a miserable and furtive life in a shanty hut beside a river in a vast field of susuki grass, as tall as corn that seems to swallow up all life and sunlight and hope. They survive by lurking in the tall grass like Black Widow spiders, ambushing wounded samurai who wander into the field to escape pursuit. The women kill the men and rob them of their armor and weapons which they sell to a fence who seems to live in a cave. Hidden in the field is a deep dry well, where they toss the bodies to rot into bones. They live a feral, desperate hand to mouth existence. When food is available they wolf it down and collapse in exhausted satiation and sleep in the hot fetid night air bare breasted.

They are women without names in a world that is upside down. It's still common today for women to be raped and have their things plundered by wandering soldiers, or Ronin, as masterless samurai were known. But here the women do the killing with cunning and cruelty. They expect no kindness and have no mercy in them. Their one hope for the future is the return of the old woman’s son, Kichi, the girl's husband. Kichi was taken away and sent off to fight for the local feudal lord along with another man who stumbles into the hut one night ragged, dirty and famished. His name is Hachi.

They give him a bowl of boiled millet, and like the women, he brainlessly flings himself into it, grunting with urgency, slurping, gobbling down bowl after bowl until he can think straight again. Then he tells them the story of their son's death, not in combat, but at the hands of impoverished, embittered farmers. Then he leaves them to go back to his old hovel to hide out for better days.

The young widow, starved for sex runs through the susuki grass in the moonlight to throw herself on Hachi in a frenzy of raw lust.

What follows after that is unforgettable.

But the apprentice writer has brazenly promised you a few scraps of craft to be learned from this movie, knowing full well every writer on this list has sold more books. All the more reason to hear it from the hungriest one. Here are three scraps I aspire to learn from this movie about story telling:

1. Empathy
2. Authenticity
3. Compassion


I won’t tell you what happens at the end of the movie, specifically The Very Bad Thing that happens to the old woman. If I told you, you would yawn. That old thing? I saw that on a Twilight Zone episode. What's scary about that?

Oh - Magic, oh Friends of the Inner Sanctum. Effing story magic in the hands of a master director I'm telling you, and it had me cringing back in my seat and gnawing my thumb.

Because by the time The Very Bad Thing happened I was in love with that old woman. Not only in love, but in lust, I wanted her bad. And when the Very Bad Thing happened I wanted so much for it not to happen to her. And it did. Afterwards, and after seeing the movie many times since I've asked myself how did they do that to me? There was a great deal of nudity in this movie, at a time when I wasn't yet jaded to nudity in the movies. Both women spent a great deal of screen time naked, and yet this was no more "just" a porno movie than Macbeth is "just" a ghost story. This old woman was cruel, and devious and yet I understood her and was lead to understand her fears. Her fear of starvation, because she couldn’t rob the samurai by herself. She couldn’t lose this girl. And the fear of growing old alone and dying alone, discarded and useless. This is the center of a world gone to shit, without law or civilization. A world where a broken leg could condemn you to death by helplessness. It's a world without rules or hope. It’s a life of physical starvation for food and for human touch, and the old woman will resort to anything to cut the young woman off from Hachi and keep her close. The old woman's lush nudity, her abjectness and ferocity for life are incredibly sexy and got under my skin just as it was meant to. It moved in my blood until it reached my heart. This is the secret of true horror fiction. It’s the difference between “Onibaba”, and a Dead Teenager Movie like, say, “Final Destination: The Very Last Chapter Maybe”. In cheesy stories the characters are too often no more than tin ducks in a shooting gallery to be killed. In a well crafted story, their terror is your terror. It's a rock bottom basic element of story telling – you have to care about the characters. You have to want them to be all right.


Onibaba is a movie that drips with sex and nudity. But this is sex such as is rarely seen. It isn’t titillation, or pornography. It’s an agonized scream. Because food and passion are such rarities in their world, the young widow and Hachi make love the way they eat, with animal abandon to exhaustion. Their coupling isn’t the union of bodies or souls, it’s an NFL football tackle resulting in copulation. Grunting, laughing, entangling, screaming and falling to the floor in a frenzy of need. No ostentatious caresses or contortions to get the sexiest camera angle. There is a solid feeling of watching two desperate people and thinking “Yes, this is really how it would be done.” And in the sheer voyeurism of seeing the act there is a feeling of genuine intimacy that joined with empathy makes me fear for how things will turn out for them. This is after all a horror movie.


The old woman’s despairing wail “I’m a human being, not a demon!” speaks for a large portion of humanity. The very best horror movies go by the same principles as other movies. They should make you think. They should make you feel. They should be well crafted. They should be about something. I’m of the opinion, based not on my mediocre output, but on my experience as a reader, that a good sex story is not about sex. A good horror story is not about horror. A good erotic love story uses the act of sex as a means to an end, an incident that makes larger things visible. A good horror story uses The Very Bad Thing as an image of more complex things. A story is about images, a good story springs from compelling images. The image of the story of Onibaba is the world it inhabits, in which women are more aggressive killers, more aggressive lovers then the men around them. A world in which nature seems to suck up all the light and the veneer of civilization is stripped away to reveal something primitive and raw.

And that’s horror.

C. Sanchez-Garcia

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

The Threequel Could Be Called: Revenge of Ewan's Penis

There are many contenders for the Sexiest Movie title, in the funhouse halls of my brain. People have already mentioned Secretary - probably because it's orsum and also somehow the only mainstream BDSM movie there is in existence - but I have a slight problem with it. It's gorgeous. It's atmospheric and beautiful and the dialogue is spot on. The performances are wonderful - especially from an achingly repressed James Spader.

