There's No Place Like Freedom

by Giselle Renarde

Did I tell you my grandmother has moved to a retirement home? It was kind of a big deal.

I'm not entirely sure how the decision was arrived at that my grandmother would move out of her house and into a retirement home. It was such a momentous event. You'd think I'd be able to pinpoint exactly how and why it happened. But I can't. This year has been such a whirlwind of family stuff. It seemed like one day she was living in her house and the next she'd rented a respite room for 6 months. She'd been there 3 days when she signed a lease to move in permanently.

In the beginning, everything was wonderful. Everything was perfect.  My grandmother raved about the food, the care, the accommodations, the activities.

She'd been there less than a week the first time I visited her. Right away, she told me, "I have friends already!"  Which is wonderful. When she lived at the house, she had family, but that's it. Not a friend in the world. I mean that seriously. She relied on her kids for everything, including socializing. She's got a sister who is two years older than she is, and they only speak twice a year. So making friends was a big deal.

All the same, it was clear to me she was seeing this retirement home through rose-coloured glasses. That's fine. She's 87 years old. She's allowed to be excited about something. But she obviously wasn't acknowledging the negatives. It's almost like she'd fallen in love with the place. It was new love.

My sister and I visited my grandmother this weekend. We both had independent and innate feelings that it was very important to see her right away. My mother had mentioned to us that my grandmother's been ill of late, but that's no surprise during a heat wave. I've been sick too. Totally because of the heat.

When we visited, we found a grandmother who was practically a changeling of the one we've always known. My grandma has faced a lot of hardships in her life, but she's always had a positive attitude. The grandma we visited this weekend was the opposite of that person.

Everything was terrible. Everything! The retirement home she'd raved about when she first moved in was a prison to her. She hated it, hated everything about it.

She wanted her freedom. She wanted to go home.

"If I was at home, I could go out in the backyard and sit in the sun. I can't do that here. I'm locked in this one little room. I'm trapped here."

Well, I hate to call bullshit on my own grandmother... so I didn't do it to her face... but I will do it here. Because when we arrived, where did we find her? Locked in her one little room? Nope. We found her out on the accessible front deck overlooking the gardens, basking in the sun, chatting with her friends.

At home, she couldn't have gone out in her backyard if she tried. There are steps to get down into it and she no longer has the mobility to access spaces without ramps.

The freedom she imagines is imaginary freedom.

That's the thing about freedom: a lot of it is in your mind.

Easy for me to say. I can hear and see and walk on my own. I'm not 87 and my body isn't falling apart. My grandmother has been complaining about her physical deterioration for years, and she has every right to her complaints. I'd be complaining too, if I had all her medical conditions.

But there was a subtle difference this weekend, when we saw her. The complaining wasn't good-natured as it used to be. My grandma has always liked to laugh at her foibles. She's always told funny stories about all the inappropriate places she's peed (in my uncle's car, in my aunt's car, at Subway...), but this weekend's story was about waking up in blood and shit. It wasn't a funny story. It wasn't meant to be funny.

She kept saying, "I wish they'd just take me out back and shoot me."

Now, she says stuff like that all the time. The difference was the tone. The despair. The depression--a state I know all too well, but I've never seen it in my spirited grandmother.

In my mind, it's natural that she's dipped into this low. Maybe not usual for her, but it was bound to happen. When she first moved in, she couldn't find a single fault with her new residence. Now she can't find even one bright spot. She'll even out in time. The place isn't perfect, but it's far from terrible.

I just hope she's got that time ahead of her.

This weekend, a family friend's grandson lost his battle with cancer. He died two weeks shy of his sixth birthday. I was just reading his obituary, since the funeral is tomorrow. His parents ask that everyone wear blue instead of black, because that was his favourite colour. OR, if you happen to own a Star Wars T-shirt or Pokemon pyjamas, wear those. "He'd want you to be comfortable."

His parents miss him, obviously, but they insist he's found freedom.

