Faded Plaid Flannel (#FlashFiction #chemistry #olfactory)

By Lisabet Sarai

He’d left it behind when he moved out. Guess the old bathrobe became too ratty even for his casual tastes. She can’t look at it without seeing his wiry frame wrapped in the faded plaid flannel, crouched over his poetry at the kitchen table. Vodka on one side, smoldering cigarette on the other, close enough to touch, a million miles away.

She holds it to her face, breathing him in, sweat and tobacco, and underneath, that elusive musk that first hooked her. Addictive, intoxicating—in an instant she’s drunk with the astounding lust that first drew them together. Eyes closed, she relives their ecstatic frenzy, the clarity of pure connection. In bed they were one body, obscene and holy. She never cared what they did; every carnal act felt like a sacrament. The loss of him, of that glory, is a vast, black, aching wound in her chest.

He’d felt it, too. Inhaling her female perfume, he lost himself, drowned in her lushness. Scary. One reason— along with his wanderlust—that he’s gone.

Chemistry’s not the same as compatibility.

She stuffs the rag between her thighs. Eventually the flannel will smell only of her.

Fire Sale

By Lisabet Sarai

(July, 1975)

bargain basement baby--
don't you know that's me?
special sale, easy terms--
            a couple of arms
instant credit--
            ready lips
all you need (I need...)
        so cheap
               I'd like
               to sell
               myself.
a sidewalk hawker:
almost any
lie will buy
an hour's ease -
(please..)

no money down,
prices slashed--
all I ask
is skin on skin,
and someone else's
breathing in
my aching ears
and someone else's
mouth on mine,
and someone else's
pleasured moan,
coming home --
          and knotted rest,
          head on my breast.
just one centered second's sense
of swallowing all other sparks
that light his mind.

fire sale--
some superficial sympathy
plus wanting me
will quite suffice
(sacrifice?)
slightly sullied merchandise,
still a buy--
        I'm drastically
        and desperately
        reduced.

Conjuring Demons

By Lisabet Sarai

First came the flames. Then, the screams. Each cry was distinct to Kyle’s ears—the men’s hoarse yells, the women’s shrieks, the inarticulate wails from the infants. He couldn’t see them, not yet. Sooty smoke billowed up, hiding the plummeting bodies, making his eyes sting. Orange tongues of fire pierced the black cloud. The cries grew louder as the heat intensified.

He took a big swig of cheap vodka. The bottle was already half empty. His head spun and he knew he couldn’t stand, but the awful screams still rang in his mind.

Please, he thought. No more. I can’t take any more. Let me pass out soon. He drank again, his gut churning as the raw liquid splashed into his empty stomach.

He tried to focus on the present—the rough stone pressing against his back, the chill wind biting through his ragged jacket, the faint smell of urine that filled the passageway under the highway. Useless. The sensations of the real world seemed thin and frail, powerless to overcome the horrible scenes in his head.

Every time, it got worse. It took more alcohol to remove him to that state of blissful oblivion. I’m adapting, just like any drunk. Before long, I’ll need a whole bottle to drown out the visions. Eventually, it will kill me. The thought was a relief.

The spells came more frequently these days, and not just during his waking hours. Nightmares stalked him, full of bloody flesh and torn limbs, searing fire or icy floods. He’d claw his way back to consciousness, howling like an animal, trying to escape. He’d been kicked out of every shelter in the city. He upset the other residents too much.

He could always go back to the hospital. Thorazine didn’t completely smother the visions, but it deadened the emotional impact. He could sit for hours, watching disasters play themselves out on the screen of his mind, and not care.

It worked for a while, but then he always ended up signing himself out again. As painful as consciousness was, it was better than the half-life of being drugged. At least, that was what he told himself, on the good days when his curse was in remission. The staff looked relieved when he left. Even the professionals had trouble dealing with his ‘hallucinations’.

“Hey, gimme a drink, will ya?” A voice cut through the screams echoing in his head. The grizzled man lying next to him on the sidewalk smelt like long-unwashed socks. “Come on, please? Us bums got to stick together.”

Kyle handed him the bottle. His hand shook. “Sure, help yourself.”

The old timer took a deep swallow, then grinned at him. “Thanks, kid.”

The flames flared up, hiding the man’s pock-marked face and gap-toothed smile. A woman’s cry rang out, full of terror. “No, please, no more…” Kyle muttered, closing his eyes. The hungry fire continued to dance behind his eyelids, mocking his attempt at escape. He groped for the bottle. 

 

Aside from the ravening monster I felt inside me when I was anorexic, which I’ve talked about in another post, I’m pretty fortunate. I don’t seem to have any personal demons, at least nothing beyond the normal fears that come with being human. That’s not necessarily true of my characters, though, as illustrated by the excerpt above from my M/M erotic romance Necessary Madness.

In Kyle’s case, his “demon” is an uncontrolled ability to see the future. His raw visions show him only disasters, terrible happenings he cannot prevent. The effects of his paranormal talent are scarcely distinguishable from schizophrenia. He has become a miserable outcast, cynical and suspicious. Even love, the solution to all dilemmas in romance, can hardly save him.

