Classic Giselle #Queer #Erotica #Gratitude

by Giselle Renarde

At one point in my teens, I told my family I wanted to be an actress.  My grandma was dead set against it. She was concerned I'd be "taken advantage of." And you know what?  She was probably right.

Strangely enough, when I decided to make a career out of writing erotica in 2006, my grandma was the only person in my life who actually supported me. By then I guess I was damaged goods anyway, so it didn't much matter if I wrote about sex all day.

My grandmother's been in hospital for the past couple weeks. When she was admitted, delirious and dealing with multiple infections, I was pretty sure the hospital was her last stop. But that's just me. I see death at every turn. My grandmother is 86, after all. My girlfriend's father died a couple days ago, so death seems to be looming.

For the past year or so, I've had this idea bouncing around my brain: an anthology of "Classic Giselle" erotica--stories I wrote at the very start of my career--that would somehow honour my grandma, since she always believed in me.

With my grandma in hospital, the time is nigh.  I've put together a collection of ten stories I wrote way back when, and that collection is called Classic Giselle: Queer and Quirky Erotica.

Thing is, I've also been reflecting on how much I appreciate my readers.  With Valentine's Day coming up, I figured this book would make a nice thank you gift.  So, from now until February 14 2018, the ebook is absolutely free at stores like Kobo, iTunes, Smashwords and eXcitica.

After Valentine's Day, Classic Giselle will cost money. But, in honour of my grandmother, I'll be donating all the royalties I earn from Classic Giselle throughout 2018 to the Canadian National Institute for the Blind (CNIB).

When my grandma's vision began to decrease due to macular degeneration, the CNIB was there for her every step of the way. And when I say they were there, I mean RIGHT THERE. In her house. People came in to teach her how to adapt to her changing vision.

My grandmother is now legally blind. She's always been a gadget geek, and the CNIB introduced her to accessibility technologies that have proven invaluable in navigating the world. And even tricks like how to pour yourself a glass of water when you can't see the water. Or the glass. They've done so much for her, and this is my way of acknowledging their help and care.

Classic Giselle is a double-whammy thank you. No, I'm wrong. It's a triple threat thank you. It's a thank you to readers for actually, you know, reading my words. It's a thank you to my grandma for believing in me. And it's a thank you to the CNIB for helping my grandma over the years.

It's been an exhausting couple weeks, but I'm so pleased to be able to give you this book of strange and silly stories.  Free until Valentine's Day from the following ebook stores:

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/classic-giselle-queer-and-quirky-erotica
iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1342513914
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/786590?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Excitica: https://www.excitica.com/index.php/classic-giselle-queer-and-quirky-erotica.html

Graciousness

by Jean Roberta



Statue in Coventry, England

Back in the day when national governments apparently didn’t care whether their citizens lived well or starved to death, charity was dispensed by upper-class ladies. The wife of the local lord, baron, or captain of industry was supposed to be his softer side, the one who shared some of his wealth with the poor (which he or his ancestors had gained by exploiting them in the first place) or who raised funds from other members of her class to distribute to the needy.

As late as the 1970s, charity organizations such as the Cancer Research Campaign in Britain (which had a royal patron, a cousin of the Queen) depended largely on “house-to-house” campaigns run by upper-class women, who also made private donations. I know these were tax-deductible, because I worked as a clerk (pronounced “clark”) in the London office of the Campaign from December 1973 to August 1974. Clerks were expected to attend the Annual General Meeting, which convened in a large hall. If memory serves me, every single lady arrived wearing a colourful spring hat which distinguished them all from us, the bare-headed peasant girls. Viewed from the ceiling, the hall would have looked like a flower garden.

Traditionally, the rich wore more clothing than the poor, and headwear especially indicated social class. (Note that monarchs still wear crowns on formal occasions.)

This brings me to an old story about charity as a response to the suffering of the poor, and female nudity as a cause of shame and lust, or courage and power.

Here is what historians say about Lady Godiva:

Staggering beneath the yoke of oppressive taxes, the medieval residents of Coventry, England, pleaded in vain for relief. Ironically, deliverance would come from the wife of the very lord who scorned their pleas. Lady Godiva repeatedly urged her husband, Leofric, to lessen the people's tax burden, and time and again he refused. Yet she persisted, and one day in exasperation he told her he would lower taxes when she rode a horse, naked, through the streets of the town at midday. When she took him at his word and set out on her famous ride, the highborn Lady Godiva became an instant heroine to the common people of Coventry.