But for me, it's the wrong way around. And somehow, I don't think I'm going to be getting THAT movie any time soon. I mean, come on. Hollywood struggled to make a movie about female submission, when female submission is practically its byword. I can't imagine that they're chomping at the bit to make one about Brandon Routh and his struggles to obey his Mistress, Starlotte Chein.

But I digress.

Other movies I could have picked? Y Tu Mama Tambien. That has an actual threesome in it! And it's the good kind of threesome, too - my eyes practically popped out of my head when I saw that one. And then there's The Hairdresser's Husband, which sent my adolescent self into a tailspin of what the fuck is this. Nine and a Half Weeks, which is almost orsum to me until it butts up against images of the current Mickey Rourke.

Or maybe I could pick something a little less Hollywood and a little more hardcore - James Deen is very sexy, even if most of the movies he's in seem to be as mediocre and same-y as every other porn movie out there.

But the truth is, my favourite sexy movie isn't like any of these representations of the genre. I'm not even sure if it could really be termed sexy, since it's so gritty that watching it makes you come away with a mouth full of gravel. It's grim, and grimy, and everybody's depressed. It's the sort of sexy movie that never gets my gears going, usually. I mean, why does sex always have to have terrible consequences, in mainstream movies?

However, when I watch Young Adam I find I don't care about any of that stuff. I only care about the fact that it's got Ewan McGregor - perhaps the world's finest onscreen bonker - pumping away for what seems like hours, and hours. Here we have a master of his game, a true champion of the craft, committing several acts of obscene sexual gymnastics to celluloid, for our delectation.

And my delect is tationed, I tell you what. Never have I seen a rump thrusting away with such vigour, such commitment, oh Lord just the thought of it makes me want to demand a sequel.

Young Adam 2: Rumps A-Pumping

Or to give Ewan his true credit:

Young Adam 2: Fuck Me Is That Really All Him???

Because I swear to God, Ewan McGregor has the most beautiful penis Hollywood has ever seen. Hollywood doesn't even know what it's got, because if it did he would never be fully clothed in movies. He'd film all his scenes - even the ones opposite a fake Prime Minister in some turgid wintry thriller about politics - naked from the waist down. That beautiful thing of his just flapping in the breeze. Pierce Brosnan pretending not to notice, as he tells him to steer clear of the political conspiracy that's building blah blah blah.

Nobody cares, Pierce. We all know what Ewan's got in his pants. And we also know how great he is at onscreen sex, so why don't you just get your clothes off and get to it, okay?

Honestly. These movie stars are so precious about male/male sex scenes. Don't they know that always having sex with Ewan McGregor constantly is the way forward?

Monday, August 22, 2011

At The Movies With My Lizard Brain

By Kathleen Bradean

My deepest sympathies to the Gripper who picked this topic, but I let out a long groan when I saw this topic, because I knew that I'd be an utter failure at it. It's a great topic. The fail is mine.

Sexy movies.

Have I mentioned that I'm the least visual person on earth? Sure, I nearly suffocated watching Das Boot, I've been known to mangle a pillow or two during really intense action scenes, and had cougarsish thoughts about a certain Mr. Neville Longbottom during the last Harry Potter movie (to quote the movie So I Married An Axe Murderer: You grew up a wee right sexy bastard. Do you know that?), but sexy? Like 'let's leave the kids with the babysitter for another hour, check into a cheesy hotel, and do it right here on the oriental?' (to quote Prizzi's Honor. At least the oriental part. The rest is mine.)

Sure, watching Gomez Aadams kiss his way up Morticia's arm is a bit of a voyeuristic thrill. Michael Keaton's Batman was surprisingly sexy in a morning after scene. Marion kissing Indiana Jones' boo-boos all better in Raiders of the Lost Ark was a huge cock tease of sexiness seeing as Indy fell asleep before they got to anything remotely interesting. As a young lady of refined taste, I found Etta Place being ordered to strip by the Sundance Kid really hot in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but what I liked even more was the hint that she was doing both of them. At least, that's the way I interpreted it back then. And still do.

Oh! Finally recalled one. Secretary with Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader was off the charts kinky goodness. But then again, so is The Last Seduction, at least to me, so you know how far off normal I'm coming from.

The problem, I think, is that I do think. About sex. All. The. Time. I think about what's sexy and what's sensual. I dwell on every frame of every fantasy, TV show, movie, and erotic story I read like an obsessed movie director with a billion feet of footage and a vision only he understands. I deconstruct, rewind, slo-mo and analyze the shit out of everything that blips on my raised eyebrow radar to figure out what caused the blip. It makes it awfully hard to be swept away by the story when you're doing that. Maybe I should turn off my higher functioning brain and only take my lizard brain to the movies from now on. Maybe then I could find a single frame of True Blood sexy instead of groaning about how they manage to miss the mark every damn time.

(I expect hate mail about that last comment. Bring it on. I know good sex, and that ain't it.)

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Beauty and the Bizarre

By Lisabet Sarai

Our topic this week, courtesy of Charlotte, is "Sexy Movies". I had a number of candidate films that I considered discussing: Bound, the breath-taking lesbian thriller starring Jennifer Tilley and Gina Gershon; Earth Girls are Easy, which I know is on Charlotte's list, too (what could be sexier than inspiring love in a sweet, geeky alien?); almost anything directed by Zalman King but especially 9 1/2 Weeks (predictable, right?). But I think that perhaps the most erotic film I've ever seen was Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus, directed by Steven Shainberg and featuring Nicole Kidman and Robert Downey Jr.

I didn't realize, when I went to see this film, that the director was also responsible for sweetly perverse Secretary, another erotic favorite of mine. In retrospect this makes perfect sense. Both films concern themselves with the twisted side of humanity, or perhaps, the humanity of kink.