Sometimes my demons are actual supernatural beings. And they can be overwhelmingly seductive. Here, for instance, is a snippet from my story “Fourth World”, recently published in the collection of the same title.

I turn to see Jeremy’s hand wandering up her silk-clad thigh. I’m surprised by his daring. Back at school he was always the shy one in our crowd. I was the one who took the initiative.

His eyes are closed, his lips parted. His trousers rise up from his groin in an imposing peak. Mai cups his bulk and squeezes. Jeremy groans. His hand slips under her skirt.

Jealousy sizzles through me. A red mist clouds my vision. “Never mind,” says Mai, her hand on my thigh, her lips fastening on mine.

Her kiss claims me. I try to take control, to thrust my tongue between her ripe lips, but she playfully forces me back, then plunders my mouth with her own. She tastes sweet but strange, the fruity remnants of her wine not quite hiding a metallic element. My cock surges, painful and eager, trapped in my tight briefs.

Blinded by the fall of her hair around my face, I grope for her breast. Her flesh is firm and elastic under my fingers. Her nipple juts through flimsy barrier of her dress. I circle it with my thumb and she moans into my mouth. I pinch the delightful nub and she bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood. I want to protest, to push her away, but she’s far stronger than I expect. Her kiss becomes more heated, more desperate. My pierced lip throbs. Something’s not right, I think, but then her hand settles on my cock and all thought vanishes.

Her fingers skitter across the distorted fabric of my trousers, testing my hardness. She settles her palm over my swollen bulk, squeezing in time with her sucking kisses. I feel the tightening heaviness that tells me I’m going to come. I take a deep breath, trying to gain some control. Her scent floods my nostrils. The need for release overwhelms me. The first spurt of come pulses halfway up my shaft, but then she removes her hand. The urge subsides, becomes just bearable. Her lips graze my earlobe. “Not yet, darling. Save that for me.”

****

Yes, as you might have guessed, Mai is a vampire—but as Harry and Jeremy discover, she’s the type who likes to play with her food.

The most intriguing demons, though, are the ones inextricably embedded in my characters’ natures. In “Fire”, my protagonist has a fire fetish which compels him to commit arson.

These days, I can't even strike a match without getting hard.

It was better than I could have imagined. Pure joy. After years of borrowing other people's fires, I had my own. There were no sirens, no spectators, no official types keeping an awkward eye on me. Just me and the night and the dancing, piercing flames. I lay down in the scrubby grass with my fly wide open and watched greedily as the blaze devoured the feast I had laid before it.

By the time the building had become a charred pile of debris, I was gorged and sated. I called in sick that morning.

After that, second-hand conflagrations couldn't satisfy me. I have to have my own. I try to space them out, keep at least six to eight weeks between them. It's tough, but I don't want anyone to get suspicious.

The first few weeks after a session, I have plenty of memories to keep me going. I can close my eyes and recall every detail, the intricate shapes of the flames, the taste of smoke in my lungs, the searing, intimate caress of the heat on my privates.

I remember the sequence in which the barn or the shed or the deserted fishing cabin collapsed. Sometimes the whole structure explodes, or caves in on itself. Other times, one wall will totter and fall gently, leaving the others standing as though buoyed up by the hot gases, until at last they simply melt away, crumbling to glowing ash. It is always fascinating, thrilling, enough to push me over the edge.

Sometimes, I imagine that I'm inside, during those final moments when the fire declares victory. I lie on the my back, feeling the sparks rain down on my naked flesh, struggling to breathe as the fire sucks up all the oxygen. I know that it sounds a bit twisted, but I come the hardest when I think about the fire consuming me, taking me into itself.

Anyway, after a while, the memories aren't enough. I start to dream of fire. I wake up soaked with sweat, with a hard-on that I can work for hours without finding any real relief. I begin to get irritable, less polite, less persuasive. My work begins to suffer.

That's when I know it's time. It takes me a few days to prepare, and then finally, I have what I need.

****

This tale, which appeared in my first short story collection, is now out of print. I should probably republish it.

Sexual desire can be a personal demon, perhaps the hardest of all to fight. Here’s a bit from my tentacle erotica tale, “Fleshpot”, originally published in Coming Together: Arm in Arm in Arm.

Cass was right. It's a disease. She was right to cut the ties, when she found me in the garden shed with sweet Susan the baby sitter, in flagrante. I offer no excuse.

It doesn't feel like a disease, though, when I'm in the throes, my senses drenched in the seashore scent of my latest conquest. It feels like I'm on the edge of a revelation, like this is the fuck I've been seeking all my life, the one that will make everything clear, new, beautiful and real. When I burrow into that mysterious place between her thighs, I'm not just looking for pleasure. I'm seeking some kind of truth, or at least that's how it seems, like this is the time that I'll break through that barrier. I catch tantalizing glimpses of brilliance, just out of reach, shining like the grail in some celibate knight's vision. That's me, on a quest for the ultimate knowledge. Except of course, I'm not celibate.

When the papers came from her lawyer, my transgressions sucked dry by legal language ("extramarital liaisons"), my kids stolen by some judge's whim, I took off. My business— electronics OEM—can always provide an excuse for a trip to Asia. My meetings in Bangkok consumed a day and a half. Since then I've been here in this sleazy coastal resort town two hours from the capital.