I want my grandma to live forever. I love her. She is my font of wisdom, of stories. Nothing surprises her. There's nothing here she hasn't seen before. But every day that passes brings more pain, and she's lost hope. She's gotten to a point where she doesn't believe there will ever be a day where she feels better than she felt the day before. In her body. In her mind.

But you know what? When my sister and I left, she thanked us for the visit. She said she'd been feeling awful, just awful, and seeing us brightened her day.

I guess we'll have to visit more often. At this stage, it's all we can do.

Lewd and Proud - #pride #smut #erotica #reputation @Archer_Larry

By Lisabet Sarai

Hello! My name is Lisabet, and I write smut.

Oh, sometimes I call it erotic romance, or literary erotica, or even speculative fiction, but as far as the world is concerned, those fine distinctions don’t mean anything. As long as my work focuses on the experience of sexual desire and includes explicit depictions of sexual activities, I’m simply another pornographer. Certainly that’s Amazon’s position. Unless I’m especially careful, clever and/or duplicitous, my work is likely to be shuffled off to the adult dungeon where it will languish forever in obscurity. (Of course, that may happen even if my stuff doesn’t get quarantined, but the adult label is the final nail in the coffin.)

Meanwhile, in the enormous, financially powerful romance genre, so-called “steamy romance” is still viewed as the red-headed step child. This is the attitude of authors as well as (I assume) readers. Plenty of my romance colleagues won’t host me as a blog guest because my characters get down and dirty, even if I offer to create a purely PG post. Indeed, I’ve read (and fumed over) ignorant comments on romance writers' forums that dissed the entire erotica genre as nothing but gratuitous sex with no plot or characterization.

Then there’s my brother, also the creative type, who tells me I’m incredibly talented and wants to know why I don’t write a “serious” book. Oh, he also says he doesn’t want to read something that arouses him.

Well, guess what? Lots of people do. And I’ve decided that maybe I should be courting those readers.

After years of feeling embarrassed and apologetic about my chosen literary niche—although I often feel it chose me rather than the other way around—I finally decided it was time I really did write some porn. 
 

Last year I released my first book that I’d say was pure stroke fiction. Hot Brides in Vegas actually does have a plot, and lots of characters (mostly bodacious babes, with a few insatiable studs), but it’s a pretty big stretch from my more “literary” endeavors. Set in the outrageous world of strippers and swingers created by my ERWA colleague Larry Archer, Hot Brides tells the story of three young women who come to Las Vegas for Francesca’s lavish wedding.

While Fran’s fiancé Jake and his buddies set out for a stag night, exploring the fleshpots of Sin City, she and her bridesmaids Laura and Chantal are stuck at the resort under the watchful eye of her stern Aunt Giulia, who has promised Fran’s father that his daughter will come to the altar a virgin.

Frustrated and annoyed by these double standards, the girls hatch a plan to escape their chaperone and have some fun of their own. With the help of a susceptible concierge, a butch ex-cop limo driver and a scandalous French couturiere, they find their way to The Fox’s Den, the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in the city. Owner Larry Archer and his crew of strippers, bouncers, voyeurs and sluts are more than happy to welcome the delectable trio as contestants performing at the club’s famous Amateur Night.

Writing Hot Brides was a breath of fresh air for me. I turned the censors and critics off and simply wrote the wildest scenes I could think of. I produced the 30K novella in record time (for me), banging out (so to speak!) 3-5K words at a sitting. Furthermore, it’s remarkably good—in my own unbiased opinion!—for fiction with no redeeming social value whatsoever.

My reviewers agree. One called it “pure wicked escapism”, which really sums up the story well. Meanwhile it has sold better than anything I’ve written in quite a while (though I wouldn’t say I’ve really conquered the obscurity problem).

In fact, I enjoyed writing Hot Brides so much that I’m working on a sequel. More Brides in Vegas reunites Fran, Laura, Chantal and their swains with Annie, another contestant they met at Amateur Night, for Annie’s wedding to Jake’s friend Ted. Since Annie and Ted don’t have a lot cash, they’ve organized the wedding at a vintage eighties motel on the outskirts of town, one of those sprawling places where the rooms are arranged around a courtyard with a big swimming pool. The newlyweds don’t realize this is a favorite site for swingers’ parties.