A fascinating piece of history. But as it happens, most medieval scholars agree the ride never took place. Professor of English and American literature and language Daniel Donoghue examines the origins and cultural significance of the myth in Lady Godiva: A Literary History of the Legend (Blackwell), and offers insights into how that myth has evolved over the centuries. "The story," he notes, "was based on the life of Godifu, a real woman who lived in Coventry in the latter part of the eleventh century [1000s] and was married to one of the most powerful men in England."

Donoghue points out that "two centuries after her death, chroniclers in the Benedictine abbey of St. Albans inserted a fully developed narrative into their Latin histories" and the legend of Lady Godiva was born. "Nobody knows quite why the legend was invented and attached to her name," he says, "but it does seem to function as a kind of myth of origin for the town of Coventry. At the end, Count Leofric seals the agreement about taxes with his own seal."

One of the myth's most interesting subplots involves the role of "Peeping Tom," who doesn't even appear in the story until the seventeenth century. According to legend, the people of Coventry, as a gesture of respect and appreciation for Lady Godiva's actions on their behalf, stayed indoors behind shuttered windows to preserve her modesty as she passed. Everyone, that is, except Tom, whose lustful curiosity compelled him to gaze at her and who was then, according to legend, punished with blindness or death.

Ha. If Lady Godiva’s ride really took place, I bet more than one townsperson would sneak a peek. Whether the story has any roots in reality or not, it has inspired many sketches and paintings, including one black-and-white reproduction of an engraving that was used by a hair-products company in the 1960s, when I was a teenager. By sending in a bar code from a can of hairspray and a fee for shipping and handling ($1.00, I think), I was able to get a copy of the picture, which I framed and hung on my wall. Nudity for a good cause! I was entranced.

According to some theories, Leofric’s ultimatum to his wife involved “riding a horse naked,” meaning that the horse couldn’t be equipped with any tack (saddle, bridle, reins) whatsoever. And according to some, the lady was simply challenged to ride through the town in clothing below her station, not dressed as the woman with the highest rank in the town.

A more intriguing theory suggests that in the eleventh century, Coventry still had some pagan (pre-Christian) traditions, including ceremonies featuring a local woman representing the Goddess, who would be skyclad (naked) because in ancient Celtic spiritual traditions, nudity was associated with power rather than shame or humiliation. Who better to represent the Goddess than the highest lady of the land?

Leofric’s power to tax the peasants into dire poverty has also been questioned. When the Norman French conquered England in 1066, they did a general survey of their new territory, and eventually imposed more patriarchal legal forms of property ownership than the Anglo-Saxons had previously. Under Anglo-Saxon law, Lady Godiva might have had the power to impose taxes herself, or to lessen them.

Even still, I admired the legendary version of Lady Godiva from the time I first heard of her. Riding naked through the town sounds deliciously comfortable, especially for someone who would normally be expected to wear a lot of clothes. And what other medieval woman was able to do that and still maintain the respect of the people? Her willingness to meet her husband’s challenge (which seems intended to shut her up about the tax situation) suggests sexual generosity, and in the legend, it results in greater happiness for all.

I wonder if I could strike a deal with the city government as an alternative to paying property tax, or with Revenue Canada in lieu of income tax? Alas, probably not at my age.
-------------



A late nineteenth-century painting by John Collier, who apparently thought the horse should be well-dressed


Here is a link to Peter and Gordon's jolly 1966 song about Lady Godiva:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dJWBpq2dCF0

For Equality

Like several other people at Oh Get a Grip, I’ve done a lot of writing for Coming Together, a publisher that produces erotic anthologies that raise money for various charities. Some of the work I’m proudest of has gone into those books, too.

I thought I’d take the opportunity to talk about one of my favorite Coming Together stories, which was in Beth Wylde’s Coming Together: For Equality, a book that benefits Planting Peace Equality House.

My story was called “Risk Rider and Dare Take the Con,” and it’s about cosplay at a geek convention. For those who don’t know, cosplay is the name for dressing up in (often astonishingly detailed) costume in honor of favorite characters from books, movies, comics, and video games.

A couple of years ago (and definitely around the time I wrote this story), there was a lot of vocal controversy around cosplayers. The people who cosplay (often women) began speaking publicly about the harassment they experience at conventions and the ways they are treated as sex objects by attendees. Other people claimed that cosplayers are “fake geek girls” (whatever that means) who are attending these conventions to somehow trick or manipulate “real geeks” (whatever that means).