I've done it all, in the past two weeks, tried everything. The lithe Thai beauties who twine like snakes around the poles in all the bars and clubs along the walking street. The buxom, pushy Russian girls, with their milky complexions and succulent nipples, ripe to the point of bursting, eager to empty both my cock and my wallet. The lady boys, as slender and graceful as their sisters, even more feminine, in fact, the prick erupting from their hairless, perfumed loins as much a shock to them as to me. I've sampled the exotica on sale here, the dwarfs and the cripples, the grossly obese young woman who nearly smothered me in her lush, unutterably soft flesh. I've been whipped and returned the favor. So far I've managed to resist the fifteen year old boys, but just last night a youth of terrifying beauty who claimed to be nineteen drained me in the men's room of one of the a-go-go places. An acrid mixture of urine and camphor stung my nostrils as I pumped my cum into his agile mouth. And in that transcendent instant, as always, I felt myself on the verge of understanding.

At the moment, I'm taking a break from throbbing music and naked skin of the indoor clubs. I perch on a bar stool at the edge of the pavement, watching the parade of tourists and touts ambling by.

I'm tired. The twins I fucked earlier, in a red-lit, window-less room above one of the bars, exhausted me with their convincing enthusiasm for my body. Nee and Nu were indistinguishable, two toffee-skinned tarts who claimed to be eighteen but might have been anywhere from fourteen to thirty. One sat on my face, the other on my cock. Nee (or was it Nu?) made short work of my hard-on. I exploded into the condom with just a few minutes of massage by her muscular pussy. Nu, though (or maybe Nee?), humored me, letting me lick her bare twat and breathe her low-tide scent for as long as I wanted—until I hardened again, earning laughter and admiration from my two playmates.

"La Luxure dans l'art roman" by Bougnat87 -

Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons

Maybe the medieval Christians were right. Lust is a demon, one that can consume you body and soul. In the case of my nameless protagonist in “Fleshpot”, he pays off his demon with his life—but willingly.

When does desire become demonic? A fruitful question indeed, for those of us who write erotica.

Test of Faith

by Jean Roberta

I’ve never really experienced religion first-hand. I was raised by parents who joined the local Unitarian Fellowship (this is a community of Unitarians without a resident minister) after leaving more orthodox Protestant churches when they were teenagers. Still, the ethic of denial that they were taught when they were young seemed to stay with them in secular form.

When boys began inviting me out, my parents warned me that boys liked sex. Presumably, this was something I couldn’t understand. Later, my mother advised me to go to a doctor to get medication to “cure” me from wanting “sex with men all the time.” I told her I didn’t want it all the time, just now and then. I said, “You know what that’s like.” Apparently she didn’t.

The message I got from all my grandparents was that sex was immoral except within marriage – and even then, if I were a normal woman, I wouldn’t like it. The message I got from men was that any past sexual experience I might have was much more disgusting than theirs. (And this was from self-defined sexual revolutionaries.)

My parents were threatened with Hell as the ultimate punishment for lust. I was threatened with psychiatric “treatment” and social ostracism. It seemed as if the disapproving God of old times was replaced in the mid-twentieth century by the “mental health” establishment and a general consensus on how women were supposed to behave.

The Puritan streak in North American Protestantism seems to prompt a belief that pleasure in most forms is self-destructive and contrary to God’s will. And that hard work is virtuous, not because of what it can produce, but because it numbs the mind, heart, and libido.

I’ve always wondered if the “wrath of God” that is so feared by so many could be a well-buried internal rebellion against self-denial. If there is a God, and if He/She is angry, the causes might be the opposite of what is usually preached from the pulpit.

Some people join religious communities and accept rigid rules to escape from “temptation,” the supposed corruption of the world. But the kind of spiritual seekers I admire don’t run from chaos, dirt, or human appetites – they work in the world’s worst slums, and try to bring comfort, not judgment or deprivation, to their fellow-beings.

My story, “The Battle Lost and Won” (in my single-author collection of historical erotica, The Princess and the Outlaw) is set in a vaguely medieval world that is dominated by a Church that seeks to control whole populations. Susanna, an innocent maiden from a large family, has entered the local convent as a novice to save herself from the Seven Deadly Sins. After an older nun offers her a shockingly carnal kind of love, and Susanna runs away, she is confronted by a supernatural being. Is her tormenter a demon or an angel?

Susanna is tested in much different ways than she ever expected as a sheltered virgin. She learns that children are sacred, even if conceived outside of wedlock, and that Christian charity can be expressed in a brothel. She learns that love is never an abomination.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

This is the opening scene:

"Sister Mary Agnes."

The creamy, insinuating voice held a hint of mockery as it echoed off the high ceiling of the convent kitchen.

Everything else within the room could be identified and put back in its place. Cups, bowls, tableware, sun-bleached tablecloths, pots, pitchers and candlesticks waited patiently in the cupboards until they could be of service. Like penitent sinners, the dirty dishes from the evening meal were being scrubbed clean, dried and placed safely where they belonged.