I’m hoping to finish the first draft of More Brides this weekend, and to publish it by early June. And I’m proud to say that it has even more sex than the first book.

I think it’s about time I lived up to my bad reputation!

You can check out a couple of excerpts from Hot Brides in Vegas at the links below.

https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2018/01/sizzling-sunday-hot-brides-in-vegas-ff.html

https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2017/11/sizzling-sunday-hot-brides-in-vegas.html

And if you’re actually interested in buying a copy...

Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077JRMGJF/

Amazon UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077JRMGJF/

Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/758698

Barnes and Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hot-brides-in-vegas-lisabet-sarai/1127452565?ean=2940154622568

Kobo - https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/hot-brides-in-vegas

Writing Commando (#naked #freedom #genres)

 By Lisabet Sarai

When I was in my mid-twenties – during my sex goddess period – I sometimes went out without panties. Walking around bare beneath my skirt, every current of air caressing my naked flesh, was thrilling to the point of addiction. It's not that I'm an exhibitionist (although perhaps we erotic authors all share a desire to expose ourselves). I wasn't interested in treating strangers to a flash of my pussy. Indeed, I would have been mortified if I'd accidentally revealed my bottomless state.

The appeal had more to do with a sense of freedom and a consciousness of risk, a heady appreciation of my own delightful recklessness. Most of my life I'd hewed close to the rules, an overachiever always trying to please others. I'd been shy and timid, dutiful and diligent, the quintessential good girl. When my hormones took over the helm, that changed. I found that I was far braver and more brazen than I (or anyone else who knew me) would have believed. And I loved that feeling, the notion that I was treading the edge rather than keeping to the straight and narrow.

My panty-less state focused my attention on the sensual. I became acutely aware of temperature and texture. Arousal simmered through me, ready to be sparked into flame by a chance encounter with a kindred spirit. Erotic possibilities waited around every corner, and, bare-bottomed and moist with anticipatory desire, I was ready to take advantage of them.

Writing my first novel felt very similar to “going commando”, though it came more than a decade later. I didn't worry about markets or reader sensibilities. I wrote what turned me on: wild, kinky, transgressive scenes, every assortment of genders, twosomes, threesomes and foursomes, floggers and spankings, nipple clamps and butt plugs, public sex, pony sex, anal sex, even golden showers. I pushed the limits of acceptability to the point that my editor actually made me tone down a couple of scenes (and this was back when Black Lace was billed as “erotica”, not “erotic romance”). My personal fantasies provided the energy to move the book forward. Craft issues were secondary. The book had already been accepted on spec, and I wasn't really thinking about what happened after it was published. The writing process itself was arousing.

I didn't know anything about genres back then., though reading Raw Silk now, I realize that it follows many of the conventions of modern erotic romance – except, of course, for its omnisexuality. The inclusion of F/F and M/M in a book that is mostly M/F will evoke criticism from many romance readers, who seem to want a sort of genre purity. They'd probably judge my heroine as promiscuous too, for having simultaneous sexual relationships with three different men, although in the end, in typical romance fashion, she chooses to commit to just one.

None of this concerned me back then. I wasn't so swept away that I lost sight of the story. Indeed, even now the novel's plot strikes me as quite tight and well-paced. I guess that was instinct, though, because my focus was squarely on the sex. Like those days when I eschewed undergarments and opened myself to adventure, I wasn't concerned with what others thought. I was free, writing for the pure joy of vicarious experience. I was in my heroine's mind and body, living my dreams through her. If others disapproved, so be it.

If you think catch a hint of wistfulness in my description of those times, you're not wrong. I don't go commando anymore. The notion embarrasses me – a sexagenarian exposing her graying pubic hair to the world? But I remember that intoxicating feeling of lightness and power. I miss it.