"Fur" chronicles the imaginary but convincing awakening of celebrated photographer Diane Arbus to her obsessive fascination with the grotesque. Frustrated and oppressed by her life as a vanilla 1950's housewife, Diane yearns for something more. She goes through the motions of daily life, assisting her husband in his photography business, distractedly caring for her daughters, and enduring the sarcasm of her wealthy mother. She lies awake next to her adoring but uncomprehending husband, trying to understand her own dissatisfaction. Her sharp eyes pick up all the bizarre and disturbing details in her surroundings that others miss, but she doesn't know what to do with her observations.

When she catches a glimpse of her new neighbor Lionel (Robert Downey Jr.), completely masked, she somehow recognizes him as the key to escaping her suffocating life. He recognizes her as well, recognizes the brilliant and disturbed creature hiding behind her facade of conformity. He sends her the key to his apartment through the sewer pipes, an appropriate metaphor. When she finally dares to climb the winding stairway to his attic lair, he invites her into his world, a twilight wonderland peopled by societal outcasts and circus freaks.

Lionel himself is a "beast-man", suffering from a genetic disorder that causes his whole body to be covered with hair. With his gentle voice and rude questions, he forces Diane to admit to her strange interests and desires. Hesitant at first, then exuberant, she surrenders to her true self, the beautiful, poised woman surrounded by dwarves and Siamese twins who is nevertheless, in Lionel's words, a "real freak". For Diane, this is badge of honor.

Although they hardly touch through most of the film, Diane's relationship with Lionel is intensely erotic. The excitement stems from their mutual fascination with the strange and terrible, their recognition of each other as complementary deviants. It is essentially the same excitement that I felt when I finally found my Master and he made me admit that I craved submission. Finally, Diane has found someone who understands her and who does not judge her, indeed who celebrates her perversity.

The tension between the two protagonists is maintained throughout the film, gradually turning to desperate longing. We expect an explosion at any time, a conflagration that will finally burn away the falseness of Diane's old life. Nevertheless, their inevitable coupling near the end of the film seems anti-climatic. The real climax is the terribly intimate and prolonged scene in which Diane shaves Lionel's entire body. Slowly we see the man emerge from within the beast. When he stands naked before her, bloodied by slips of the razor, I almost expected Diane to reject him as too normal. However, kinkiness is more than skin (or fur) deep.

Both Kidman and Downey provide quiet, nuanced performances that are completely believable. The imagery in the film mirrors Diane's skewed perspectives, showing us that the rich patrons of the photo studio and the precisely-groomed fashion models are every bit as grotesque as Lionel's freak show friends. The allusions to Lewis Carroll's irrational dream-worlds are obvious but apt.

I found this a disturbing and arousing film. For days after I saw it, I couldn't get it out of my mind. It found its way into my dreams. Weeks later, I was still feeling the echoes of excitement, still recalling erotic images, noticing artful details and metaphoric parallels.

I think that my reaction to this movie was a bit unusual. It has a relatively low rating on IMDB. I sent a copy to my Master, and even he didn't really "get" why the film had such an impact on me. But then, he's not the submissive one in our relationship.

If you haven't seen "Fur" - well, let this serve as a recommendation. If you have, I'd love to know what you think. Does anyone else find it as arousing as I did? Or am I just a freak?

Saturday, August 20, 2011

My Dear One Flayed

By Robin Wolfe and Catherine Leary (Guest Bloggers)

In 1973 a book called My Secret Garden, by Nancy Friday, was published. It was a collection of fantasies from real women, and it explored common themes such as same-sex attraction, cheating, and group sex. More importantly, Ms. Friday had the courage to print the "darker" fantasies, the ones that so many people have but never want to admit: incest, bestiality, and rape, among others.

Nearly 40 years later, many people are still ashamed and fearful of those kinds of desires, and almost all erotica publishers have blanket prohibitions against those kinds of stories.

Freaky Fountain Press exists for three reasons. The first is to provide readers with high-quality literary erotica that explores these themes and others that many erotica publishers fear to touch. The second, of course, is to provide a market for the writers of such stories. And the third reason, arguably the most important, is to let people know that whatever fantasies get you off, it's okay. You're not alone.

We have decided to share with you a vignette written by Catherine Leary, a co-founder and editor of Freaky Fountain Press. Much of what we publish is far milder and more mainstream-accessible than “My Dear One Flayed,” but we've chosen to use it for two reasons: it makes strong use of blood and blood symbolism, and because we feel it illustrates the essence of Freaky Fountainit’s literary, lush, and it explores the eroticism of extreme obedience and extreme pain through the use of horrifying, blood-soaked imagery.

All of our anthologies and novels contain a page of "trigger warnings," which is a list of any potentially upsetting subjects explored within. For this story, we're warning for graphic depictions of extreme violence, self-harm, and gore. If those things are likely to disturb you, you should skip this story.

If you're ready to flirt with your freaky side, or you simply enjoy pushing the limits of your comfort zone, please click the link below.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Flesh and Words

Before having my first baby in 2009, I thought my only contribution to the world would be my writing. Black words on a white page (or screen) have always seemed more permanent than anything created from blood and bone and flesh. And yet... I now see my legacy as two-fold: the emotions I bleed into words on the page and the human beings I bring into this world. My blood, my life, in written and living form.

I am two weeks away from giving birth to my second child. He will come into this world the same way his brother did-- through an incision made by a surgeon's scalpel. The scar will heal in time, the numbness caused by cutting through muscle will linger forever. But there will be a second child of mine in the world, carrying my DNA.