Some good came out of this flurry of blogs, social media posts, and articles. Many conventions improved their policies around harassment and worked to make cosplayers safer. More people recognized the work and devotion that goes into creating these incredible costumes.

I don’t think it’s all solved, though. Despite much tooting of the horn about the accepting nature of geek culture, my experience as a lifelong geek is that it’s accepting in certain ways but quite intolerant in others. For people on the receiving end of sexual harassment, I think geek culture can be particularly dangerous and difficult. Geek culture is typically very accepting of people with poor social skills, a lack of ability to read social cues, and confusion around boundaries. I’m really happy for people with those traits who feel they are able to make friends in geeky places. However, having this set of traits be commonplace can put people in a bind when receiving sexual interest. Behavior that feels creepy can be excused as “person X is just not good at social cues.” Concerns about such behavior can be dismissed as intolerant. Many people fail to see how this shifts the burden onto certain subsets of the community and creates an unwelcoming and intolerant environment for certain people. I think geek culture needs to work out better ways to be accepting of people outside of the social skill mainstream while also being careful of the safety of all members of the community. People are working on this, but there’s still progress to be made.

I’d also point to things like the recent controversy over the movie Ghostbusters, in which a relentless negative campaign against the movie drove one of its stars away from interacting with the public for a while and has likely ensured there will be no sequel. Some people think they own geek culture, and they fail to recognize that lots of people are geeks, too, and have been all along. (I’m glossing over lots of details in this short description. If you’re interested in knowing more, ask me in the comments, or do a few Google searches. Be ready for hours of reading.)

Anyway, when I wrote “Risk Rider and Dare Take the Con,” I was really excited about that story. It’s fun and genuinely sexy, in my humble opinion, but the story also let me express my pent-up anger around the harassing experiences I’ve had at geeky events over the course of my life. As is often the case when I work on charity anthologies, I was the first beneficiary. It was great to get the chance to let out feelings I’d always struggled to express.

I don’t usually do snippets here, but I feel weird talking so much about the story and not giving you a hint of it. It’s one of my favorites ever, so it would be awesome if this inspired a couple more people to pick up For Equality:

They wound up pressed together in a crowded elevator, the smell of leather combined with Dare's clean, hot skin overwhelming any other person's scent. "Dare and Risk Rider, huh?" The guy next to them wore an assessing expression. "You guys realize you got it wrong, right? Dare is the girl." He spoke as if correcting a kindergartener.

"I prefer dressing as Risk Rider," Jamie-Lyn said. She wouldn't normally have engaged, but Dare's body had emboldened her.

Her interlocutor, however, shook his head dismissively. "That's backwards. It's unrealistic to see a girl as Risk Rider. He's got all the martial arts skills, and he's the one who fights people off while Dare works on hacking stuff. Since women's bodies aren't as strong, it just doesn't make sense for the woman to be the physical defender. Sorry." He turned his back.

"She's bigger than me," Dare pointed out, but the guy didn't respond. Jamie-Lyn wasn't sure if she felt irritated or relieved that he'd decided the conversation was over.

The elevator dinged at Jamie-Lyn's floor, and she tugged Dare behind her, doing her best to ignore the sly hands that brushed against the outsides of her breasts or the curves of her ass. She'd dealt with so much at the con already that people trying to cop a feel just felt unfortunately normal. She and Dare stayed silent until Jamie-Lyn let them into her room.

Dare stopped the door before it closed. "Would you feel more comfortable if we propped it open? I know we just met. You don't even know my real name."

Her cheeks heated. Lust and Risk Rider's reflected boldness had led her to take some uncharacteristically reckless actions. She didn't want to stop, though. Gently, she pulled Dare's hand away from the door, allowing it to close. "What's your real name?"

"Louis Rios."

Jamie-Lyn introduced herself, then cut to the chase. "Why did you ask to come to my room?"

"You know why. We both felt it."

"We did," she agreed. Gazing for a moment into his quick, mischievous eyes, Jamie-Lyn decided to take the plunge all the way. Today, with him, she didn't want to pretend to be anything she wasn't. Some of her friends back home might have thought it was ironic for her to feel this way while dressed as a comic book character, but the point had always been that when she dressed as Risk Rider, Jamie-Lyn was expressing her best and truest self. Her bravest self.