And my writing? I've had eighteen years of education on the tyranny of genres, what sells and what doesn't, what you can and cannot include in a book aimed at a particular market niche. I'm constantly tempted, for instance, to let my straight heroines indulge their occasional Sapphic inclinations, but I know that will be the kiss of death for any book aimed at the erotic romance market. Meanwhile, I have a difficult time keeping my erotica from becoming to “mushy”. Although I've had my share of zipless fucks, I've never found sex without some emotional connection – love, tenderness, loneliness, shared kink, whatever – to be at all arousing.

I yearn for the freedom – the innocence – of my first years writing erotica. I've started to realize I'll never be a best seller (and I'm not even sure I want to be). So why should I care about pleasing a mass of readers? I know there are some people who'll appreciate my particular approach, my personal blend of romanticism and filth. I should strip off my official author's uniform and just write to please myself, and them.

I can already feel the breeze.

Channeling Rapunzel (#longhair #freedom #sex)

By Lisabet Sarai

During the past year, I’ve reclaimed a part of my identity.

After nearly a decade of keeping my hair no longer than than my shoulders, I’ve let it grow. It reaches halfway down my back now, at least when it’s wet. As it dries, it frizzes and kinks, looking far less luxuriant (and less well-groomed) but I still get a little shiver of pleasure when I look at myself in the mirror these days.

I have to admit that my newly extended locks present an incongruous contrast to my age-creased, sagging face. Senior citizens don’t normally sprout wild, hippie-like crops of hair like mine. But you know, at some level I really don’t care. That’s one solace to growing older. You start to realize you’re free to spurn conventional standards when they don’t suit you.

Free. That’s how my new hairstyle (if you can call this disordered frenzy a “style”) makes me feel. Despite the steamy climate in my adopted country, I love the feeling of it swinging back and forth behind me. Running my fingers through the tight curls makes me smile. I’ve tried braiding it, with limited success, and I enjoy pulling it into a ponytail. It’s almost as if I had a new toy.

I’ve always appreciated long hair, on both men and women. The hero in my first novel has a black ponytail reaching almost to his waist; the heroine, a mop of ginger-hued curls. Undoubtedly I’ve been influenced by the mythos of the sixties and seventies. I was in high school when the “American tribal love-rock musical” burst on the scene and hair became a symbol of youth and rebellion. Peace, love, sex and hair became inextricably entwined in my psyche.

In fact, I've had long hair for much of my life (see, for instance, my author photo, taken when I was in my twenties). When I started regular salon visits to erase the increasingly prominent gray from my hair, however, I also started getting it trimmed. I discovered that my natural curl was easier to tame when my hair was short. I looked (slightly) more professional and proper. 

 

My DH kept bugging me to stop the cutting. (Like me, he’s a product of the sixties. Indeed, he lived through the Summer of Love, while I just watched from the sidelines.) For some reason, I resisted.

So what has changed? I’m really not sure. It might be that I’m trying to recapture my youth. It might be I just got bored with my short hair. In any case, I’ve found the process rewarding. Even empowering.

I’d love to have hair down to my waist, or longer. It’s not going to happen; I gather that the maximum length of a person’s hair is genetically determined. Mine is probably pretty close to its limit. Nevertheless, I fantasize about being Rapunzel.

In fact, here’s a few paragraphs from “Shorn”, a re-telling of that classic which I wrote for Kristina Wright’s 2010 anthology Fairy Tale Lust. I think it will give you a sense of my feelings about my own hair.

* * * *

Do not believe what you hear of me. It was not to preserve my chastity that I was imprisoned here, in this amusingly phallic tower with its sealed entrance and single window. I have not been a virgin for years; even my father knows that. In the cesspit of hypocrisy that is his court, no one cares what goes on behind closed doors. Only appearances matter.

And appearances are what landed me here in this unorthodox prison. I'm confined to this aerie because despite all blandishments and threats, I refused to cut my hair.

In a society like ours, valuing external neatness and order above else, my wild auburn locks are an offense to public decency, or so my royal parents would like me to believe. My father's crown rests upon a bald pate, shaved daily. My mother and sisters wear pale helmets of curls that are clipped back whenever they grow beyond the earlobes. Every proper citizen plucks, trims, waxes and shaves to eliminate any hint of the hirsute.