Because of my age, I opted for genetic testing in both my pregnancies. This time around, I participated in a maternal fetal medicine study, which involved giving a vial of my blood. In the great scheme of things for pregnant women over a certain age, another vial of blood is as insignificant as a few strands of hair. I agreed, because I have benefited from modern medicine and wanted to be a part of a study that will help future generations of women. Plus, it was only some blood. I've lost a lot of blood over the years from awful menstrual cycles brought on by invasive fibroids, from miscarriages, from birth. This was a needle stick. Nothing at all.

It seems that as much as 10% of a pregnant woman's blood contains fetal DNA. Which means that, if that DNA could be isolated from the mother's DNA, doctors would need only do a blood draw to determine all sorts of genetic information that now involves invasive, painful and potentially risky procedures. Imagine the possibilities: with a single needle stick, being able to tell if your unborn child is carrying a genetic disorder. It boggles the mind.

It is also mind boggling to know that not only is my body possessed by the creature that wriggles and squirms and makes my belly bulge in odd and uncomfortable ways-- but this creature is also in my very blood. I am not myself. I am two people. For now. And in two weeks when a surgeon's scalpel separates us, he will still be part of me. For always. Much like my writing, sent out into the world, is still a part of me. Always.

The word legacy has historically been used to describe what men leave behind. Sons, land, reputation, laws-- the word legacy is filled with masculinity. It is about making a mark on the world, something women were long denied even though it was their blood that flowed to bring those men into the world. My two boys will set their own paths and make their own marks on the world and will carry in their veins the blood that contains my DNA. My legacy, or part of it, in blood and flesh.

I will wait and watch and wonder as my boys grow, pondering what about them is like me, what is like their father, what is like previous generations I know nothing of. Will they write? I don't know. Is writing a genetic trait-- or something that runs deeper than blood, soul deep? If they are of my body and my blood carries their DNA, are they also imprinted on my soul-- and me on theirs? It's a question for a far more spiritual mind than mine. But one wonders at the connection-- the cosmic umbilical cord that ties the generations together.

I am proud of my writing, of the metaphorical blood I have shed to find the words I want to share with the world. I am also proud of this body of mine and what it has accomplished despite odds that put my chances of bearing one child (much less two) in the 1-5% range. I am proud of my 20 month old toddler, who already demonstrates creativity, intelligence and kindness. I am proud of the baby I am carrying for thriving despite the odds, despite my age, despite a less than perfect uterus. I am proud of the legacies I will leave behind-- my life's blood in flesh and words. May they complement each other and make the world a better place.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Written in Blood

Image of a goddess sculpture by my friend Joan Relke and her long-term partner Carl Merten near Sydney, Australia.

My womb has always seemed like the deepest part of my mind: the unconscious, for lack of a better word. It knows things. Somehow it knows when to open the cervix, its little door like something in Alice in Wonderland, to let a baby or something else out. Then it closes up tight, leaving only enough space to spit out messages in blood.

I stayed awake through most of high school biology class. Later on, I gave a pop-up book to my young daughter that showed her (in three dimensions) her own reproductive plumbing. I still think the "experts" in human biology don't know half of it.

The womb is called the uterus in Latin. It is spooky. It is like a Muse that speaks in code.

When I was eleven, I dreamed about a body covered in blood, with a knife in its back. I thought this scary image had something to do with the Second World War, which was still discussed endlessly in the early 1960s. (All the parents of my generation had been in the military, or remembered blackouts and rations.) My mother tried to convince me that dreams don’t mean anything, since they’re not “real.” Nonetheless, I liked to write down things that seemed important, even if no grownup of my acquaintance would see them that way. So I wrote down the words on the note attached to the knife in my dream: Thursday 19.

Two years later, on Thursday, November 19, I saw blood again when I didn’t expect it, in junior high school. I was having my first period.

Time passed, and I discovered sex with guys. At age 21, I had a Torrid Affair (it had to be torrid because it sure wasn’t sensible) with Mr. Wrong, a friend of a male friend who invited us both to stay in his apartment after midnight for a late-night coffee. Our mutual friend left, but I stayed. Mr. Wrong, the descendant of a famous Scandinavian musician, liked to fantasize about being a Viking raider. He never actually served me coffee, but his hospitality was memorable. I didn’t get any sleep, and stumbled out the door in the morning in an altered state of consciousness to catch the bus to the university, where I was taking classes. I made note of the date when our date began: midnight of December 6 (or early-morning of December 7).

I lost touch with Mr. Wrong when I went to England with my family for a year. There I met another man, we become engaged and I imported him into Canada. We got married. In due course, we agreed to have a baby.

I went into labour at midnight on December 6, and gave birth on December 7, anniversary of the Japanese attack on the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, in 1941, which propelled the United States into war (and my dad into the navy). Okay, my womb probably didn’t plan to drop a baby to commemorate the dropping of bombs. Au contraire. My body seemed to remember the very different event that occurred exactly five years before.

My husband turned out to be another Mr. Wrong, and I became a single mother. I had a friendship-with-benefits with a university student who was due to return to his own country. I used a copper-7 for birth control. After a few weeks, my womb spat it out: ptui.

I moved into a co-op for low-income single parents, mostly women. I went to the one gay bar in town and started my first affair with another woman. My life was full of women.

My periods became unpredictable. On one occasion, I had one two weeks early while staying with my long-distance girlfriend. As it happened, she was having hers at the regular time (for her). I began "spotting" between periods. When I kept track of these episodes, I realized that they followed a 28-day cycle. My system seemed to be like a radio that could pick up any other station within range.