She took Dare's hand—Louis's hand—and guided it to her crotch, wrapping it around her soft pack. "I'm not exactly traditional," Jamie-Lyn said. "Do you mind?"

"I like it."

The smile that spread over her face made Jamie-Lyn feel fierce, victorious, and hungry for more. She wrapped an arm around Louis in a grip meant to claim him and kissed him just the same way. She kissed him as a man would kiss, guiding the pace, teasing his mouth open with her tongue, her lips outside his lips, her jaw pressing his open wider, her hands making him submit to her.

And if you’re interested in writing for charity, too, I’m currently taking submissions for my first editing project for Coming Together, Positively Sexy (deadline extended to October 1st). Full details are here. (And I need to work on propagating the deadline extension…)

The Tongues of Men and of Angels

Sacchi Green

I grew up with the King James edition of the Bible.  I love the language, the poetry, and any newer translation doesn’t sound quite right to me, but one word that puzzled me in the King James version does seem to make more sense as it's been translated in every newer one I’ve encountered--not that I’ve actually read Bibles much since I grew up and lost the urge to show off by memorizing verses and entire chapters. Okay, just one chapter, actually, possibly the shortest one in the whole book, which made it a favorite of show-off geeky kids like me.

The puzzling word is “charity,’ from I Corinthians 13:

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. 2And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. 3And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.

Ah, the nostalgia! All those glorious phrases that have become imbedded in literary culture!  The Apostle Paul certainly seemed to “speak with the tongues of men and of angels” from time to time. He also saw visions. One wonders whether there were some good herbs around back then that nobody bothered to record in the Book. “Through a glass darkly…” What the heck, why not share the whole thing?

4Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, 5Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; 6Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; 7Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
8Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 9For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. 10But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. 11When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. 13And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

But what, exactly, is meant here by “charity”? Why doesn’t bestowing all one’s goods to feed the poor count? We generally associate the term with giving aid to the poor, and to a lesser extent to general kindness. Humans being the contrary creatures we are, charity has also taken on a negative connotation at times, with being charitable considered a virtue but accepting charity considered shameful, an admission of poverty that one should never make. I think that attitude is largely a thing of the past, which is just as well, although we still see a widespread attitude of disdain for the poor. Tax-deductible giving through large organizations seems more in favor these day than direct giving.

But back to my puzzlement about the word. I eventually figured out that the “vaunteth not itself” part was the key. Acts of charity motivated by the wish to be seen as charitable, to be praised, maybe even to buy your way into some type of heaven, are not true charity. Charity must come from the heart. Okay.

And then the all those “revised” editions went and dropped “charity” in favor of “love.” I guess that does make more sense; charity is a form or manifestation of love, while love encompasses far more than just charity. But is there any accurate definition of “love?” Much of the New Testament has been translated from Greek rather than Hebrew or Latin, and the Bible isn’t the only text to have problems grappling with the various words in Old Greek that mean “love” but have subtle differences. One definition of “charity” (charitas in Latin) gives its etymology as “influenced by Ancient Greek χάρις ‎(kháris)” and meaning 'love (of God)'”. That’s not much help. It reminds me of the “Concordance” of commentary in my old King James Bible which insisted that the Old Testament book “The Song of Solomon” was about God’s love for the Church. Or maybe vice versa. Yeah, right.

I admit that none of what I’ve written about charity here fits in with our general focus on erotica, unless your mind went off on a nice little tangent thinking about “the tongues of men and of angels,” but just give me a topic where I can reference The Song of Solomon from the Old Testament! I may have memorized I Corinthians 13, but my adolescent self absolutely devoured The Song of Solomon, over and over. I even quoted from it extensively in my very first published erotica story, in Best Lesbian Erotica 1999. Whatever long ago poet actually wrote what’s also known as The Song of Songs certainly knew a great deal about love. And sex. Charity…well, maybe.

Caritas

By Lisabet Sarai

“Beanpole.” That’s what they call him, that designer-clad, perfectly-coiffed pair of society moms over near the window. One of the kinder epithets they’ve bestowed, actually, but it fits him, poor man.

Awkward, skinny and at least six feet tall, he hunches over his laptop at his regular table in the corner, alternately pounding away at the keys and staring into space. His head’s a wild mass of straw-colored curls. His eyes are a watery blue behind the thick lenses of his wire-frame specs. His wrinkled shirt is half untucked and half unbuttoned. I catch a glimpse of his pale chest, sprinkled with blond fuzz.