Not I. I love my hair, not just the luxurious tresses that flow over my shoulders and down to the floor, but the rest, too: my unfashionably bushy eyebrows, the soft tufts gracing my armpits, the wiry tangle that hides my sex. My hair is a source of my power. My father suspects as much. An ancient prophecy says the kingdom shall one day be lost to a red-haired sorceress and he fears I am the fulfillment of that promise.

* * * *

In the end, Rapunzel gives up her hair for love of her prince. However, she knows it will grow back.

Rendezvous in Paris

By Lisabet Sarai



"I named my first car after you." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to snatch them back. My clumsy attempt at homage comes out as insensitivity, given the tragedies of her children's demise, and her own. My companion simply smiles, though, her expression a bit vague - the effects, perhaps, of the vin ordinaire we've shared (one glass so far for me, three for her).

"That's flattering, I suppose," she says finally. "Though I've never cared much for machines..." The lowering sun slants between the narrow buildings, drawing bars of gold on the cobblestones. A gaggle of primary schoolers erupt from one side of the square, tumble past us, and disappear in a cloud of shrieks and laughter on the other. Her moist eyes follow their progress, but her lips still quirk up at the corners. "The natural exuberance of childhood," she murmurs. "I still feel it."

She's pulled her silver-streaked hair into a classical bun, but stray locks have escaped to tangle upon her thin shoulders. The many layers of her clothing, dove gray, hide her body from me, but as she shifts in her chair to pick up her glass, I sense strength and grace, a purity of form that illuminates even her smallest movements. She drinks deep. I stare at the ruby drop that lingers for a moment on her upper lip, before her tongue darts out to gather it in. The tiny, casual gesture sends bolts of heat to my sex. I understand why she fascinated so many men - and women.

"Please, go on." She turns her full attention to me. I feel blood rushing into my cheeks. Laughter bubbles in her voice. "Why in the world would you christen your automobile with my name?"

"Freedom. That's what you've always been for me, a beacon of freedom in a world of constraint. You followed your heart, your vision, your passion. You didn't care what people thought of you. You defied convention. I've always wanted to be that sort of person."

"So why not be?" She leaned forward, fingers fluttering across my cheek, leaving trails of electricity in their wake. "No one can give you freedom, my dear. You must seize it for yourself."

"You make it sound so easy."

"No, it's never easy. You have to be brave. There will always be people who condemn you, who label you as trivial, or immoral. Who put obstacles in your path. Who try to bury you. It's far easier to give in and do as you're told. In the end, though, their approval means nothing. It won't compensate you for frittering away your soul."

I nodded. I already know the truth in what she says - otherwise, I wouldn't be here, in the waning Paris afternoon, ordering another round. Isadora winks at the slender young waiter who sets her goblet down on the table in front of her. He stumbles, almost spilling the contents into her lap. "Such lovely dark curls," she comments as he scurries back to safety of the bar. "I wonder if he has the same sort of hair on his chest. Drink quickly, Lisabet, so we can get him to come back."

"Tell me about your dancing," I urge, needing to change the subject, simultaneously embarrassed and aroused by her frank sexuality. "When did you first start? Where did you get your ideas?"

"I probably danced in my mother's womb. I don't remember ever not dancing. It wasn't something I chose. The dance chose me."

"I think I know what you mean," I respond. No one ever really taught me how to write. It was just something I've always done, a part of who I am.

"The Greeks really did understand - making the Muses into goddesses. There's a core of the divine in every art. And every artist has a touch of divine madness." She giggles, shaking her head till her long hair springs free from its chaste arrangement and tumbles over her breasts. I ache to run my fingers through those wild locks, working out the knots. I imagine stroking a finger tip across her nipple, sensing the stiffening response. I wonder what the wine would taste like, sampled from her laughing red mouth.

"And what about your dancing, my dear? I know that words are your primary medium but I sense that your lovely petite body craves movement."