When my ex-husband remarried, his new wife was already pregnant. Several days before my daughter's fourth birthday, I had menstrual cramps from hell. I couldn't sleep, so I stayed awake to wait for my period to arrive. When it began, the cramps suddenly stopped like screams in the night that just end, without leaving an echo. I took note of the time: 1:00 a.m., December 4.

The next day, my ex-husband told me the news: his wife had given birth to a girl at 1:00 a.m. that morning.

Eventually, I started having a period every other month, then less often as I reached the end of my reproductive years. I still had mini-periods ("spotting") which could turn into the real thing when I was surrounded by other women. Once when I attended a festival of gay/lesbian/bisexual/trans choirs at the University of British Columbia, I realized that I had to find a dispenser of "feminine supplies" as soon as possible. There was too much inspiration.

There have been no messages from my womb for a few years now, but anything could still be in there. I don’t know everything that’s in my mind either.

One of my pet peeves in written sex scenes is the use of “womb” (usually by a male writer) to mean vagina/cunt/pussy/snatch/muff, etc. Blood from the womb can pass through the vagina on its way to the outside world, just as concepts from the subconscious can emerge into the conscious mind to be expressed openly. This does not mean that different parts are the same.

Blood comes from the deeper organ, which is a hollow muscle that can’t be deliberately flexed. Womb-blood reminds us that not everything is under deliberate human control. It’s our internal version of the ocean where all life is said to have begun. It's messy and leaves stains to make sure it can't be ignored.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Suke no Makura no Soshi

(From The Pillow Book of Lady Dainagon no Suke)

Things That Are Elegant

Blood is most elegant
Because anything that is scarlet is elegant
Scarlet thread
Scarlet paper
Scarlet fish
Scarlet peonies
Scarlet stains
One drop of blood on excellent Chinese paper
The toes of a fresh new baby
The hair on top of the head of a new baby
The jade stalk of a new baby boy
Spring strawberries in a silver bowl
Duty performed perfectly
Lightning in clouds
Distant thunder that remains
The winding smoke of blood dropped in tea
New strings for a koto

In spring time it is the dawn which is most beautiful, spreading the goddess light of the compassion of Kwannon through the mountains and over the lake. The servants bustle to bring charcoal to the rooms and the smells of cooking wake us.

In summer time it is the late morning which is most beautiful. Young men bring boats and there are picnics and conversation under the old trees with shaved ice in black bowls on the grass near the great Almond blossum Pavilion.

In autumn it is the evening which is most beautiful just after the closing of the Blue Hour when the red moon rises and the cold air blows through the tall susuki grass. The old ones draw their jackets tight and know the shortness of days.

In winter time it is the night which is most beautiful when snow is falling and what wealth it is to stand alone in the great silence as all the house sleeps and to have all the snow for oneself.

Things That Are Annoying

Five drops of blood on a tatami mat
Disrespect from an inferior
The weak jade stalk of an old man
A former lover who gossips
To choke on food in the presence of superiors
Finding bad fortune in a cup of tea
To be treated like the page of a book
A drunken man who repeats himself
A lover who wears shoes in one’s bed
Parents who tell stories in the voice of their child.
Women who weep in their sleep
Emperor Antuko’s cat, Lady Myobu, who dominates the palace and drinks the blood of the rats

One of the saddest things I have seen under the sun is a maid of no expectations. I am thinking of Lady Nagako. When one is waiting for her lover and there is a tapping at the door and the heart beats faster and one pretends to be asleep. But the hand which lights so secretly on the shoulder is not the lover one hoped for, but only a man one is not permitted to disappoint. When a woman has found the wrinkles at her eyes, and the inferior man is at the chamber door it is like the sound of barren trees in October.

Things That Are Curious to Think on

Cold white winter ashes in my bedroom brazier when no cares to keep the fire alive anymore
a severed jade stalk touched with four drops of blood, four, no less no more.
A drop of blood on the face of the August moon
A poem painted in black ink on skin
The inside of a cat's ear.
The nipples of an old woman.
Susuki grass in moonlight and wind
A poor man with four daughters and no son
Dried blood holding a single black hair to fine steel on which a single candle is shining
A great old tree blown down with its defeated roots in the air

There is a ghost inhabiting the pond behind the great Almond Blossum Pavilion. During the night of the moon viewing party by the pond the handsome young men had a contest to frighten us ladies with kwaidan stories. One said it was a true story that the pond is haunted by a young lady whose spirit cannot be free to incarnate again unless someone takes her place, for having drowned herself over a lost love. While he told the story of Peach Blossom, Lady Nagako was dangling her ankles in the cool water and suddenly fell in. The water is not deep but she disappeared below and a young officer jumped in only up to his waist and yet almost could not find her. Her garments were so soaked and heavy two men it took to pull her out. She said she had felt hands on her and we all laughed but she began to cry piteously and there was a gash on her thigh that ran blood, truly it did. The Emperor's mother, Lady Tokuko, summoned a famous Taoist sorcerer to do an exorcism. We ladies had not seen an exorcism and were very excited and made much of him. But the old man was tired and only muttered his mantras and recited the Diamond Sutra and nothing seemed to happen. We were disappointed and made rude jokes about him to his face. What a tedious thing when old fools make claims for themselves.

But oh!

How fearful it must be to die of a broken heart.

How lonely death must be for some.