He flashes me a vague grin when I bring him his double cappuccino. Not at all like the avid gaze he turns on the coeds and career gals who come in for their caffeine fix—all those tanned legs and painted toenails, flirty skirts and high heeled sandals. Not that I blame him; summer brings out the best in the local women.

With my buzz cut and tattoos, I guess he doesn’t realize I’m a girl. Still, I’d wager a triple mocha frappe with extra whipped cream that I could show him a better time than one of those little tarts.

He’s not really my type—I prefer both my men and my women with darker hair and more meat on their bones—but he broadcasts his need like an S.O.S. Plus I’m intrigued by his metier. He’s spent almost every weekday afternoon here, for the past month, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to sneak glimpses at his screen.

He’s a writer—well, anyone could figure that out—but guess what he writes? Erotic stories. Kinky stories, if I’m not mistaken. I’d love to read them, but in my professional capacity I’ve only caught a sentence here and there.

“I’m willing to bet the price of this fancy ride that your pussy’s bare under your skirt.”

“Oh, but those rosy nipples just cry out for some clamps!”

“The belt slices into my flesh, less than an inch from my pubis.”

I’ll say one thing for Mr. Beanpole. He’s got a vivid imagination. Probably compensating for a lack of sex in his everyday life. In this image-obsessed town, especially, someone with such a total lack of style probably has a tough time getting laid.

What would happen if I came on to him? I can picture him stretched out on my futon, his desperate cock rearing up from the yellow tangle of his pubes. I suspect it’s long and thin, like he is, just right for getting at those hard to reach places. Perfect for back-door entry, actually. That’s probably something he’s fantasized about a lot—most guys do, I gather. One of my specialities—both taking and giving.

Wiping the smudges off the massive brass espresso machine, I pause for a moment to close my eyes and imagine his solid, greased rod sliding into my anus. I feel the scary pressure against my tight ring of muscle, always there no matter how many times I’m butt-fucked. Then the painful instant when he breaches me, followed by the sweet, nasty sensation of his bulk filling me up. My clit tingles and swells as I mingle recollection with anticipation. My jeans are suddenly too tight.

When I shoot a glance in his direction, I discover he’s looking back at me. He points to his empty cup and with an apologetic grin, raises one finger.

Sure, baby. Whatever you want.

I grind the beans, set a pristine cup under the spout, and go to pour the milk while the head of steam builds. Inhaling the rich, complex scent of high quality coffee, I flip the scene in my head. Now I’m the one reaming him, the straps of my harness biting into my hips as I bury my cock deep in his ass. His pasty white cheeks tense each time I impale him. They just cry out to be pinked by a slap or two.

Would he like that? Given what he writes, he just might.

He wouldn’t refuse me, certainly. If nothing else, he’d want the opportunity to research all the things he writes about. And I expect he’d be suitably grateful. After I make him come, I’m sure could coax him into eating me out.

So what I’m not his ideal woman, all soft and feminine. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I scribble my phone number on a napkin and stuff it into my jeans pocket. Then, feeling playful, I sprinkle cinnamon over the foamy surface of his beverage, in the form of a heart. When I place the cup next to him on the table, I deliberately brush the side of my breast against his arm.

He starts, looks up, snags my eyes. Oh, there’s fire there! A bolt of lust sizzles from my solar plexus to my pussy.

I’m just about to hand him the napkin when the door of the shop opens. His gaze snaps to the woman who enters.

He jumps to his feet, towering over me. “Layla! You’re early!”

She breezes in, silver bracelets tinkling, unutterably lovely. Ringlets black as midnight tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Ropes of colorful beads encircle her neck, nestling in the valley between her opulent breasts. A flowing rainbow-hued skirt drapes over her equally abundant hips and swirls around her sturdy ankles.

“Michael, darling!” I back away as she descends on the writer and sweeps him into a searing French kiss. His hands slide down her back to fondle her ass. As his tongue plunders her mouth, he grinds his pelvis against hers. The gesture’s definitely not family-friendly. I glance around at the other customers, hoping no one has noticed, but everyone appears to be transfixed by various mobile devices.