Sister Mary Agnes enjoyed washing the dishes alone, when she could focus on her work and not on the presence of another sister. Everything about this humble task was satisfying, from the warmth of the soapy water to the caress of the young nun’s plain habit on the skin of her legs as she moved back and forth.

But someone else was in the room with her, and its voice was too androgynous to be identified clearly as that of a man or a woman. "Do not ignore me, Sister, at the risk of your immortal soul." The voice was not human, yet it reminded her of someone she knew.

The sister, who had been named Susanna by her parents, was armed against temptation. "Then tell me your name. I command you."

A chuckle rumbled and bounced from one stone wall to the one opposite. "'Beseech' would be a better word from your lips, lady. My name is Gabriel."

The sister was unconvinced, and she knew that demons have myriad different names to confuse the gullible. She lifted both hands from her basin of water and sprinkled each corner of the room, as if to cleanse the air. Water ran down the walls, left puddles on the floor, and soaked her habit in spots. "Tell me your true name, hell-spawn!"

"Do not toy with me, wench!" trumpeted the voice. "I am Gabriel, messenger of God. If you do not wish to hear what I have to tell you, I shall leave you at once, and worse visitors will come in my place. Doubt this at your peril."

Sister Mary Agnes was shaken, despite her determination not to show fear, and despite the timbre of the voice, which seemed to lack the masculine thunder of either God or the Devil.

Moved by some instinct she hadn't known she had, the sister looked into the water in the basin, and saw the amazing reflection of a smooth, shining face with delicately arched, cruelly sarcastic eyebrows above terrible dark eyes and full, sensuous lips that wore only the hint of a smile.

She was not convinced that her visitor was an angel, but she knew better than to continue to antagonize him (her?) unnecessarily. "Speak, then. I will listen."

"Susanna, you refuse the gifts that God has set before you. This is neither wise nor virtuous. You wish to be of service to all the other children of your Creator, but goodness requires courage and action, not cowardice and lethargy. You shall be tested three times, and much rests upon the choices you make."

The face in the water dissolved into wavering shapes. A faint hiss, like the sound of steam from a kettle, signaled the departure of the mysterious being from ordinary space and time.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

A Very Bad Idea

By Lisabet Sarai

What was I thinking?

Having sex with G. was a terrible idea . He was my housemate, for heaven's sake. He had a girlfriend. Meanwhile my steady lover of three years shared the same house. Alarm bells should been ringing, but I couldn't hear them. I was temporarily insane.

I can offer a million excuses. G. was tall, blond and buff, from a rich Connecticut family and studying to be a doctor. He'd been flirting with me for weeks, ever since we danced together at one of our house parties. (He was a fabulous dancer; while I was in his arms, I was in some kind of blissful trance.) My own boyfriend, J., was away at a conference, so of course I was lonely and horny. While J. was gone, it seemed that G.'s teasing only increased in intensity.

I might also place some of the blame on J., who was responsible in the first place for the fact that I shared the ramshackle three-story row house with five men. I would have preferred an apartment for just the two of us, but he didn't feel comfortable officially "living with me". A group house was less threatening, less of a statement. Yes, it was all J.'s fault, because he wasn't ready to "make a commitment".

Despite the above facts, I can't deny that I was the one who knocked on G.'s door, after a long night of TV and double entendres. He didn't come after me. Sure, he let me into his bed - what red-blooded twenty five year old guy would have turned me away? I wanted him so badly! I couldn't sleep; my fantasies kept me awake. G. broadcast a level of sexual knowledge that I found irresistible. Curiosity aligned with lust to drive me crazy.

We had a brief encounter that mostly cured me of my infatuation and left me moody and morose. The next day G.'s girlfriend came to visit. I fled to the movies and sobbed my way through Saturday Night Fever. (I still can't listen to some of those Bee Gees songs without wanting to cry.) When J. returned, I tearfully confessed my transgression. Within a month I had moved out of the house. Within two months my relationship with J. had painfully disintegrated and I was on my own. Within six months I began the BDSM affair that has so influenced my sexuality and my writing.

I'm usually a fairly rational person. Looking back on that incident, which in some sense may have changed the direction of my life, I'm reminded of the power of desire. My obsession with my sexy roommate overwhelmed my intelligence and my morality. Giving in to the selfish, arrogant man that G. turned out to be - risking a love that had sustained and nurtured me for so long - choosing a course of action that would deeply hurt the man I cared about - clearly this was an act of lunacy. I've labeled it a bad idea, but in fact it wasn't an idea at all, as much as a compulsion.

I've written about this incident before, when our topic here at the Grip was "Regrets". I can't honestly say that I regret the way my life has turned out. Would I have been happier if J. and I had stayed together? That's in some sense a meaningless question.

The point is, lust can be dangerous to your sanity. It can lead you to do things completely alien to your normal behavior. While you're under the influence, you won't even realize that you're acting crazy.

Of course, this provides a rich source of inspiration for creating erotica. But in real life? Consider yourself warned.

Killing Him Softly with Hot Sweaty Monkey Sex

For once, I know exactly what to write about this week's topic. For once, I have a truly relevant tale to tell. So grab a cup of joe, pull up a chair, and be prepared to listen good.

