When it just keeps happening, how do you not give up?

by Giselle Renarde

Some people have the energy to fight endless battles. Well, that's some people. That's not Giselle.

When I first started writing, I wasn't so aware of the business side of things. I didn't know how publishing worked, and I didn't need to know. I wrote stories for anthologies, submitted them to editors, and the rest basically took care of itself.

Then, I became aware of ebooks. So I started submitting to publishers and getting rejected, submitting again, getting rejected again, and finally seeing some success in the form of acceptance letters. Happy Days.

But I still wasn't much part of the publishing process.

It was only when a lot of my old publishers went under and I started self-publishing that I learned about things that hadn't even been considerations, previously. Like staying away from certain keywords when you publish erotica, because they'll get your book banned, or at least relegated to an adults-only dungeon--which is so much less fun without the beaded curtains. Why can't cyber-dungeons have beaded curtains? Riddle me that, internet.

Anyway, I've learned a lot over the past... holy shit, five years? Did I really start self-publishing that long ago?  Feels like only yesterday. I feel like a babe in the self-publishing world, while simultaneously feeling like Methuselah for remembering what things were like before Amazon.

What is the point you're trying to make, Giselle?

Thanks for asking. I was getting off-track, there.

The point is, I've seen a lot of corporate censorship of my work. A lot. So much.  Like, it's crazy how much.

If you're an erotica writer, I guarantee someone somewhere is going to ban your books. How can I guarantee that? Isn't it true that only filthy nasty smut gets banned, these days?  Nope. Not true in the least. There are a lot of ebook retailers that refuse to stock erotica on their shelves at all.

Okay. Well. I guess that's their right.

Am I chill about that?  Should I be chill about it?  I don't even know anymore. I've just seen so much rejection. But this is different than the rejections I received as an author submitting my work to publishers. With publishers, if I changed this or that, or if I improved my craft or whatever, there was a chance the next submission might be accepted.

Not so in the case of retailers who don't stock erotica. Better erotica is still erotica. The best erotica is still erotica. And they won't have it. So there's nowhere to go from here. Not with them.

But, like, at least those guys are clear from the outset that they don't accept erotica. They don't sell it. They don't want it.

Is that better or worse than Barnes and Noble, which used to carry every kind of erotica under the sun and now... doesn't?

Here's what happened, if you're not aware: for many, many years, Barnes and Noble sold erotica of all stripes. That includes bestiality. That includes rape. That includes incest and pseudo-incest.

And then, overnight, everything changed.

Barnes and Noble decided they didn't want any of that extreme sexual content on their shelves. Okay. Again, that's their right. It sucks because I was just starting to make good money off Lexi's PI and a few incest titles, but nothing gold can stay.

The thing they did that was super-super-shitty was they actually closed down offenders' accounts. Immediately. Without warning! So one day it's fine to publish anything you like, and the next day it's against the rules and we see that, in the past, you've published content that offends us in the present, so bye-bye account?  That's ludicrous. But it happened.

Don't worry. I've saved the best for last.

The best of the worst has got to be Playster. They didn't want erotica on their shelves, so you know what they did? THEY REMOVED ALL GAY AND LESBIAN CONTENT. For real. This is a thing that happened.

Because everybody knows we queers are bound to sneak not only our gay agenda but also RAUNCHY SEX into everything from sweet romances to cozy mysteries.

If you do a quick google search, you'll notice a lot of the posts around this topic say the issue is "resolved." Which is true in the sense that all those innocent LGBT books have been reinstated on Playster's shelves. But "resolved" in the larger sense? I think not.  LGBT content is constantly being blocked, being banned, being quietly removed while the overseeing bodies hope nobody notices. A public outcry is bad for business, after all.

And here's where I circle back to what I said at the beginning.

Some people have the energy to fight these endless battles. Last year taught me that I'm no longer one of those people.

When I found out what Playster was doing, did it fill me with so much moral outrage that I blogged about it immediately? Sadly, no. It made me depressed, sure. But I sighed and said, "This again?" and I didn't do a thing. Because I've been through this shit so many times, as a queer writer.

And as a queer erotica writer? Well that's a double-whammy if ever there was one.

When Barnes and Noble took down the very books that were earning me the most money, I don't think I mentioned it to anyone. That was another momentary sigh. My battle wouldn't be with the company. My battle wouldn't even be a battle. My process would be to find the next thing that'll earn a buck.

Because a queer's gotta eat.

Queers Rewrite the Script

by Jean Roberta

In September, a gay-male colleague (a talented and prolific fantasy writer himself) loaned me his copy of Queers Destroy Fantasy! Special Issue. It was produced as a paperback by Fantasy Magazine in December 2015 (Issue 59), and edited by Christopher Barzak. It includes short stories, a novel excerpt, non-fiction essays, author bios, and black-and-white fantasy art.

This drawing by Elizabeth Leggett, included in the art section of the anthology, was used by Lethe Press as the cover of Bitter Waters, a story collection by Chaz Brenchley.



The anthology is part of the “Destroy!” series, including Women Destroy Science Fiction! Women Destroy Fantasy! Women Destroy Horror! plus all the “Queers Destroy. . . “ titles.

Under the circumstances, I would have expected Queers Destroy Fantasy! to have a shortage of women characters (and/or authors) on grounds that women have their own series, but this is not the case. The first original story, “The Lily and the Horn” by Catherynne M. Valente, is set in a vaguely medieval world in which conflict is resolved not by knights with lances or soldiers with arrows but by women who are either experts in cooking with poisons or in detoxifying the victims of poisonous feasts.

Two young girls, who met in the Floregilium (school of botany), have never forgotten their mutual attraction, even though they were each chosen as the wife of a lord for their opposite talents: to kill with plants, or to heal with them. The narrator, a “lily,” has prepared a deadly feast to determine the outcome of a land dispute, and all the guests know what is at stake. The lily’s old friend, a “horn,” is there to heal her husband’s vassals and allies, if possible. The relationship between the two women, like the dishes on the table, is bittersweet.

In “The Lady’s Maid” by Carlea Holl-Jensen, a predatory noblewoman is able to wear the severed heads of the young women she has killed, see out of their eyes, and speak with their mouths. The “lady” keeps a collection of heads for different occasions, like a collection of hats. Her seemingly loyal maid, who stays with her after everyone else in the castle has run away, discovers how to control her mistress.

The predominance of women characters continues in the reprinted stories, including an ornate fable of the Mughal empire, “The Padishah Begum’s Reflections” by Shweta Narayan. Another reprint, “Down the Path of the Sun” by Nicola Griffith, is a heartbreaking story of survival and loss in a dystopian future.

In “The Sea Troll’s Daughter” by Caitlin R. Kiernan, a mortal woman dies while giving birth to the daughter of the sea troll (who probably raped her, but no one knows for sure), leaving a monstrous baby to survive with the help of a village witch. A foolhardy female bounty-hunter comes to town to kill the sea-troll for the non-existent fortune promised by the local village for any hero who could do that. Most of the mortals in this story are revealed to be fools, liars, and drunkards, but the bounty-hunter and the local barmaid have an affair of convenience, and the sea troll’s daughter—who lives alone in the unhospitable wilderness--gives them more help than they could reasonably expect.

Two noteworthy stories by male authors are “The Duchess and the Ghost” by Richard Bowes, which was reprinted later in an edition of Best Gay Stories, and “The Ledge” by Austin Bunn, in which a shipful of Spanish sailors, some time before 1492, actually sails to the edge of the world. The young narrator, who hopes his affair with an older man, Diego, will not be discovered and punished, is delighted to rescue his widowed mother from the “other side:”

“Your hands are folded across your chest and you stare away, at the ledge. You look precisely as I left you, your long black hair damp and loose against your back and your bare feet white as salt. Around me, the crew and the others race to trim the Elena’s sails in a westerly. The captain is missing and I am full of questions. Are you a dream? Is this a fever or worse? I’m afraid to speak. And so I sit alone, in the shade of the quarterdeck, and write."

Kai Ashante Wilson, author of “So Various, So Beautiful, So New,” is not identified by gender, even in the author interview in the non-fiction section. The excerpt from the novel, All the Birds in the Sky, is by Charlie Jane Anders, who seems to be male by birth, but I wouldn’t place any bets on how s/he identifies now.

Suffice it to say that all the material in this collection is worth reading. Each of these stories contains a universe that seems more enticing than this one.

P.S.: At the risk of hogging the spotlight, I will post again tomorrow. I'm reading a book of historical non-fiction about trans men (the author's term) in the United States, approximately 1875-1935. I promised to review this fascinating study for The Gay and Lesbian Review.

Offending Public Decency

By Lisabet Sarai

“Tell me about the party at the penthouse, Mr. Bridge.”

“Which penthouse?”

Sweat beads on the pudgy man’s brow and stains the collar of his silk business shirt. His suit probably cost more than my salary. My annual salary. I jot down his response in my notebook—phones and cameras have been banned at this hearing, due to its sensitive nature—and grin as Heidi bears down on her victim.

“I’m referring to your penthouse in Las Vegas, on the fortieth floor of your Fantasyland casino, where you entertained Mr. Pyotr Rostov and his entourage on the thirteenth of June this year. According to the other witnesses, there were professional escorts in attendance.”

“So what?” The witness shrugs and turns to the judge with an oily smile. “Hooking’s legal in Vegas.”

Heidi pretends to look at her case file, lengthening the pause and turning up the heat. Of course she’s already familiar with every detail. God, she’s magnificent!

“But not in New York City, where you staged another penthouse party on March twenty second of last year, for a group of Saudi oil executives. A party at which you tied two women into a sixty-nine position and left them that way for more than four hours.”

Bridge’s lawyer leaps to his feet. “Objection! Irrelevant. That case was settled out of court, for a very substantial sum.”

“Sustained,” says the judge wearily.

“Your Honor, the existence of that settlement is extremely relevant to the current proceedings. How much did you pay those women to withdraw their accusations, Mr. Bridge?”

The corpulent tycoon shrugs again. “I have no idea. Ask my accountants.”

“My sources indicate that you paid four million dollars to Ms. Linda Franconi and Ms. Anika Narula in return for their dropping their complaint.” Heidi favors him with a mild smile. “That’s a lot of money, Mr. Bridge.”

“Not to me,” says Bridges, swelling with pride. “But probably more than a dyke bitch like you will see in her lifetime.”

The judge sighs. “Please remember where you are, Mr. Bridge, and watch your language.”

“Hey, I swore to tell the truth.” The defendant chuckles, but there’s defensive tone to his laughter.

How does he know? Aside from her fashionably short hairstyle, Heidi’s one hundred percent femme. While her tailored gray suit broadcasts confidence and professionalism, it also shows off her curves. She looks every inch the up-and-coming public prosecutor that she is.

Of course, Bridge may well call every assertive, competent woman a dyke.

In any case, Heidi is not deterred in the least. “To get back to my question—do you admit you paid four million to silence these women?”

“Maybe. Chump change to me.”

“That’s exactly my point, Mr. Bridge. Your Honor, the defendant is so obscenely wealthy that he calls four million dollars ‘chump change’.”

The lawyer in the Armani pops up like a Jack-in-the-Box. “Objection. Counsel is expressing her personal opinions.”

“Sustained. Stick to the facts, please, Ms. Russell.”

“Very well, Your Honor.” She stalks over toward the witness box in her three inch heels. “Let’s go back to the Las Vegas party. The plaintiff claims that at that party, you drugged her, then sexually assaulted her.”

“Sexually assaulted?” The billionaire guffaws. “She’s a whore, for God’s sake! I paid her to put out, for me and my guests. It’s her job.”

“Ms. Rosario sustained internal injuries after being penetrated by a baseball bat. Do you consider that part of her job?”

Bridge shifts uneasily in his chair. “It wasn’t me. One of the Russkies...”

“Your fingerprints and DNA were found on the bat. Along with Ms. Rosario’s blood.” My lover lays a manila folder in front of the judge. “The lab report, Your Honor, which I respectfully submit as Exhibit A.”

“Fucking Mexican,” Bridge mumbles. “Should’ve shipped her back to Tijuana when she first started making trouble...”

“What was that, Mr. Bridge?” asks Heidi sweetly.

“Nothing—nothing.” He pulls a paisley silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wipes his forehead. I scribble away, knowing my readers will love the quotes. “Anyway, I offered to pay the slut a very handsome sum as compensation.”

“Right.” Heidi consults her notes once more. “Two and a half million dollars, according to her testimony. But she refused to take it.”

“Greedy wetback cunt.”

“Mr. Bridge, I warned you about your language,” says Judge Walters. His tone of voice makes his frustration clear. He’s a good old boy, inclined by nature to side with the defendant, but even he has his limits. “If you continue to use profanity, I’ll hold you in contempt of court.”

“Sorry, Your Honor. But isn’t that whole mess some other case? I’m not on trial here for fucking—I mean, for having sex with some Mexican hooker.”

“Quite right, Mr. Bridge. The charges here relate to public obscenity.” Heidi taps her pen against the file she’s holding. “And we are not referring to your propensity for cursing.”

Returning to her desk, she retrieves another sheaf of papers. “Let’s talk about another accusation. Ms. Thahn Minh Nguyen works in one of your factories in southern California. Her house has been repossessed.”

“Some gook goes bankrupt and it’s somehow my fault?” Bridge grinds his teeth and shakes his head. “Are you crazy or just PMS?”

Heidi ignores the jibe.

“Ms. Nguyen’s deposition indicates that you failed to pay her and her fellow workers minimum wage. You also forced her to put in as much as twenty hours per week overtime, without giving her time and a half.”

“I didn’t force anyone to do anything! You think I personally manage every one of my factories? Jeez Louise! Why does everyone pick on me?” He leans forward, stabbing his finger at my partner. “My companies provide jobs for thousands of workers. Tens of thousands. And what do I get for that? Persecution!” He slumps back in his chair. “If Ms. Nooyen’s not happy, let her go back where she came from and free up a job for an American!”

“Ms. Nguyen has been an American citizen since 1992. Her daughter, with whom she’s now forced to live, and her grand-daughters are citizens too.”

“Okay, okay. Let her complain to the Department of Labor. This isn’t my problem!”

“She sued in Los Angeles District Court. The case was dismissed.”

“You see? Baseless accusations!”

“There’s convincing evidence that the judge was bribed, Mr. Bridge.”

“You can’t prove it,” Bridge whines. “I’m clean. Maybe one of my flunkies was trying to get in good with me.”

“Perhaps. But it was your money, was it not?” Heidi folds her arms over her perfect breasts. “How many companies do you own, Mr. Bridge?”

“I—I don’t know. Maybe a hundred. It changes from week to week. I don’t handle the details...”

“How many houses do you have?” Heidi’s moving in for the kill.

“I’m not sure. What difference does it make?” The defendant reminds me of a sulking schoolboy. “Like I said, ask my accountant.”

“Well, there’s the estate in Westchester.” She ticks off an item on a list. “The ranch in Wyoming. The beach house in Malibu. Penthouse apartments in Las Vegas, New York, Chicago, London and—oh, my, in Moscow! Your pied à terre in Paris—just a petit coin, a mere 2500 square feet. The resort in Cancun, staffed no doubt by filthy Mexican rapists and criminals...”

“Objection!” Bridge’s lawyer is right for once. Heidi’s having much too much fun to be legal.

“Sustained. Please refrain from sarcasm, Counsel.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.” She makes a show of counting the items on her list. “Thirty four,” she says finally. “According to our records, you own thirty four houses or apartments. Of course, there may be some we missed.”

“So what?” Bridge mutters. “Shoot me, why don’t you? I’m rich.”

“Exactly. But with so many houses as your disposal, perhaps you’d like to be generous and gift one to poor Ms. Nguyen, so her grand-daughters can have their bedroom back, and not have to sleep on the living room couch.”

Oh, this is going to make great copy! It doesn’t pay well, but sometimes I love being a reporter.

Heidi wraps up her arguments. The judge calls a recess to make his deliberations. Given that the criterion for obscenity is community standards, I’m surprised that this wasn’t a jury trial, but maybe Bridge thought he’d do better convincing just one moderately well-off white male.

He was wrong though. When the judge reconvenes the hearing, he pronounces Ronald Bridge guilty on six counts of obscenity and sentences him to three months in prison. Walters doesn’t even mention a fine. He knows that would be ridiculous.

When Heidi emerges from the court room, I’m there to capture her in my arms. “Congratulations,” I murmur as I nibble on her earlobe. Her perfume makes me dizzy.

“Oh, Kat! You know he’ll appeal.” She relaxes into my embrace. I kiss her until her lipstick is thoroughly smeared.

“Never mind. It’s the principle of the thing. Everyone’s going to know about this. Everyone! All those silent people he’s screwed are going to get braver about speaking up. This isn’t just about him, either. Those other billionaires who got rich raping and stealing from ordinary folks are going feel a little less comfortable...”

The door swings open. An African American bailiff emerges, holding Bridge by the arm. He’s off to a holding cell, where he’ll stay until the bail hearing this afternoon. 

“Let me go, you stinking nigger!" the prisoner shouts. "You’re going to be so, so sorry...”

Bridge stops short when he notices us. I see him taking in my jeans and Doc Martins, my button-down man’s shirt and the stud in my ear. He doesn’t miss the fact that Heidi looks far less neat than she did in the court room. Her jacket hangs off one shoulder, her silk blouse is half out of her skirt and the top button’s open.

The billionaire just stares as the bailiff leads him away. “Damn, I was right. You are a filthy dyke. That’s fucking disgusting!”

I trace Heidi’s kiss-swollen lips with my thumb and stare him down. “You’re right. Downright obscene.”