They make out for a shockingly long time, while I watch, becoming hotter by the instant. And I thought this guy wasn’t getting any! I thrust my hands in my pockets and crumple up the phone number, as a blush climbs into my cheeks. Talk about feeling stupid!

Finally, I tear myself away from the erotic spectacle, hurrying back to busy myself behind the counter. They’re still kissing, though the intensity has waned a bit. At last he releases her. She sinks into the chair next to him, licking her lips.

I’m still quivering with arousal when the writer—Michael—beckons to me.

“Can I get the check please, Nicki?”

I didn’t think he knew my name. “Oh—sure. Just a sec.” I have new respect for this guy. Despite his less than impressive appearance, he must be someone special, to have hooked someone as gorgeous as Layla.

He turns to the gypsy-like vision beside him. “This is Nicki. She’s been taking care of me over the past few weeks, while I’ve been trying to finish the novel.”

Layla snares me with eyes the color of French roast coffee. “Thanks, Nicki. I know Michael can consume a lot caffeine when he’s in the throes of a creative endeavour.”

“Um. Yeah. I noticed.” I’m burning up, though I can’t say whether desire or embarrassment makes the greater contribution.

She turns to her lover. The pair share a long, smoldering look, before she swings her gaze back to me.

“Looks like you work really hard.”

Is she mocking me? I’m sure she saw the cinnamon heart. “Well, you know. It’s a job.”

She fingers a inky tendril of hair before it flipping over her shoulder. Her full lips curve into a friendly smile. “So we were wondering, Michael and I, when you have a day off.”

What? My knees actually go weak for an instant. Does she mean...?

“I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for you, actually,” Michael adds. “Seems as though nobody here really appreciates you.”

“Except Michael,” Layla adds, stroking his arm. He shifts in his chair. Even though his lap’s in shadow, I glimpse the swelling in his crotch. “And me, of course.”

The beanpole hands me a twenty. Electricity sizzles between us when our fingers touch. “Keep the change, Nicki.” His smile makes me feel naked.

Meanwhile, Layla pulls a pen from her lover’s shirt pocket and writes something on the check. “Call us,” she murmurs. “We’ll be good to you.”

Blood roars in my ears. I have a lot of fantasies. I’m not used to having them come true.

I’m certainly not going to turn them down. Even if, for them, it’s an act of charity.

One Drop Raises the Ocean

I'm always happy to guest blog when the subject is giving. Whether it's giving time, giving cash, or giving head. Doesn't matter. Giving is sexy. Generosity is sexy. Helping others is sexy. Selflessness is sexy.

Seriously soak-the-panties sexy to me.

And who doesn't want to be sexy? Feeling sexy is energizing. It puts a bounce in the step and a twinkle in the eyes. It boosts self-confidence and makes the imagination soar. Plus, there's some major good karma involved. Do unto others, and all that jazz.

I could tell you that I pump huge amounts of blood, sweat, and tears into the charity anthology series Coming Together because I want to be sexy and, really, that's not terribly far from the truth.
If we are totally honest with ourselves, we recognize that our actions are ultimately driven by self interest, even altruistic endeavors. I do what I do—give what I give—because it makes me feel good about myself. It mitigates my shortcomings, keeps my karmic account in the black, and alleviates my guilt when I spend more than I should on things made of leather or stainless steel. Making others happy, relieving pain & suffering, seeing a smile, hearing a groan of ecstasy all fuel my sense of self-worth.

That logic applies to charity as well as erotic fiction. Combine the two, and it's a double-sexy-whammy. Coming Together not only makes a difference in the lives of people who are suffering in the face of disease or natural disaster through its charity fundraising but also gives its readers a pleasant diversion and makes them feel good about supporting a cause.

The authors and poets who contribute to Coming Together are the sexiest people on the planet. Bar none.

And what better time to be sexy? Look at the world around us. There is never a shortage of illness, poverty, or natural disaster, but there is often a shortage of compassion and generosity.

We can tip that balance. We can be the change. No matter how small, or how seemingly insignificant, our sexy efforts matter.

One drop raises the ocean.

peace & passion,

~ Alessia Brio
www.eroticanthology.com

Bits and Spurts

I've been lying about all week, caught somewhere between being sick and just being tired after a long weekend. I've barely read anybody else's posts this week, and until this moment have had no idea what to say on today's topic. Charity, it's a great thing, right? And I should be able to say lots about it, only I'm the poor sucker who volunteered to be the last blogger of the week, and I'm not sure what I could add to what's already been discussed.