Sex or love? Let me tell you the first thing that popped into my tiny little brain when I heard about this topic. Some years back, maybe about 9 years ago, the Hubster and I had an incident. Back then, we were hip-deep in a battle against infertility. We'd been trying for a couple of years to get me pregnant with absolutely no success. After the first year on our own, we went to see a doctor and began the agonizing process of tests and treatments and waiting and seeing and hoping and wailing when good ol' Auntie Flow showed up cycle after cycle like clockwork.

Nothing, I mean nothing, kills a couple's sex life like infertility. For months, I was poked and prodded, tested and scrutinized. I had so much blood drawn, my arms looked like the arms of a junkie. I underwent so many pelvic exams, I seriously considered having a speculum permanently installed in my vagina. There were ultrasounds and biopsies and once a very painful test where radioactive dye was shot through my uterus all the way up into my ovaries. Screaming agony, I tell ya.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Oh no, by far what killed our love life was the scheduling. My menstrual cycle had to be tracked, monitored and recorded. That meant every morning when the alarm went off, before I even got out of bed, I had to stick a thermometer in my mouth to check my basal body temperature. If there was a half degree, or even a quarter degree, of deviation from normal, I had to trudge into the bathroom, still blind with sleep, and pee in a cup. My aim is not the best first thing in the morning, so that made the procedure even more fun. Once I had my cup of pee, I had to stick an ovulation test strip in it to see if my hormones were surging in preparation for my monthly egg drop. Depending upon the results of that test, we either could or couldn't have sex for the next week. The time period within five or so days of ovulation was a no-sex zone. The only way sperm was supposed to get into my coochie during that time was via catheter for an inter-uterine insemination.

Of course, the rest of my cycle wasn't much better for sex. I was on hormone therapy to help boost my egg production. That made me all sorts of weepy and bitchy and unpleasant to be around. Though Hubster put up with all of it like the saint he is, I just couldn't bear to be touched. It was like being on permanent PMS overload. I hated it.

So one month, we decided to take a break. We told our doctor we were going to look into seeing a specialist, and until then we were just going to say "Fuck it!" to all the testing and the temperature taking and hormone surge tracking and other crap we'd been dealing with for two years. We were just going to be us for a month or two, husband and wife, a normal couple with maybe a normal sex life. Well, what was normal for us anyway.

It took a couple weeks of being free of the hormone therapy and all that other nonsense, plus a Saturday morning of sleeping very, very late. Ah, I remember that morning well. I woke up feeling rested and refreshed. Warm sunlight spilled through the cracks in the blinds, turning the room a soft, dreamy golden color. When it hit the Hubster, it gave him that special glow that made me think, "Jesus H. Christ! It's been how long since we've had sex?! We got to get busy!! NOW!!"

So at it we went, having the best hot sweaty monkey sex we'd had in ages. And man, it was good, I mean real good. I was hanging on the edge of the bed, shrieking at the top of my lungs, probably scaring the shit out of the neighbors and their dog. The Hubster was going at me like a mean green machine, and when I hit the big O, it was more like the big "OH MY GOD, DON'T EVER EVER STOP!!" It was the longest, bestest multiple screaming orgasm I'd ever had. I came and came and came until the Hubster came.

And then the poor man's eyeballs rolled back up in his head and he collapsed on top of me, dead.

Yes, people, I killed the Hubster. He came and went. And he just lay there on me like a dead weight, pun intended. Now the Hubster and I are the same height, and he only weighs about 35 lbs more than me, but at the time he died, I was in a rather... interesting position, shall we say? And him lying all slumped over on me had me more folded up than a half-finished origami crane.

At first, I thought this was just some kind of joke, him collapsing on me like, that like I'd worn him out. I laughed a little, then started complaining as I began to lose the feeling in my lower legs which were somewhere up behind my ears. I wriggled around a bit until I could finally look the Hubster in the eyes to tell him to knock it off. That was when I saw his face. It was waxy and sickly white, and his eyes were all glassy and empty. Finally realizing something was wrong, I did what any sensible person would do in that situation. I freaked the hell out.

I screamed and thrashed and screamed and struggled and then screamed and writhed until I finally managed to get out from under my darling dead spouse. Then I did the next thing any sensible person would do. I screamed some more and started slapping the Hubster's face.

"DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE! WAKE UP!! WAKE UP!! WAKE UUUUUUUUUUUP!!!!"

You see, at that moment, my entire future flashed before my eyes. It was a future without the Hubster in it and it was not at all pretty because I depended on my darling man for a lot of things, like...

• Tech support and computer repairs. The reason I married a genius was so that I would never have to call some stranger and pay them to fix my computer. At that point, this arrangement had been working smoothly for 8 years. I sure as hell didn't want to change things now!


• The mortgage payment. Sure, I put 15 grand down when we bought the house, but that was all I could do with my weak-ass paycheck. I needed the Hubster to make the monthly payments so I could keep a nice cozy roof over my pointed little head.


• Food. I knew two things about grocery shopping and cooking meals, and those two things were Jack and Shit. Now Jack may be a hottie, but neighter he nor Shit are helpful come dinner time.


• Yard work. To this day, I still do not know how to start our lawn mower, and we live in a home owners association for god's sake! How would I survive if I had to cut my own grass?!

Yes, folks, these were the desperate thoughts running through my panick-striken little brain as I kept slapping my husband's face. After about the seventh or eighth whallop, he finally resurrected, lifted his head, looked at me and said, "What happened?"

"OH MY GOD! YOU DIED! YOU COMPLETELY, TOTALLY DIED ON ME!! AND MY COMPUTER'S BROKE! YOU CAN'T DIE WHEN MY COMPUTER'S NOT WORKING RIGHT!!"

"Really? I died? That's weird..."

And then his eyes rolled back up in his head and he died again!

Well now I was pissed. It was bad enough he had to die on me the first time and completely scare the crap out of me. Now he was just being mean. So I grabbed the Hubster by the shoulders and started shaking him until I could hear his teeth rattle in his skull and I resurrected him again.

"Quit dying on me!" I screeched.

"Okay... okay... sorry..." he mumbled while I propped him upright against a pile of pillows.

I took a few moments to calm down and check his pulse. When it looked like he was planning to not die a third time, I heaved a sigh of relief.

"Don't you ever do that to me again!" I said.

"Yeah, I won't. Hey, what time is it?"

"Almost eleven o'clock," I said.

"Huh. I guess I should get ready for karate class then."

"Oh HELL no! You are not dying on me twice and then trotting off to karate class!" I jumped off the bed and started pulling on clothing. "Your ass is going to the emergency room right now!"

And his ass did go to the emergency room, and the rest of him with it. I got him dressed, piled him into the car, and sped off toward the nearest hospital, where I had to explain to the admissions clerk what had happened to my spouse on that beautiful Saturday morning. And then I had to tell the nurse who checked his vitals. And then I had to explain it to the doctor who was on call that weekend. And then to the tech who ran the EKG that the doctor ordered. And then on Monday I had to explain the whole thing once again to our family physician who called wanting to know just why my twenty-something husband who was in the pink of health had gone to the emergency room on a Saturday to get an EKG. And of course I had to explain to my parents how their son-in-law had almost bought the farm, and his parents...

Wait, did I tell my in-laws? Hmm... I can't recall.

But I did tell all my friends, and now I'm telling all of you because in light of this week's topic, sex or love, I think it's very important that we all learn something from this story. And that lesson is...

Do not attempt to kill the person you love with hot sweaty monkey sex unless you are prepared to live with the consequences!! Okay? We all got that? Any questions?

I thought not. So clean the coffee off your computer screen and go back to your usual routine. I'm going to go wake up the Hubster now.

My Life As A Hungry Ghost

When I saw this week's theme, I tried to come up with something funny to say about it, because I always try to be funny around here. I'm the official Pain In The Ass for OGG, remember? But instead of funny, I kept coming back to the same thing over and over and over. And that is...

Lust stinks.

This may sound strange coming from an erotica writer, but I have never gotten any joy out of lust. I have wanted things so badly it hurt, and ended up feeling inadequate, hollow, even worthless. Lust is just not a feeling that works well for me.

As a teen, I can recall going shopping and lusting after fashionable but over-priced clothing that I couldn't afford. There was nothing wrong with the clothing I had; it just wasn't the latest fashion. But because I wanted those Izod shirts or Gloria Vanderbilt jeans so badly, I felt dowdy when I went to school and saw others wearing them. Pretty stupid, huh? But it gets worse. I'd see girls with boyfriends I wanted, guys on the football team who were hot and popular and would never give me a second glance, let alone treat me nice if they did notice me. I'd see kids with fancy new cars I wanted and I'd look at my trusty old VW bus with absolute disdain. Worst of all, I'd read tabloid magazines and lust for the lives that celebrities lead, and I'd be left feeling absolutely miserable because I wasn't a famous pop star or teen actor.

My teen years were consumed with lust for things that I could never have, and as I result I had a miserable time. Unfortunately, this lust for things that would always be out of my reach lasted well into my twenties. And those lusts became more ridiculous and more frustrating as I got older. Because I always wanted things so badly, I had to have them right now! I wanted to be famous -- TODAY! I wanted to be runway model thin -- IMMEDIATELY! I wanted to have written the breakout novel -- YESTERDAY!! I couldn't wait to accomplish something, thus I never put together a plan to make something happen because planning took too long to do, and forget about even trying to follow a plan.

Sad to say, if I had planned, if I had worked on some of those goals a little at a time, I could have accomplished some amazing things. Instead, I just chased after a lot of ambitious wet dreams haphazardly and got nowhere in the process. I lusted... and I lost out.

It's not all bad though. Over the years, I came to realize what was going on. Because I hated the way I felt when I lusted and obsessed over things, I started to avoid the things I lusted and obsessed over. I could never have the celebrity lifestyle, so I quit wasting money on tabloid magazines (it was amazing how much money I saved). I could have the overpriced designer clothing, so I concentrated on buying what I could afford and over time developed my very own unique sense of style. You will never mistake me for a runway model, but you won't want to gouge out your eyes when you see me either.

Perhaps most importantly, I quit lusting after guys who would never give me a second glance, and if they did, would never treat me right. After a string of lousy boyfriends and even worse unrequited crushes, I gave up on dating entirely and focused on spending time with friends I enjoyed.

And miracle of miracles, about a year after I did that, I met my husband.

I don't think I would have met Michael if I had still been busy chasing after all that stuff I lusted after. I had to stand still for a while, and just learn to be happy with what I had. I had to learn to be happy with me. By standing still, I was finally able to open my eyes and see what I actually had, and realize that my life was pretty good, even if I wasn't a celebrity with an overpriced wardrobe and a super-famous boyfriend. I was able to see what was right in front of me, easily within reach and ready for me to enjoy.

In Buddhism, there is a concept known as 'the hungry ghost.' The hungry ghost is one of the six realms on the wheel of life, a state of being that people may go through in life. The hungry ghosts are presented as creatures with huge, bloated stomachs but incredibly small mouths and necks. They can never eat enough to fill their enormous bellies, and thus walk around in a constant state of craving, unable to find contentment. This happens in real life when people get into the habit of wanting and craving that which they either can't have or don't need. It's a state that describes many years of my life perfectly.

Contentment is often undervalued, yet I've found contentment to be by far preferable to lust. It took me a while to get to this point, to realize that I don't need to look beyond my own backyard for what I need to be happy. These days, I crave a hot cup of tea, a good book, and a comfy chair to curl up in. I long for evenings alone with my staid, engineer husband (who is also comfy and fun to curl up with). I revel in the small things, and I've never felt better.

I've also never been more productive. I write a story a week, I've published two books, I get invited to participate in anthologies, I'm asked to be a guest at conventions. It's all because I finally quit wanting things right here, right now, and started working on stuff a little bit at a time. The novel doesn't have to be written all in one day. I can write 500 words now, and 500 words tomorrow, and in a year it'll be done. Same with everything else. I can take my time, I can follow a plan, I can wait. Eventually, I'll be a success.

And I'll be happier along the way.

Lustful Thoughts

By Jamie Hill

Ever since former President Jimmy Carter admitting to having lust in his heart, the word 'lust' has been on my personal radar. That was back in the seventies. I was a kid growing up with all the usual hormones and emotions. Until then, my reading had consisted of every Nancy Drew book ever written, and a few true crime books I had no business reading but did anyway (In Cold Blood and Helter Skelter are two that come to mind, both still freak the crap outta me.)

I had a friend whose mother had a big collection of bodice rippers. You know the kind, some guy that looked like Fabio on the cover, and a heroine with a 'heaving bosom' and a lot of other flowery purple prose that I didn't really understand but was titillated reading it anyway. My house wasn't the most open place to get information, so plenty was gleaned from those first romance novels. My girlfriend, on the other hand, was from a good, strict Catholic family with seven or eight kids. The whole family gave up TV for Lent (Give up TV? Gah! The thought still scares me) and prayed the rosary together at night.

Anyway, my friend sometimes came up with very weird, wrong ideas. I was never quite sure if it was her religious mother (yeah, the one with the collection of romance novels) or my friend's two ornery big sisters that steered her wrong, but it drove me crazy. While discussing the literary merits of our latest read one day, she informed me that a pregnant woman couldn't have sex. Now, I didn't know much, but for some reason, this sounded wrong to me. I marched up the the front of the classroom, where our English teacher sat grading papers, and flat out asked her. To her credit, she didn't choke or send me to see Sister Whoever, the principal. She just blinked and replied, "Of course they can. In the later months, the doctor might advise against it. But other than that it's fine."

By the time I'd returned to my desk my friend was practically crawling underneath it with shame that I'd asked a teacher such a thing. But I figured, hey, a girl needs a place to get some accurate answers. Maybe her mother intended to scare her straight by telling mistruths, but I was having none of it. I had questions and wanted answers. My lustful journey had begun.

As a writer, I knew early on that love and lust are the basis of all romance novels. If your book is long enough you might be able to make your characters fall in love. Much of the time, especially in shorter works, lust must suffice. The 'happily ever after' endings we talked about a couple weeks ago bear this out. In a longer romance book, the characters will fall in love and all will end rosily. In shorter works or short stories, the HEA is that my characters really lust after each other, and with a little good luck and large supply of condoms, that lust will carry them into something more.


I know they say great marriages are based on a friendship first, and I think that's true. But I also believe great love affairs are based on a healthy dose of lust. And that one, I didn't have to ask a teacher or somebody else's mom. I figured it out for myself.

Lust and Love

By Lisabet Sarai

Sex is boring. A strange claim, you might think, from someone who has been publishing erotica for more than a decade. It's true, though. I'm really not interested in the physical aspects of sexual encounters, tab A fitting into slot B, all the sweat and the groans, the stickiness and the wet spot on the sheets. What fascinates me is desire – the mental/emotional experience of wanting someone sexually. In less polite terms, lust.

Lust is supposedly a deadly sin. That's because, at its purest, it can overwhelm everything else: self-control, reason, responsibility. Lust acts like a drug, heightening the senses, intensifying every experience, swinging your mood into the highest highs or the most profound lows depending on whether it is reciprocated and consummated. Lust might lead to sex, but it might not. As an author, I find it interesting either way.

I've probably written at least a hundred sex scenes in my career. I have to admit that I've gotten many compliments on them (as well as some protests from people whom find my level of explicitness uncomfortable). Other writers sometimes ask me how I do it. How do I keep straight whose body parts are where? How can I write “cock” and “cunt” without getting embarrassed – or bursting out laughing? How do I manage to arouse my readers?

My answer is that I focus on the lust. I am firmly ensconced in my characters' heads – not in their bodies. Actually, I'm not particularly skilled at describing the (possibly indescribable) physical sensations of sex. But I know what my characters want. I feel what they feel. I see the pictures in their minds, images that might not have anything to do with what they're actually doing at the moment, but which fan their arousal. “Spirit to body and out to the world”, to quote a line from the poem I posted when I was talking about dancing. That's how sex works, too, at least for me.

Lust stimulates lust. Nothing turns me on like knowing that someone finds me desirable. The most intense pleasure comes from the knowledge that my fantasies are in sync with my lover's. My story “Reunion”, in Rachel Kramer Bussel's recently published Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, includes a scene in which the woman dons a corset and parades around the hotel room while her lover/master watches.

The boned curves press into my flesh. I move a bit stiffly, my breathing shallow so that I don’t burst open the hooks. The corset elevates and separates my breasts; they spill lushly over the top of the garment. Meanwhile, I can feel my bare buttocks bulbing out behind.

“Okay – I’m ready.”

My master leans forward, eager, his smile baring sharp white teeth. “Very nice. Come over here.”

Stumbling a bit in my high heels, I circle the bed and stand in front of him.

“Very nice indeed. Walk around for me, Sarah. Let’s see more of your tits and your ass.”

His mocking, lecherous tone thrills me. I’m terribly embarrassed, but I love showing off for him, and he knows it. My pussy swells and moistens. My nipples harden further, so painfully sensitive that one touch might send me into orgasm. He doesn’t touch me, though. He just watches, while I strut back and forth in front of him, swinging my hips.

I notice the seaweed scent, rising from between my dampened thighs. I’m close enough to him. I know he can smell it to. I don’t dare to look at his face. Instead I hold my head high as he taught me, imagining that I’m wearing the collar he once promised me.

I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he’s as aroused as I am. And all at once I’m awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown three thousand miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago.

“Bend over,” he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn’t touch me.

His gaze traces paths across my bare skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. I know that he’ll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I’ll die if he doesn’t do it soon.

This story is based on an actual experience, which in the real world was bittersweet. Even in the story, there's no actual tab A into slot B sex. Yet the tale is drenched with desire. I get wet every time I reread it.

So what about love? Where does that fit into the equation?

Now that I'm writing erotic romance as well as erotica, I'm required to give my readers love as well as lust. For me, it's not that difficult. In my own life, I've rarely known one without the other. I don't necessarily mean the great love, the deep love, the Love that transcends all and lasts forever which romance readers crave. But I find it hard to be aroused by someone, to share the intimacy of sex, without caring for my partner. Even a one-night stand can be sanctified by love -- sweet, precious, elusive, but perhaps not as rare as some claim.

I know that my perspective on this is not at all universal. Some women are probably horrified by my confessions. They need to know a man for a long while before they can trust him with their bodies. I can understand that. I know that I've been lucky.

Some women, on the other hand (probably more women than men would believe), are perfectly happy getting off with a stranger, some hot-looking stud with whom they could never have an intelligent conversation. Not me. I've had a few experiences with men where there was physical attraction without the emotional connection. I remember them with regret. Still, I don't think it's silly to call most of the several dozen men I had sex with during my wilder years my “lovers”. That's what it felt like to me.

I suspect that this natural convergence of love and lust in my psyche explains the fact that my writing bridges the gap between erotica and erotic romance. When I'm writing romance, I sometimes worry that lust will get the upper hand. Usually, though, there is love in the background. All I need to do is bring it into focus.

One of the raunchier scenes in my novel Raw Silk is a four-way ménage. It includes M/F, M/M and F/F interaction. Don't worry, I'm not going to quote the nasty parts here! Here's a peek into the mind of the main character, though, after all four participants have reached orgasm:

Four exhausted, sweaty bodies sprawled on the rich carpet. As Kate regained her senses, she realised that she was inexplicably, deliriously happy. Joy bubbled inside her, like champagne. Laughter threatened to overwhelm her.

Her head rested on Somtow's flat, firm stomach. He gently stroked her hair, running his fingers through the tangled ringlets. His other hand stroked Uthai's buttocks. The performer lay face down, his shaven skull cradled in Orapin's lap. The maid sat leaning against the couch, a serene smile on her full lips.

No one spoke, but Kate could sense Somtow's gratitude and delight. Meanwhile, she scrutinized her own emotions. Why did she feel so buoyant, so joyous? It was only sex. Then she understood her own error, that the line between sex and love was so thin that it might easily dissolve in the warm flood of mutual pleasuring.

She felt love for Uthai, for Orapin, and most of all for the shameless and insatiable Somtow. Finally, too, she felt love for herself, so free and ready to savour whatever carnal treats her life might offer.

That's what lust will do to you. Or is it love?