You can read more of Lady Dainagon no Suke's story in "The Color of the Moon", published by Whisky Creek Torrid at:

C. Sanchez-Garcia

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Threeways With Citizens Of Etheria

There's only one thing I can write about where blood's concerned. Mainly because:

a) Blood the actual substance just makes me think about needles, and needles make me think of that time the nurse put one in me and the end broke off and I fainted while somehow remaining completely conscious. If you're wondering how that's possible, here is a picture of what it looks like:

b) Whenever I start writing about blood ties and my family and what not, I end up getting into gory details about my Mad Uncle Ungar in his narrow castle on a hill, plotting revenge on the family who disowned him for witchcraft, hunchbackery, and orphan snatching. The fact that Mad Uncle Ungar only exists in the world inside my head where I actually live in some Gothic perpetual nineteenth century version of reality is also something of a problem.

c) I can't even talk about blood play. I just can't. Mad Uncle Ungar will try to snatch me, if I do.

So what I'm left with is vampires, which you probably knew I was going to talk about anyway. I mean, it's kind of obvious. I like hot men, I have some psuedo-Freudian issue with needles and blood play...of COURSE I'm going to kink for vampires.

If all of the crushed velvet and brooding and excessive penetration was not enough, just check out this list of men who've played vampires:

Alex O'Loughlin
Gary Oldman
Kiefer Sutherland
Bill Paxton
Adrian Pasdar
Chris Sarandon
James Marsters
David Boreanaz
That guy with a head like a potato from Forever Knight.

And yeah, okay, maybe that last one doesn't count as a hot vampire so much as it counts as a disturbing vegetable, but still. There are some glorious men on that list. Gary Oldman would probably be enough on his own, because of all the oceans of time that make me want to cross them and his eyes like pies and the fact that he can just appear underneath your bedsheets one day.

I mean, can you imagine that? There you are, one sock off, drooling, half-asleep with your laptop on your knee. Or you know, whatever state you find yourself in while lying in bed. And then BAM. Suddenly there's a vampire Gary Oldman materialising between you and your She-Ra duvet!

Plus he probably wouldn't even care that you have a She-Ra duvet, seeing as how he didn't seem to care when he popped up in Winona Ryder's bed and Anthony Hopkins was there. Anthony Hopkins is obviously way worse a thing to have on your duvet than She-Ra, because his face is also like a grizzled vegetable whereas She-Ra's face is really quite pleasing.

Me and Gary could almost certainly have a threesome with her stenciled on image, and even if he wasn't up for that, there's a number of sexy vampires who probably would be. Like Alex O'Loughlin, who generally acts like he'd be happy to have a threesome with anything at all.

My foot and Scott Caan's left armpit? Sure, why not!

Which is probably why I'm writing a filthy story based on him and his ability to make you believe he has no threesome limitations.

But that's beside the point. The point I was making about vampires, that I can't now remember because I'm too busy thinking about a line of them outside my door, waiting to come into my bedroom and let me know whether or not they're cool with She-Ra.

I'd go do something else, if I were you. I may be some time.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Muse Bait

By Kathleen Bradean

Some writers talk about their muse. I don't have one. What I gather about muses is that they're never around when they're needed, mercurial in temperament, fickle, cruel, demanding, and only want to crawl into your lap with you're too busy to deal with them.

Apparently, muses are like cats.

I have cats. Rather, they have me. Cats are not muses. They know that they were worshiped as gods back in Egypt, so they expect to be treated as such. They also believe that human civilization has been in a long downhill slide ever since cat worship ceased, but for a moment, let's forget cat's deep disappointment with human failings and get back to the muse thing.

My cats have never helped me write anything. That was my second clue that they weren't muses. The first clue was when I printed out a copy of the first novel I ever wrote, and one of them peed on the manuscript. That's being a critic, not a muse.

So during one of my writing dry spells, I decided that I needed one of those old fangled muses to inspire me. Writers talk about their muses, but they're never clear about how they got one. Maybe they tell you in those fancy MFA (master of fine arts) classes, but since I don't have time to do that, I decided that I'd try bait to lure one to me.

First, I got an aubergine crushed velvet fainting couch and swooned. Peering through the lace hanky clutched in the hand that pressed to my forehead, I looked for a toga-clad woman.

All I spied out of the corner of my eye was pure cat contempt.

Then I found a big flowy poet's blouse and a beret, because as Charlotte pointed out weeks ago, berets are to writers as work boots are to carpenters. I posed gazing out windows and sighed loudly while holding a quill.

The quill was declared an enemy of the house, attacked, dragged under the bed, and covered with cat spit.

Obviously, appearing artsy fartsy wasn't good enough bait. I needed to show the muse that I was worthy of her attention. So I did a little research and fond these charming quotes about the process of writing:

“Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” Gene Fowler

And this

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

Aha! Blood! (And you thought I'd never get around to the topic) That must be the super secret muse bait other writers are using!

I hoped they meant metaphorical blood. Otherwise, Stephen King would be exsanguinated by now. So I sat down at my computer and started to write. I wasn't inspired yet, but kept glancing around to see if maybe a muse had been lured by the sound of me trying to metaphorically bleed over my keyboard. That's when I made the mistake of direct eye contact with one of the cats. She took that as an invitation to jump into my lap and knead my thigh. It isn't easy to type with a cat between me and the keyboard, buy I kept at it because frankly, I couldn't wait for a muse anymore. The cat started purring loudly. I struggled on. As I typed, visions of the story began to unfold in my mind. Then her claws sank into my leg and drew blood. But I was so engrossed in the story by then that I didn't let a few drops of blood distract me. I gently set her down on the floor, pulled closer to my keyboard, and started typing with purpose.

So maybe cats are muses after all. Funny. No one ever mentions the hairballs.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Blood Bond

By Lisabet Sarai

He has threatened to tattoo "Kinky Slut" across my breast - over my heart, he vows, where it will be visible to everyone unless I keep my top button fastened. His teasing keeps me off balance, aroused and unsure, caught between laughter and dread "You're mine!" he sometimes yells as he pounds me from behind. "I'm going to carve my name into your ass!"