We do give to charity in la casa de Madden. The Hubster is a federal employee, and participates in an annual program that deducts a certain amount of money (pre-tax) from each paycheck to give to the charities he names. We decide together, each year, what those charities will be. In addition, the man is Catholic, and as such tithes to his church. But these are really the Hubster's charitable donations, not mine. Yes, his money is my money since I am the stay-at-home parent and have thus sacrificed a regular paycheck to take care of our family at home. But still, that old feeling of "I have no money of my own" rears its ugly head whenever I talk about charity and finances.

When I had a day job, I used to give regularly to a couple of charities - Amnesty International, ASPCA, Alley Cat Allies and my local PBS stations. These were things I believed were worth donating to, and my beliefs are strong enough that we still donate to these organizations thanks to the Hubster's paycheck donations. Then there was the volunteer work I used to do. Usually it was just small things. I'm not Catholic, so rather than sit through Mass I used to volunteer to work in the church nursery, until I decided my kids were too much of a handful to deal with in addition to someone else's offspring. My only other "big" stint at volunteer activity happened before we had kids, Hubster and I volunteered to train at the local Red Cross as Emergency Services reps. If someone's house burned down in the middle of the night, we were the folks who would help them find a place to stay and help replace some of their goods. We were never actually called upon to do this, thankfully, but we were willing and ready.

These days, my good deeds are pretty sporadic. Once or twice, I have volunteered to serve food at the homeless shelter my husband's church hosts once each year. I have bought clothes and toys for children in need and dropped them off at the local Y or Salvation Army whenever I chanced to see their signs for donations. But it's all few and far between. Again, I have no steady paycheck, so it's hard for me to donate my own money. As for volunteer work... well, with two small children and the demands of my writing and graphics work, it's hard to find time to breathe, let alone volunteer for one more thing to do.

Last weekend, that exhausting weekend I referred to at the beginning of this post, I was at Marscon, a local science fiction convention. I went as a writing guest, and brought with me a stack of books to sell, including Alessia Brio's "Coming Together: With Pride." I made sure to explain to anyone who stopped by my table what Coming Together was all about, and pointed out that there were other authors who were there as well with other volumes of the books and promo materials too. We pimped those books hard, and I think Sapphire Phelan may have sold the copies she had. All for a good cause!

In addition to the books I brought, there was also this collection of Star Trek plates I had. My mother had given them to me ages ago, a set of eight plates with various Star Trek characters painted on them, and matching mugs. I love Star Trek, but for the life of me I never understood why my mother bought me plates! What was I supposed to do with them? Hang them on my walls? Eh, no. So when I arrived at Marscon this year, I brought the plates with me, still in their original boxes with their original certificates from whatever mint they came from. I handed them over to the convention's charity auction for the Humane Society. "I have no need for these," I said. "Please sell them to a good home." I was told Sunday that the plates went for around $50. The convention was grateful, and I was please that I could do something, anything, charitable while reclaiming a bit of space in my china cabinet.

So my charity happens in bits and spurts; a short story given to Alessia here, some plates donated there, a little time helping out when I can. I am not Bill Gates, able to donate millions of dollars to helping the world. I give what I can, when I can. And maybe that's what counts. I hope so.

If anyone here would like to make a donation to a worthy cause, please consider taking a look at The Boom Effect, an auction in action dedicated to Sonic Boom, daughter of Tee Morris, author of "Morevi" and the Billibub Baddings mystery books, and his wife Natalie. Earlier this month, Natalie passed away unexpectedly. A group of friends have gotten together to create a trust fund for Sonic Boom. Many authors and artists have donated their works and other items for sale. Yours truly will be offering a signed copy of Future Perfect plus a crocheted ninja (that's right, I'm going to crochet a ninja; don't ask how, just believe). The auction will be held on line 27 February. That's in just a few weeks. Consider giving what you can to this cause. Even a small donation will make a huge difference in the life of one little girl.

That's it from me this week. Go out and do good, or at least as good as you can.

Make a difference in your own way ...

"We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors: we borrow it from our children." ~ Ancient Nation American Proverb

Like my fellow Grippers, I tend to look at charity and giving from two view points - local and worldwide.

I am horrified by the devastation in many different countries, all brought about in many different ways - nature, war, poverty, political unrest, and so on.

For me, I have always had to balance what I would like to do to help - bring about world peace and a utopia - with what I can do.

A few years ago, I picked out my "charities" and started donating, and I have held to them ever since. Every year, I figure out what I can give, saving what I can along the course of the year, and I decide which of the charities gets how much.

I give to the World Wildlife Fund, the National Wildlife Foundation, and Conservation International, to name a few.

"We must protect the forests for our children, grandchildren and children yet to be born. We must protect the forests for those who can't speak for themselves such as the birds, animals, fish and trees." ~ Qwatsinas (Hereditary Chief Edward Moody), Nuxalk Nation

I admit it, I am a bit of a tree hugger. As a biology major, I have been exposed to a lot of information about the planet, ecology, and the need for conservation of species. Which is part of why I have chosen to send my donations towards such efforts. The other reason is very simple - I want my grandchildren, and my grandchildren's grandchildren, and so on, to be able to admire the beauty of a tiger pacing, to smell the sweet scent of a orchid, to snorkel and have a manatee come upon them to play.

Species matter! And the preservation and conservation of species is important, which is why I was thrilled to be selected to take part in the Coming Together: Al Fresco anthology to benefit Conservation International.

Each species plays an integral role to the health of the ecosystem in which it lives, and the planet as a whole. One professor explained it very simply. The planet is a game of Jenga. We can remove blocks here and there, and it will still stand. A bit shaky, but it stands. Yet there will come a block that will destabalize it to such a degree that the tower collapses.

We tend to focus a lot on the things that matter to us as humans; Aids research, breast cancer, heart disease, relief efforts. And I do not disagree that there is a need for such. In fact, I also support such efforts when I can. But the planet, and the species on it, matter too. Which is why I give what I can to aid conservation efforts; money, time, and support.

As for my local charitable work, I volunter at a nature center which helps to rehab injured wildlife. It is messy, smelly and in some cases disgusting work since I am cleaning out cages, helping change bandages and cutting up mice and rats for the injured raptors to eat (since that is what I tend to do when I am there - work in the raptors room). But when I leave, I always have such a sense of doing something that matters.

After all, how many people can say they have been glared at by an injured redtailed hawk that is sitting in the backseat of their car in a pet carrier (was transporting him to the center for treatment), or dive bombed by owl and hawks and the occasional falcon while taking them food. I've also stood inches away from an owl and shoved bites of chopped up rat into its mouth, and helped to keep an eagle from biting another of the volunteers while we checked his wounds over. (Just to name a few highlights LOL)

My husband and our daughter also help out. And I was so proud to hear my daughter say she felt good about volunteering her time on Saturdays to help out. She wishes she could go more often, but she is seriously limited on how many hours she can give, due to her age.

I think that is what it all boils down to in the end. Whatever cause or charity we decide is worthy of our time and money, regardless is it helps local vets with medical supplies and food, or feeds millions in a foreign country, or if it contributes to the research being done on a disease, or protects the planet - we are giving what we can.

We are making a difference, in our own way.

We are teaching the next generation they can make a difference.

“In the end we will conserve only what we love. We will love only what we understand. We will understand only what we are taught.” ~ Baba Dioum

...But At Times Widen Your View

Charity may begin at home...but for me, sometimes I need to widen my view.

Like Lisabet, I had been prepared to come into this topic discussing my own fashion of contributing back to the society in which I live. And I discovered an interesting thing about myself; almost all of the causes to which I've leant support have been ones with mostly a local or regional impact.

I've contributed my time to tutoring children who need help with reading, volunteered to SOLV (Stop Oregon Litter & Vandalism) clean-up days, and planted trees on Earth Day in local parks and wetlands. I've donated food to the Oregon Food Bank, donated blood to the Red Cross, and supported local women's shelters with donations of interview suits and clothing. I've given computers to be recycled, revamped and sold. I provide coats in the winter, toys at the holidays, and stuffed animals to the police and fire departments.

All good causes, and I don't regret a single one. But sometimes I "forget" there is a whole world full of people who endure a daily struggle for basic needs. And a tragedy like the the ongoing recovery in Haiti just knocks me off my safe and secure stance. Very humbling to remember how blessed I am and that I can extend my help to outside my own little sphere.

Is there an event or story that really caused you to do some self-examination? Like Lisabet, I am going to add $1 to my Mercy Corps donation for every answer or observation I receive in reply to this post. Thanks for the idea Lisabet, and thank you in advance to commenters.