I want to drop through the pavement. I want to gather her in my arms. I stall, sipping the blood-hued liquid and feeling liquid courage course through me.

"Sometimes - sometimes I dance. Sometimes I just forget myself and let the music take me over, control me." I don't tell her that the surest way for a man to seduce me is to dance with me.

"No, no, it's not the music. It doesn't come from outside. It's Spirit, that spark of truth, of the gods, inside all of us. The rhythm calls it forth, perhaps. You must let your guard down, let it out."

"I try. Sometimes I succeed. And then, the joy...."

Isadora's face is luminous in the dusk. "Yes. Nothing can quench that bliss. Poverty, illness, death... none of them has any power in the face of that glorious perfect grace. The bad things don't vanish, oh no, but somehow the dance transforms them. I transform them, weaving them all into the Art."

She's taken my hand now. She leans forward until I feel her warm breath on my face. "That's the secret," she whispers. "The body, this weak, misshapen, gross thing we lug around for half a century or more, is the crucible where we transmute base existence into transcendent beauty."

She grins as though mocking her own seriousness and waves at the boy cowering inside the café. The slight motion is so eloquent it brings an ache to my chest. "Garçon! L'addition, s'il vous plait!"

"A pity he's so shy," she adds, in a conspiratorial tone. "Ah well. He's probably too young to know much about love anyway."

Our check settled, we rise from our seats, so perfectly in unison that we might have been choreographed. Gas lights flicker into life around the square. Overhead the sky gleams a translucent teal. The café has filled up while we talked; the chatter of the other patrons is loud around us but velvet stillness has invaded my heart. I wait upon my companion.

Isadora surveys me, pleasure obvious in her expression. Desire surges through me, leaving me sweaty and trembling. She flings her scarlet silk scarf behind her and reaches for my hand. "My pension is a few blocks away. Shall we walk?"

When Wish Becomes Will

One of my favorite words is "free"-- it is part of so many wonderful words and phrases: free spirit, freelance, carefree, free will, free gift with purchase, free to good home, free to be me, freestyle... and, of course, freedom. Janis Joplin sang, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." True enough. When you've hit rock bottom or banged your head against a brick wall or been told "No, you can't do that" for the hundredth time, maybe that is the moment when you're truly free.

I watch my 19-month old toddler experience the world around him. Everything is new and exciting, I watch his eyes widen in wonder at the simplest things, hear him catch his breath at every new discovery. He is untamed, a wild thing. He seems most free after his bath, when he's scampering about on my bed like a monkey, naked and joyous. It's in those moments when I realize how free his spirit truly is-- without self-doubt or worry or concerns about the future to bog him down and box him in.

I forget what that kind of freedom is like, though I call myself a free spirit. I forget that the external voices of judgement and the internal voices of doubt don't control me unless I let them. It's the way of things, I suppose, to forget our limitless potential and the limitless possibilities available to us. I know I forget mine all the time. I say things-- or nod when other people say things-- that deep down I don't even believe. Things that begin, "I'm too old" or "I really can't" or "Maybe" or "I wish." Words can be as limiting as fear. Often, those words are nothing more than expressions of fear. And freedom is squeezed into a smaller and smaller space and labeled a luxury.

Limitless-- it's a daunting word. Exhausting, even. If my life is limitless and I'm not taking advantage of it, what does that say about me? So I put the obstacles in front of me, look for the road blocks most likely to slow me down, put the limits on myself where none need exist. And then I complain about feeling constrained by time and exhaustion and pregnancy and the baby's schedule and the husband's career and life in the suburbs and publishers who aren't acquiring what I write... and... and... and...

Freedom is scary, freedom is about exercising free will. It's about letting go-- not holding on. It's about making choices and not just letting life happen. It's embracing the moment instead of lamenting the moments I've let pass me by. I lose myself in my writing, in my child, in my daydreams. Those are my moments of greatest freedom-- when my world shrinks to the words on the screen, the small hand on my cheek, the mental shift from "I wish" to "I will." That's my freedom. What's yours?