This isn't like that at all.

He has not spoken for the past twenty minutes. As he wraps my wrists and ankles with soft nylon rope, successive loops artistically aligned, all I hear is his even breathing and the Tangerine Dream CD he's put in the player. Sandalwood-scented candles create dancing shadows in the corners. There's an answering flicker in his velvet-brown eyes as he finishes the final knots and scans my face to make sure the bonds are not too tight. Is it passion? Fear? A hint of danger, that perverse curiosity that makes him push me beyond what we both thought were my limits?

I nod, not wanting to shatter the expectant hush, scarcely believing what we are about to do. I'm immobilized in the straight backed dining room chair, legs lashed to legs, arms behind the back and roped to the rungs. My thighs are spread, of course; the cushion beneath me is already sodden.

"Shall I get a blindfold?" he asks, his rich voice startling after the long interval of quiet.

I shake my head. "I want to watch," I whisper. "Please."

His mocking grin breaks the mood of sombre concentration. "Pervert," he names me, with obvious affection, and plants a kiss on my damp forehead. "Wait, then. I'll be back soon."

He leaves me sitting there, cocooned in the glow. The music winds through my head, haunting and other-worldly. An unearthly calm settles on my spirit. Yet at the same time my heart is hammering against my ribs and my cunt feels sloppy and hungry. I think I am ready.

It seems to take him a long time to gather his equipment. I shiver, then inhale deeply, working to slow my pulse as he's taught me. The recording comes to a close and silence draws in around me. Relax, I tell myself. Breathe. Open.

When he returns, he's as naked as I, his hard cock arrowing toward the ceiling. I gush at the sight. He ignores his own arousal, all business now, setting a rolled up towel on the table beside me and unfolding it to reveal several scalpels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze and other first aid supplies. He draws a pair of gloves over his big hands. The snap of the latex around his wrists sends a queasy ripple through my stomach.

I can still back out. I don't say a word, though. I will myself to breathe as he rotates my chair so that the back is to the table, then seats himself beside me, at right angles. Drenching a square of gauze in alcohol, he uses it to thoroughly swab my left shoulder. The pure white fabric makes my fair skin look tanned. It leaves a chill, goose-bumped trail in its wake. My nipples peak as though he'd disinfected them as well.

Now he pours more alcohol into a saucer. He swishes a scalpel back and forth in the antiseptic. I can't look away. He brings his steady hand to my shoulder. There's a touch, a barely-there imprint of the needle-like point, indenting my skin. His gaze snags mine. Fire rages inside him, I can see, but on the outside he's like ice.

"Mine," he whispers.

He reads my answer in my eyes.

I take a deep breath. He increases the force on the scalpel. The blade slices into my flesh, sending a scarlet shock through my whole body. It's heat more than pain, at least at first. A ruby drop wells from the tiny wound. As I watch, it grows fat and round, surface trembling as the weight increases. Finally it breaks, sending a red rivulet trickling down my arm. Another bead swells from the cut to take it's place.

I almost come from the sight alone.

He presses deeper, stroking out his first initial. The sting turns to an ache as he continues to cut. Before long, my whole shoulder is on fire. I bite my lip, determined to be brave.

By this time my arm is a bloody mess. He pauses to wipe away the excess gore with more alcohol, turning the pain sharper and colder. He's finished with the second initial now. Grasshoppers are vaulting around in my guts, but I can't look away.

"Are you all right, Sarah?" he asks.

I nod, not daring to speak. He returns to his work.

His concentration awes me - not to mention his skill. The letters are perfectly regular, a work of art. It occurs to me that he must have practiced. I'm amazed. I knew he'd researched the process - what sort of implements to use, how to slow the healing and enhance the scarring, how to avoid infection. I should have known he'd leave nothing to chance. That's the sort of master he is.

All at once, tears crowd my eyes and spill over. I'm too full of feelings to hold them back. My tortured flesh throbs as he adds the final touches to his design. My clit pulses and my cunt clenches on emptiness. I want to sink to my knees, kiss his feet, thank him from the bottom of my soul.

He's the one who kneels, though. After he's bandaged the wound and mopped up the remaining blood, he snaps off the gloves and settles between my splayed thighs. I come the instant his tongue lashes across my clit.

While I'm still shuddering in my bonds, he grabs the other scalpel and slices through them. He gathers me to his chest, carries me to the bedroom and buries his cock in my depths. Then he fucks me hard, the way we both love. Even as I climb toward another climax, though, I notice he's careful not to brush against my torn shoulder.

Afterward, he confines me in his arms, as though he fears I'll float away. Indeed, I feel boneless and limp, lighter than thistledown. I can't sleep, though. I still hum with the thrill of our mutual audacity, the wonder of our mutual trust.

We were close before. But now my master and I are bound by blood.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Is *This* Your Card?

By Jeremy Edwards

People sometimes assume that because I’m a songwriter (among other things), I always have music at my elbow. “What have you been listening to lately?” “What’ve you got loaded onto your mp3 player?” “What’s that by your elbow?” Well, okay, I can’t swear I’ve been asked all these specific questions, but I think they represent some of the expectations that surround me. (I don’t know about you, but I’m constantly finding myself surrounded by expectations; I suppose, given how tall expectations can be and clocking in personally at a modest five foot four, I’m lucky I can find myself at all.)

At one time, I enjoyed having music playing in the room almost every waking minute. This was decades ago now. My relationship to music has changed a lot since then—from compulsive immersion to love largely from a distance—and the value I place on psychic space has grown, as has my (over)sensitivity to words and to music-borne emotions.

But here’s something neatly narcissistic. (Do I sound proud? Hey, I may as well own it.) I often have songs spinning in my head as I do this and that ... and these days it’s often my *own* songs—a couple of them in particular. And lest you think I’m *not* an artistically masturbatory kook, I must disabuse you of any notion that these are new songs I’m currently incubating—that I’m somehow *working* on these pop ditties while I load the dishwasher or walk down the street. Nuh-uh. These are songs I wrote, recorded, and washed my hands of long ago, that have somehow become my personal, internalized signature tunes. Evidently they resonate with me. And, I ask you, who better?

I also read my own erotica.

And my own back correspondence.

Why go to strangers, right?

When I was about seven, I used to imagine, like many kids, that my life was a TV show, and that theme music—the specifics of which I only vaguely imagined—accompanied me to and from school. So in a way, this fantasy has come true—minus the TV show, but with the theme music nicely fleshed out. I especially like that vibraphone bit.

Now that I’ve cleared the air by showing you all what a nut I am, I hope you’ll bear with me as I proceed. (I told Kathleen I could fall back on card tricks if I couldn’t find anything to say ... but I subsequently realized I don’t know any card tricks, so I think you’re stuck with this essay.) To return to the music-listening, psychic-space issue: Yes, I sometimes listen to music, sometimes even music that I didn’t personally create. But I do so sparingly, for a few reasons. First, because my tastes are very narrow and specific in all sorts of ways, despite the benefit of exposure to the wealth of choices that are out there, it’s hard for me to find music I like. (Absurd, I know, but I never said I wasn’t.) Even my tastes *within* my tastes are very narrow: an album by a “group I like” (if it’s actually the one *album* I like, and not any of their other albums) is an album on which there are perhaps three songs that didn’t either bore me or depress me or irritate me or go stale on me after two listens. So even when I’m in the mood for music, there may not be anything to put on from this limited stockpile that I’m ready to hear again just yet (if ever).

Second, if I’m by myself or alone with my wife (who, by the way, uses an mp3 player with headphones much of the time, at a volume that doesn’t preclude conversation), I rarely put music on unless I want to actively listen to it—the music being a focal point, attentionwise. And these days I’m rarely in the mood to make music a focal point, attentionwise. I’m not sure why; it certainly used to be different. Then again, I also used to have a full head of hair. It’s not that I’m completely jaded—or, for that matter, completely bald—I *do* still get very excited upon hearing that great, great song by a new-to-me band that makes me feel good all over. In fact, I think I experience that brand of euphoria even more intensely than when I was a teenager. But this kind of epiphany only happens a couple of times a year for me.

(You have probably guessed by now that I do not write my erotica while listening to music.)

When we have friends over for dinner, I often put music on—usually something from the small library of my favorite 1950s and early 1960s sessions by the jazz greats. (No, not *that* jazz great ... Yes, okay, this one, but you have to flip it over to side 2 ... No, skip that track ... Okay, yeah, this cut .... but only up until the tenor sax comes in.) I love those discs, but it’s good that I mostly save them for these social occasions because, again, I can only listen to them so often. That said, when we’re entertaining company, the music *is* more like background music for me—though if a dinner guest brings a date who proves to be a crashing bore, it’s nice to have the option of something else to focus my ears on ... or even to divert the conversation to:

Crashing Bore: ... and then we were going to put a new window in the garage door, but the frost was really heavy that year, so I called my brother-in-law in Florida, and he drove up here with his truck—he has a five-and-a-half-wheeler—and we spent two weeks separating the copper piping from the flat tires, and finally we’d salvaged enough brick that we could take it down to my sister’s place—she lives down the dirt road by the school—to try to get the air pockets out. Well, my sister had just traded her Jeep in for a Chris-Craft, and ...

Jeremy: Oh! Listen, everybody! Here comes my favorite chord change on the whole disc. Stand by, it’s right after this 256-bar piano solo. I wonder if you might like it, too, [INSERT NAME OF CRASHING BORE]. Do you like C-major-seventh chords over D root notes?

*Music.* It brings people together.

JEREMY EDWARDS is a widely published author of erotic short stories, and the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off.

Though he is aware that most of the planet’s sentient species manage to enjoy copulation without ever putting on their reading glasses, he personally feels that a judicious turn of explicit phrase can be worth its weight in primal bliss. His lascivious prose embodies an enthusiasm for sex in its sunniest form, as he strives to blend the sensuous and the playful, lighthearted laughter and erotic urgency. Jeremy writes heterosexual and lesbian erotica; his stories revolve around sensitive, cerebral, sexually self-aware women (a few of whom take a great deal of pleasure in peeing), and the men and women who adore them. One reviewer has referred to his writing as an “irresistible blend of raunch and romantic sweetness.”

Jeremy’s libidinous literary efforts are well represented at many of the erotica scene’s high-quality online venues (Clean Sheets, Erotic Woman, Fishnet, Good Vibrations, Oysters & Chocolate), and his stories have appeared in some fifty anthologies offered by Cleis Press, Xcite Books, and other publishers. His work was selected for the three most recent volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series, and he has been featured in the literary showcase of the Seattle Erotic Art Festival. Out on the newsstand, he has contributed frequently to Scarlet and Forum (Foreplay) magazines.

A popular guest on the Web circuit, Jeremy has been seen or heard such places as Erotica Readers & Writers Association, Lust Bites, LoveHoney, Dr. Dick’s Sex Advice, and Cult of Gracie Radio. In the nonvirtual world, he has read his work at the In the Flesh series in New York, the Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia, and (via telephone) In the Flesh: L.A.

Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile.