Thank you for being a reader. #readers #writers #gratitude

by Giselle Renarde

I saw a tweet the other day that really pissed me off.

I won't say who it came from or even what line of work they're in, but the tweet was a real screw-you to all their followers. It said something along the lines of: you think you're so supportive because you follow me and retweet me, but if you're not buying my products then you're not helping me at all because retweets don't pay the rent.

When I saw that, I was seriously taken aback. I haven't stopped thinking about it, and I certainly don't feel that way about my followers on twitter or on my blog or here or anywhere else. Quite the opposite. I appreciate the time you take to read my words, whether they're in blog form, tweet form, or book form.

I appreciate your time.

If you read something I've written here or at Donuts and Desires or on twitter and you take a moment to share it with others, I appreciate that action tremendously.

In fact, it's about more than just your time. It's about much, much more.

The other day I was thinking about book reviews. I don't read reviews of my work, but I appreciate beyond words that readers take the time to share their thoughts with the entire internet.

Sharing your opinions with the world isn't always easy, especially when you consider the nature of what I'm writing: erotica and queer fiction. If you write a book review about my work, you're sharing a lot about yourself.

Some readers are not in a position where they're able to be "out" as kinky or queer or whatever the case may be. They don't feel they can tell the world this is what they're reading. If you fall into that category, I want you to know it's okay. I don't wish for you to put your security in jeopardy to boost me up. Just know in your heart how much I appreciate that you're reading my words.

And if you are in a position to share your views on my work with the world, I appreciate that too. I appreciate it tremendously. And I appreciate it even if you didn't buy the book you're reviewing--if you checked it out of your local library or you got it for free during some kind of promotion or you found a tattered copy in a bus station bathroom.

Yes, I write for a living. Yes I need to put food on the table with my words. And pay the rent. And cover utilities. I couldn't do any of those things without readers. But does that mean I begrudge the people who "only" subscribe to my newsletter, who "only" retweet me once in a while, who "only" read the free stories on my blog? No! Not in the least.

Let's be real: this is the world of erotica. Most of the people who buy a title like "Forbidden Family Erotica" don't give a fuck that today is my grandmother's 87th birthday (Happy Birthday, Grandma!). They won't remember my name once they've read my smut. And you know what? I'm okay with that.

Not every reader needs to be a fan, and not every fan needs to be a reader. Most of my twitter followers have probably never read my work, and they probably never will. But every so often someone retweets a book trailer I've made, and that gets seen by a few people who've never heard of me, and they get interested in my work and a fan inspires a reader without even knowing it.

It's so shitty for anyone to tell their followers "if you're not purchasing my product, you mean nothing to me." I can't get over it. It's got me so riled up.

Hey, YOU. Yes, you! If you're reading this right now, you mean something to me. I've written these words. You've read these words. No money has changed hands, but we've made a connection. And that means something.

At least, to me it does.

And if you want to support me financially, Patreon is as good a place as any!

Classic Giselle #Queer #Erotica #Gratitude

by Giselle Renarde

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The journey toward paying the rent starts with a single sale

by Giselle Renarde

Sometimes I lose sight of what's really important.

It's very easy to be swayed by all sorts of factors, even when you're a strongheaded person. Greed is a communicable disease. If you surround yourself with people who always want more, more, more, you're bound to catch it.

Humility is a quality I greatly admire, but it's never been my strong suit. The thing about selling books for a living is that books don't cost a lot of money. Each individual sale doesn't bring in a ton of dough. If you make your living as a writer, as I do, you have to sell a lot of books to pay the rent. Each individual sale is a drop in the ocean.

It's taken a drastic downturn in book sales for me to realize what a huge compliment every single sale is.

I don't know why it's taken me so long to realize this. I don't buy a lot of books myself. I read every day, but I get my books from libraries. The last book I bought was Janet Mock's Redefining Realness. In Canadian dollars, it was just over $20. I'm a low income earner. I saved up to buy it. I love that book. It's outstanding. I held it in such high esteem that, when the audiobook came out, I encouraged my library system to purchase a copy. They did. Sweet did the same with her library system, and they purchased the audiobook too.

Buying Redefining Realness was important to me. It was an experience. I still read in print, but the first bookstore I went to didn't carry it.  Saving for the book, going out on multiple excursions to find it in the world, and then buying my own copy... this was all very meaningful to me.

That was one sale of one book for Janet Mock. It was a memorable experience for me. I cherish that my copy.

My copy of Redefining Realness, with my favourite sections flagged.

 
I'd never considered that, when readers buy my books, they might be having similar experiences--and if not similar experiences, at least similar feelings. There's so much hope and anticipation infused into a book purchase. Readers are really hoping to find what they're looking for inside your story. Your words matter to them.

It's hard for me to imagine readers holding my words in high esteem, because I don't hold myself in high esteem. When I think there are people out there, people like me, who don't earn a lot of money but they've saved up to buy a book I've written, I feel humbled. I take that as such a huge compliment.

And it's not just the spending money aspect. It's the spending time aspect, too. So many people are so busy, and there's so much entertainment out there in the world, and in here in our computers. There are so many ways to be entertained and amused. It blows me away that people spend their time with my words, with my work.

In order for me to pay my rent and put food on the table (and in my cats' bowls), I need to sell hundreds of books every month. If I only sold one, I'd be in trouble. I think that's why I lost sight of how incredibly important every single sale is. The journey toward paying the rent starts with a single sale.

I never used to feel particularly emotional about book sales. I do now, more and more. The fewer books I sell, the more I value each individual sale. Each reader. Each minute spent consuming my work.

I need readers. I need sales. Without them, I wouldn't have anything to eat. I wouldn't have a roof over my head. But I'd lost sight of two very important truths: each reader is a blessing; each sale is a compliment. I hope to hell I don't lose sight of that again.

Over Adversity (#triumph #luck #courage)

By Lisabet Sarai

I’ve been incredibly fortunate in my life. Though I wasn’t exactly born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I’ve never been poor or hungry. Through a combination of hard work and lucky breaks, I managed to get a stellar education without ending up buried in debt. I’ve had several stimulating careers; none of them has made me rich, but they’ve all provided enough money for me to be comfortable and independent, and enough challenge to satisfy me, intellectually and emotionally. Between work and leisure, I’ve had the opportunity to travel extensively. Living in several foreign cultures has expanded my understanding of the world.

Aside from terrible eyesight, flat feet and some arthritis, I don’t have any physical handicaps, and for more than six decades, have escaped any serious health issues. My relationships have been lucky, too: caring and supportive parents, strong connections with siblings, a few lifelong friendships, a couple dozen lovers in my wilder days and a marriage of more than thirty years duration since I’ve calmed down a bit.

I’ve always been gratefully aware of my good fortune, but lately I’ve been feeling humbled and embarrassed. As one natural disaster after another unfolds around the globe—as humans inflict horrible suffering on one another in a dozen different conflicts—as my friends and acquaintances face disability, disease and death—I can’t help but wonder why I’ve been spared.

Recently I ran a contest for members of my “VIP Email List”. I do this every few months. My usual strategy is to ask anyone who wants to enter to send me an email, answering some question, often about marketing issues. Then I randomly draw winners from the emails I get.

This time, I simply asked my readers to send me a bit of news about what they’d been doing recently, or what they had planned for Halloween. I received maybe a dozen responses. I was shocked by how many of them talked frankly about the problems they’d been facing. One reader’s home had been destroyed by Hurricane Irma, another by Hurricane Harvey (she even sent me photos of the flooding). A long time fan shared frustrating news about her daughter’s most recent, unsuccessful surgery. Another woman told me about her tango lessons. She used to belly dance, she confided, but since her MS has worsened, tango is the only sort of dance that fits her physical limitations. Then there’s the fan who serves as caretaker for her disabled husband and autistic son. She told me she’s looking forward to spending a quiet Halloween curled up in a chair reading.

The thing that struck me about all these emails was their mostly cheerful tone. These women were all dealing with adversity far beyond anything I’ve experienced, but they didn’t seem discouraged or demoralized. This was life, their notes implied. We don’t have any choice but to handle it as best we can.

Personally, I think this deserves the term “triumph”. These women are quiet, unsung heroines, managing in the face of difficult odds. I find myself wondering if I’d have their strength, if our positions were reversed.

I have a second cousin once removed who was born with Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), a fairly rare genetic disorder that condemns the sufferer to increasingly severe paralysis, usually leading to early death. You can find out more about this debilitating disease here: http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2017/06/charity-sunday-1-fightsma-donation.html Danny’s mom and dad basically spend their entire lives dealing with his limitations. I can scarcely imagine how difficult it must be for them, as well as for their other son and their extended family. Yet they post photos on Facebook of family gatherings, where everyone is smiling, including little Danny— grinning behind his oxygen mask. How do they do it? Where do they find the courage to live this life, to play the awful hand they’ve been dealt by Fate? Yet they do, one day at a time, and I believe there may be more love in their home than in most.

That’s my definition of triumph.

Then there’s this story, about a Syrian refugee who has managed to fulfill his dream of becoming a dancer:

https://www.theguardian.com/global-development-professionals-network/2017/mar/13/its-dance-or-die-the-ballet-dancer-forbidden-to-perform-by-islamic-state

Talk about overcoming obstacles—though in this case they’re economic, geopolitical, and cultural barriers rather than physical ones.

These stories inspire me, but they also make me uncomfortable. I haven’t been tested like this. I’m afraid that if I were, I’d be found wanting. I feel soft, spoiled by my good fortune, not to mention slightly terrified that the ill luck I’ve managed to escape thus far is waiting just around the corner.

Then I realize that even if something awful happened tomorrow, I’d still have a million reasons to be grateful. And I wonder if this is the key to survival, to triumphing over adversity—recognizing that no matter how bad things get, they’re always a lot better than they could be.

Gratitude and Low Self-Worth ( #Humanity #SelfWorth #Activism #Advocacy #Entitlement )

By Annabeth Leong

While I acknowledge the importance and value of gratitude as a way of putting small problems in perspective, I feel deeply suspicious of gratitude as a way of life, and even more suspicious of gratitude as it’s often played in pop culture self help movements.

People talk a lot about entitlement and expectations, as if these things are completely terrible and should be eradicated from our psyches. (Sample quote, from life coach Adam Smith: “Entitlement is such a cancer, because it is void of gratitude.” Or the popular saying, “Expectations are premeditated resentments.”)

Both of these sentiments can serve as important correctives for a person who has lost perspective. For example, if a student expects and feels entitled to attend Harvard University on a full scholarship, and isn’t capable of accepting any other outcome or acknowledging that lots of other students exist who are also intelligent and talented, it might be time to pull out these sorts of quotes. It might be time to remind the student to be grateful for the opportunities that are available.

On the other hand, I get worried by what I refer to as “be grateful you have feet” syndrome. In self help settings, I’ve observed exhanges where, say, someone talks about their painful plantar fasciitis and how much it is bothering them and how they’re frightened they might need surgery on their feet. In return, someone else points out that not everyone has feet or the means to have surgery on them. And yeah, sure, it’s an even worse scenario if you don’t have access to your needed foot surgery, but I’m super frustrated by this approach as a way of shutting down someone’s honest and valid communication about their feelings of fear and pain. I’m not here for enforced gratitude, in which any negative feeling is criticized and countered with demands for gratitude.

What’s at the bottom of it for me is that expectations and entitlement can also be healthy. They can be an important part of standing up for myself, of asserting my worth as a human being. They can be the source of needed protection.

For example, part of what I see in the Black Lives Matter movement is black people asserting their own value and humanity (indeed, this is a major element of the message in the name of the movement). I see people saying that they’re entitled to better treatment from society at large. They’re entitled to receiving the benefit of the doubt from police in the same way that’s given to white people. I notice how often I’m hearing about black people pulled over for a broken tail light and ultimately killed. Then I notice other stories about white people who actually kill people and stay armed, but are eventually taken alive by compassionate, careful police work. I see that police are capable of that compassion and care, and I think everyone is entitled to receiving it, even if they’re under suspicion of a crime.

So the point here is that I think it’s healthy and important for black advocates to stand up for their worth this way. A sense of entitlement is a key part of that, and it’s good. Human beings should be entitled to live their lives without being constantly under suspicion due to the color of their skin. They should be entitled to survive traffic stops, and many more normal, everyday situations.

And all too often, I see activists getting told to be grateful for the progress that’s already been made in society. There’s a degrading message there, that you ought to be grateful for any scraps thrown to you, that you ought not to value yourself so highly as to think you’re fully equal to everyone else.

That’s a larger political example, and an important one. Then I have a lot of personal examples about ways that the pressure to feel gratitude has sometimes worked out to demands that I lower my sense of self worth. I’m going to give a few, ranging from minor to toxic.

— I thank my male partner profusely for “helping” me with the housework, when he’s done some relatively small thing, like wash a few pots. The gratitude I’m expressing here is concealing a few troubling assumptions: that the housework is my job more than his, though that’s not the agreement our relationship is founded on; that this relatively small contribution is worthy of effusive gratitude, while my much larger contribution goes unnoticed or unappreciated. I’ve also observed that being overly grateful toward male partners in this situation seems to contribute toward misunderstandings about the magnitude of household tasks. The partner in question may respond to my gratitude by feeling he’s done plenty, when that may not be an honest assessment from my perspective.

— I am so grateful to a publisher for recognizing my work and choosing to put it out into the world that I don’t advocate for myself, my work, and my career successfully. I sign poor contracts. I wait for long periods for any response for them, and then put up with sudden demands on my time when they get around to paying attention to me. I turn a blind eye to substandard service, such as poor copy editing or clearly unprofessional communications from the powers that be. I put up with delays in payments and errors in royalty statements, and I write gentle, carefully worded statements asking for the money that’s owed to me. After all, shouldn’t I be grateful that I’m allowed to pursue my creative dreams? Shouldn’t I be glad someone is reading my work and appreciating it? Wouldn’t it be selfish of me to want better for myself or my writing? What good does it do to think my work deserves more readers or better treatment? I should focus on being grateful for what I have.

— I am grateful to the first company to hire me out of graduate school. After all, they saved my ass by giving me a job in the city I was already living in, at a time when I really needed money. In exchange, I let them own me body and soul for the next several years. No demand is too large or small. I work myself into sickness for them. I put up with being passed over for promotion, with not receiving raises, even though other colleagues in similar positions get both. Every time I feel like I ought to find something better for myself, I question the emotions that lead me to that conclusion. Why am I angry and unsatisfied? I ought to be grateful.

— I run away from home as a teenager and live for a while with an older man who takes advantage of me in a variety of ways. I should be grateful, according to him, for the ways he takes care of me. After all, he feeds me, drives me to where I need to go, gives me a place to live. He also starves me when he’s not happy with what I’m doing, coerces me into sexual situations I wouldn’t choose for myself, and expects me to turn over any money I make at work. He tries to stop me from using birth control, and is constantly hiding my pills, trying to prevent me from getting to the pharmacy to pick them up, or putting me in situations where I won’t have enough money to pay for the prescription. I should be grateful, though, because living with him allows me to escape a different abusive situation with my mother’s boyfriend. I should be grateful because he loves me. I should be grateful because he doesn’t judge me for being a slut.

I know that for some people, gratitude is comforting. “At least I have someone to call to drive me away from horrible, abusive boyfriend’s house. At least there’s that.” If it does that for you, then that’s great.

At the same time, gratitude has many times left me unable to demand better for myself, even in situations where I really needed to. I think, as with all things, that there’s a time and a place for gratitude, and it isn’t everywhere. I wish the psychologically corrosive effects of trying to summon gratitude in the face of pain and damage were more widely acknowledged.

Some people may be too entitled, and others may not be entitled enough. There are times when a person should say, “I deserve better.” There are times when you’ve been served slop on the floor while other people are eating foie gras at the table, and instead of being grateful for what you get, it’s right and important to get angry about it and expect better.

Perspective

It seems, these days, gratitude can be a strange and mythical beast. I don't mean it's gone from this modern world, to be replaced by entitlement and expectation. I do think both of those elements have grown exponentially, but for the most part I believe they're built on a solid foundation of the things in life we should be grateful for.

Now I realize I'm risking coming across in a "you kids get off my lawn!" manner. But the truth is, the longer we live, the more material we have for comparison. The downside is that for most of us, our nostalgia glands get more and more active with the passing of every year, which leads us to potentially romanticize pain, suffering and poverty.

I'm certain that when we focus on our entitlements (as we see them) and our expectations, we automatically take our blessings for granted. And I know for certain I'm guilty of this. Those of us in self-employed creative fields tend to gravitate toward that kind of thinking, because we're so clearly putting parts of ourselves out for public scrutiny, much more than an employee of a multinational company (for example) might do. So we seek an external validation which is most certainly not owed to us by anyone.

Our constant outward focus then leads us to focus almost entirely on what we don't currently have. This is excellent for our ambition, and our quality control, and our productivity. Where it lets us down so many times is that it takes the focus away from the simple aspects of our own blessed existence which afford us the very freedom to put our work out there. Shelter, food, clean water, free time, electricity, interwebz access, a computer (however basic)... these are parts of life so common to so many of us in the First World that we (I) overlook just how goddamn amazing it is that we have them at all. And what all of these have in common with our entitlements and expectations is that nobody owes us any of them.

We sit and yell because our internet pages are slow to load. Or only half as many people bought our book as we'd hoped. Or that someone didn't "get" our story and gave it a 2-star rating when clearly if they'd only taken an extra few minutes to really understand why my character acted that way then they totes would have given it a 4-star. Minimum.

That's not to diminish the relative importance of fast internet, poor sales or unhelpful reviews. It's just to say what a luxury it is to be able to dedicate so much of my harrumphing time to them.

It's interesting to look, even briefly, at what kind of results gratitude can give us. Studies have shown marked increases in personal happiness, social acceptance, health, and even sleeping, all by someone adopting a more grateful attitude. Some folks like to keep a gratitude journal. I've seen a gratitude movement many times on Facebook (people posting one thing every day for which they're grateful). Whatever form it might take, it still pulls the focus on to what a person has, rather than what they have not. It still feeds the insatiable me-beast, but it helps to slot that beast into the vast jigsaw puzzle of life.

So let me take this moment to express my gratitude.

I'm grateful for all those things I mentioned above (shelter, food, etc). I've earned them, but that should never negate one's gratitude. I'm grateful for my beautiful family. I'm one part of what made that family what it is. One of our boys is a special guy who'll almost certainly never be an independent person. We also went within a hair's breadth of losing him when he was almost 2. So I greatly appreciate having that stable and loving unit around me and within me.

I'm grateful for the opportunity to pursue my childhood goal of writing stories and having people read them. Like most writers, for me it's always felt as though there's a well of words constantly bubbling over within me, and pouring them out, organizing them, coaxing them to play nice... it creates equilibrium in my life and my psyche. By extension, I'm grateful to those who read my words. Even more grateful to those who enjoy them, and say so publicly!

I'm grateful to those who've helped me along the way, simply for helping me. Equally, I'm grateful to those I've helped for allowing me to do so.

And I'm grateful to have this platform on which to express my views. Because the world will roll along whether I post here or not, and whether I write or not, and whether I make covers or not. None of us is irreplaceable, so to have the opportunity to connect in various ways, like we do these days, is worthy of celebration.

Deep Gratitude (#flashfiction #gayerotica)

I think this is the first piece of flash fiction I've ever done, but the topic felt appropriate for today. While I didn't have the adventure this young man did, my city is fully in the grip of a chilly winter as we had our first winter storm today, making me think of warm fires and connecting with people...

I sat on the floor in my underwear, towel around my shoulders, shivering. Laying on the floor, between me and the fire, was my soaking wet clothing. I still had a visceral reaction whenever I looked at them, flashing back to an hour ago when I fell through the ice. I would’ve drowned if it wasn’t for him.

He had been walking along the path on the frozen lake, just a half kilometre behind me, when the ice cracked and I fell in. He ran over, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out, the ease of the rescue hinting at the strength under that taut shirt.

The next few minutes were a blur, but he took me to his cabin and pulled off all my wet clothing and told me to dry off and warm up. I looked over my shoulder at him; he was in the kitchen, making us some cocoa. He caught me staring and gave me a warm smile. That, more than anything, helped the chill melt away.

“Here you go, Ian,” he said as he came toward me with our cups of cocoa. He handed me my mug, then sat on the floor next to me. His thick legs, contained in tight denim, brushed against my bare knees. My heart raced at the touch.

“Thanks, Bruce,” I said. I stared ahead into the fire, willing myself to not look at him, and sipped the hot drink. I don’t know if it was my sense of gratitude for him saving my life or just the fact that Bruce was so fucking sexy, but a thrill ran through me whenever I stared too long at him. And sitting here in my underwear meant I wouldn’t be able to hide my excitement if it should arise.

I shivered as a sudden wave of cold competed with the warmth of the cocoa and his presence. Bruce shifted and put his arm around me, his broad arm wrapping around my skinny shoulders.

“You okay, kid?”

I looked up at him, instantly falling into those deep, brown eyes of his.  He started to look at me funny and I realized I’d been staring too long.  I felt a blush hit my cheeks and I quickly focussed on the cocoa in my hands.

“I’m okay,” I said, managing not to stumble over my words.  “Thank you for saving me.”

I still felt the weight and presence of his arm around me and it took my mind into dirty places, of the two of us naked and rolling around in front of this fire, of me submitting to him, of me showing him just how grateful I was.  Fuck, now I had a boner.  I tried to shift the towel, to make the end of it drape across my lap, but I failed and only seemed to draw his attention to my crotch.

He put his other hand on my bare thigh and whispered into my ear, “Is there anything else I can do to make you feel better?”

I closed my eyes and whimpered — it was all I could do with him touching me like that. Then he slid his hand closer toward my crotch and tentatively groped my bulge through my briefs, as if testing it was okay.  I sighed, signalling my contentment, and then he slid his hand inside my briefs.  His hand was so big and warm and firm, and it felt so good, but I wanted more.  I shifted my hips a bit, rolling slightly backward, encouraging Bruce’s hand to slide further down.

His thick fingers brushed down my shift and over my balls, stroked against my taint, and came to rest against my tight knot.  His touch was electric, already giving me worlds of pleasure at even just the briefest touch.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his breath hot on my ear.


“Yes,” I managed to say through my burning desire.  “I want to show you how grateful I am.”



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Erotic Love & Carnal Sins: Confessions of a Priest (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Gratitude of the Damned (#mm #gratitude #pnr)

By Lisabet Sarai

He’s grateful for the constant pain. Anger and hate keep him going much of the time, but when those emotions ebb, the pain remains, reminding him of his new life’s purpose.

Months, the doctors had told him. Maybe longer. They couldn’t predict the recovery trajectory from massive third degree burns like the ones he’d suffered.

The man who was formerly Stefan Aries doesn’t take the drugs they give him. He doesn’t try to dull the hurt or hurry the healing. The unremitting agony keeps him alive. It fuels his visions of vengeance.

By all rights, he should be dead. He was lucky that muscular firefighter had found him, lucky that despite being blinded and nearly mad, his power had surged when the young man touched him—a new power born of his baptism in the fire, the ability to suck the vital essence from another being through mere physical contact. Leaving the husk of his savior behind, newly energized, he’d managed to crawl away from the blazing remains of his mansion and hide in his neighbor’s garage.

When he considers his situation, he realizes he has much to be thankful for. His Swiss bank accounts, for instance, utilized cryptographic identity validation rather than biometric indicators. With no fingerprints left, a reconstructed face, and a false eye, it would have been difficult for him to access his funds if biometrics were involved. Fortunately, he had the foresight to choose the the most advanced verification technologies available.

Then there was Jezebel. He grins, though that increases the pain, remembering her joy and horror when he’d shown up at her door six weeks after the fire. A scarred and oozing monster swathed in bandages, he still had his seductive voice, plus the telepathic talent he’d stolen from the cop’s sister. That was more than enough to make her believe her Dom had returned.

Having a thoroughly loyal and devoted slave was a tremendous advantage. She’d managed all the arrangements for his trip to Thailand, the private aircraft and the multiple operations, plus all the documents and details required to legally confirm that computer genius Stefan Aries had perished in the terrible fire. She’d even attended the memorial service his parents had organized for him. She shot a video so he could watch them later, mourning their all-too-ordinary son. The eulogies all rang false. He knew what they really thought. Poor Stefan, who was born into a psychically gifted family but possessed no paranormal abilities at all.

Hah. If only they knew. He flexes his stiffened fingers and feels the power stir. The thoughts of the other customers at this exclusive riverfront café are a muted whir until he focuses on one particular individual, an impeccably-groomed young man nursing a Perrier at the next table. The guy’s thinking about going over to Boy’s Town this evening, to pick up a bit of male entertainment. His consciousness buzzes with anticipatory arousal. That sort of lust is contagious.

The recovering mage considers introducing himself. He suspects it will take little effort to change the tourist’s plans. He hasn’t fucked, or fed, for more than a week. But he’s strong now. Though he’d enjoy the young man’s ass and his essence, he doesn’t need it. No, right now he needs to focus on the next steps of his plan.

Jez was a bright, capable woman. With her help, he’d meticulously constructed a new identity. Sven Alstrom had a Swedish mother and a South African father. He grew up in Argentina, amassing a small fortune in South America through various endeavors. Now, at the age of thirty five, he has decided to retire to a farm in western Massachusetts and make artisanal cheese.

While he’d endured the surgeon’s knife and long, bloody aftermath, Jezebel had created the false history he needed. She’d seeded the Internet with false biographical details, manipulated and published fake photographs, forged passports and diplomas. At this point Sven is as real as Stefan had ever been.

He’d rewarded her as she deserved. After teasing her, punishing her, reveling in her pain for years, he finally fucked her as she’d begged him to do since the very first. Knowing his preferences better than anyone, she understood what it meant when he drove his cock into her rear hole.

She’d thanked him with her last breath.

****

This is a possible start of a sequel to my M/M paranormal erotic romance novel NecessaryMadness. As you can probably guess, Stefan/Sven is the villain. I'm playing with the idea of making the villain also be the hero in this sequel. 

What do you think?

Check out the trailer for Necessary Madness here:

https://youtu.be/4fVZjWpvJEo

Hit Me With Your 1-Star

by Giselle Renarde

I don't read reviews of my books.

In my mind, reviews are for readers. Write a review to tell prospective readers: here's what I loved about this book. Here's what I hated. It didn't appeal to me because X. It did appeal to me because Y.

I don't care it if you 1-star my book. Go ahead! Do it!  I've heard a lot of authors talk about burying 1-star reviews or discouraging them because they'll tank sales, but guess what? My books tank themselves. I am not a high-volume bookseller over here. How I make ends meet I'll never know, because I certainly don't sell a lot of copies of the books I write. Please feel free to malign my work or review it with rabid praise--particularly if what you're saying will help other readers avoid a book they're not going to like or find a book they'll love.

Here's the thing: I appreciate every review posted about my books. That probably sounds strange since I don't actually read them, but I do truly appreciate the time readers put into reviewing my work. I hardly ever review books, but I do sometimes review music I like. Frankly, there's a sense of vulnerability about the whole thing. One of my sisters has a degree in music, but I sure as hell don't. Sometimes I think... well, who am I to post this? What do I know?

I only know what I like, and I try to articulate as best I can WHY I like it and who else might enjoy it. Bravo to everyone who has the confidence to post a review online--to post anything, for that matter. Christ, there can be repercussions.

But not from me. Never from me. Don't be afraid of telling the world how you really feel about my work. I'm not looking over your shoulder.
 
Giselle Renarde is an award-winning queer Canadian writer. Nominated Toronto’s Best Author in NOW Magazine’s 2015 Readers’ Choice Awards, her fiction has appeared in well over 100 short story anthologies. Giselle's juicy novels include Anonymous, Cherry, Seven Kisses, and The Other Side of Ruth.

Dear John

By Lisabet Sarai

Dear John,

It's a good thing you have such a common name. I could be writing to anyone. You'll never know that your old girlfriend developed into notorious erotica author Lisabet Sarai. These days that might bother you, given your involvement with religion. Even back then, you might have found me a bit of an embarrassment. Maybe you would have been angry. From your perspective, it probably looks like I turned into a terrible slut after we broke up.

I've tried to blame you for the split. If you'd been willing to take the plunge and live with me as a couple instead of in a group house with three other guys, I wouldn't have been tempted to stray. But that's a lie. I chose to show up at our roommate G's bedroom door while you were away at that conference. I told myself I couldn't stand the loneliness of your absence combined with his constant flirtation, but if I'd let my heart guide me instead of my hormones, I would not have betrayed you.

Betrayal. Pretty strong word. We never discussed exclusivity because it didn't seem necessary. For more than two years neither of us wanted anyone else. Although you weren't my first lover, you were my first serious sexual relationship. God, how I loved you! When I reread the many poems I wrote during that period – more than thirty years ago – the old emotions awaken.

In a very true sense, you awakened me. I was crawling out of the numbness of my anorexic years, but still stumbling regularly back into the shadows. You were sunshine and freedom - relaxed, randy, a bit wild but ultimately as wholesome as your Midwestern roots. With your unruly blond frizz, your ruddy cheeks and boyish grin, your playful imagination and your uncomplicated attitude toward pleasure, you were the total opposite of my anguished poet fantasies. In your arms and by your side, I learned to let go, to enjoy my body, to take risks. Being with you opened me to the glorious possibilities of sex. I remember one time, straddling you, wanting to consume you – suddenly understanding the phrase “waves of lust”. I thought I'd drown in the sensations, and was totally willing to do so.

We explored together, both literally and figuratively. I remember our journeys so vividly. There was the cross-country drive to San Francisco, where we stayed in a fleabag Mission district hotel while I presented my dissertation research at that national conference. We walked the hills until my calves screamed, drank Irish coffee, ate at a family-style Basque restaurant where dinner included a bottle of wine for every two people.

I recall the crazy trip to New Orleans for Mardis Gras, packed like sardines into our housemate M's tiny Honda Civic. Surrounded by a hundred sleeping souls, we made love on the floor of a church that had opened its doors to visitors like us and wandered the bustling streets, drunk on hurricanes and desire.

Remember hitch-hiking back to school from Nebraska? Or the week we spent that summer at your parent's lakeside cabin in Minnesota? Because of their scruples, we weren't allowed to share a room – unbearable! The oppressive heat only seemed to heighten our physical need for one another. In the seedy motel in Minneapolis after you picked me up at the airport, in the back seat of your dad's old Buick, in the canoe we left to drift in the cove, we'd come together whenever we could.

Despite your conservative background, you were more than willing to play. Remember the whipped cream? With the stickiness and the smell, not as arousing as we'd expected, but I give us enormous credit for trying. Do you recall Toronto? Twenty five cent beers and the way I sank into role-playing the virgin and you followed? That magic happened more than once. One of us would say something, and all at once, without any discussion, we were other people, acting out stories we both seemed to know, without consultation.

When I slipped and broke my foot at the chess tournament, you carried me around piggy-back for twenty four hours. I'd never felt so loved. Wearing that cast taught me to orgasm even when I wasn't on top. New experiences, new insights. Every day we were together, I became more comfortable and more confident in my sexuality.

Ultimately, that may be what came between us. I don't remember being bored with you, but I became increasingly aware of my attraction to other men as well. Did you know, when we visited your old friend W in Colorado, that I was fantasizing about a threesome? Dear M was our closest mutual friend – the three of us had dozens of adventures together. Hopefully you never realized that I'd imagined him as a lover. Maybe what happened with G was inevitable. Hormones raging, newly conscious of my own sensuality, I wasn't satisfied with monogamy – especially when any notion of commitment sent you running like a scared rabbit.

“We are gods who meet beyond the stars,” you said once. I suppose we still are, though it scarcely feels that way now. We were so young, so alive. Everything was new and astonishing, especially sex.

I miss that intensity – but I'm glad I have it to remember. As you'd remind me now, the Bible says, “To everything there is a season.”

I have never really thanked you properly for the way you loved and nurtured me. Let this letter express my heartfelt gratitude, although you'll never read it. If I'm happy, healthy and successful today, that has a good deal to do with you, John. Thank you from the deepest part of my soul.

The awkwardness was terrible, after we broke up, since we were still studying together in the same department and had the same common friends. I tried to normalize relations, but you told me you couldn't stand to be my friend. I remember getting a testy note from you, after we'd both graduated, asking me to take you off my Christmas card list.

Ten years ago you found me on the Internet, and now we exchange chaste but affectionate greetings on birthdays and holidays. I guess you've forgiven me.

With health challenges and career disappointments, it seems that your life has not turned out as well as mine. I worry sometimes that could be partly my fault. Regrets and guilt are useless, though. We make our choices, then we live with the consequences. No matter how bad we feel, we can't change the past.

Occasionally I wonder, though, about what would have happened to us if I'd not given in to my horniness and remained faithful. Would we have stayed together, or outgrown one another? What would our relationship look like today, now that we've matured from our randy twenties to our sixties?

An unanswerable question. However, being an author, I can, if I wish, spin an answer.

Although you might doubt this from my behavior, I will always love you.

Gratefully,

Lisabet 

I Politely Decline

By Lisabet Sarai

My poor husband! All I've done for the past two days is complain about the issues I've been having with my primary computer, the one I use for all my email, web browsing, and writing. You see, he's not only my lover, partner and co-conspirator – he's also my system administrator. And so when my computer insists on spontaneously rebooting two or three times in an hour - always when I'm in the midst of composing an important email (or so it seems!) - it's his problem as well as mine.

We've been trying to diagnose the defect, and meanwhile to find workarounds, another environment for me to do my work. So far we've hit one brick wall after another. I've literally been in tears (out of frustration), several times today. Thus, I would appear to have plenty of fodder for this week's topic: This Sucks.

However, I politely decline to discuss my digital issues any further. I'm sorry, but I believe that kvetching is bad karma. As soon as I start telling you how terrible everything is, I start to measure my difficulties against those suffered by others. And frankly, I'm ashamed of myself.

Yes, I have computer problems at the moment. But I have a computer – actually more than one. Right now I can't accomplish all the tasks I need to finish, but hey, I'm sitting here typing this blog post, which was one major thing on today's to-do list.

Not only do I have computational facilities that would make many an author green with envy, I have the technical know-how to resolve most types of misbehavior. When I can't figure something out on my own, I can draw on my husband's vast expertise. I don't have to truck the machine over to a service center (which is a blessing, since our baroque configuration would be far beyond the capabilities of most repair people). I don't have to spend a penny (unless of course we figure out that some hardware component is to blame. But that's part of the cost of doing business – and tax deductible!)

And let's broaden the scope a bit, to illustrate that honestly, it would be ridiculous for me to complain. My husband's not just smart, he's also considerate, creative, funny, and a full-body kisser. We live in an amazing apartment, which we rent at a bargain price (considering its characteristics). We both have jobs we love, challenging without being too stressful. We're both about as healthy as one could ask, given our ages.

I didn't get much done today, compared to my objectives. However, composing this post has helped me put the whole crappy computer situation into perspective. Yes, it sucks that I have to face a bit of inconvenience, that I have to accept that sometimes the fates have different ideas about how my day will go than I do. Nevertheless, I'd say I was a serious candidate for the most fortunate woman on the planet. 

Gracias a la Vida

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UW3IgDs-NnA

Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto
Me dio dos luceros que cuando los abro
Perfecto distingo lo negro del blanco
Y en el alto cielo su fondo estrellado
Y en las multitudes el hombre que yo amo

Roughly translated, these lyrics mean:

Thanks to life, which has given me so much./It gave me two eyes, which when I open/can perfectly distinguish black from white/And in the distant heaven the starry backdrop/And amongst the multitude/The man that I love.

These words were written and sung by the Chilean singer-songwriter Violeta Parra in the 1960s, and they have been sung by various luminaries in various countries ever since. After the earthquake in Chile in February 2010, this song was sung to raise funds for the international relief effort.

I sometimes wonder how they sounded to the man that she loved: a flute-player named Gilbert Favre who was a generation younger than she was. (He died in 1998.)

But first, a brief bio: Violeta Parra was born in a small town in southern Chile in 1917. Her family was musical, but this wouldn’t have made them unusual in their culture. As an adult, she helped develop a musical movement known as the Nueva Cancion Chilena, roughly equivalent to the folk movement (including new music composed in traditional folk styles) in North America. Her art and her political commitment were inseparable. She joined the Communist Part of Chile and revived the tradition of the pena, a community centre for arts and social activism.

For better or worse, she didn’t live long enough to see what happened to her country in the military coup of September 11, 1973, and the subsequent destruction of Chilean socialism and the arts community that supported it, or the massive exodus of Chilean refugees.

She met Gilbert while she was married. She and her husband divorced, and she accompanied Gilbert to Bolivia and back to his native Geneva, in Switzerland. By all accounts, Violeta and Gilbert made beautiful music together. Then something happened, and the official biographies are vague about who left whom.

It seems that Gilbert decided never to return to Chile, but Violeta was rooted to her native soil and didn’t want to leave it. On February 5, 1967, she shot herself to death. She left behind two children, a son and a daughter who have continued her musical legacy.

“Gracias a la Vida” seems to be a suicide note set to music, but as far as I know, it is never introduced this way in public performances. Maybe it can be enjoyed better out of its real-life context.

The quick changes in the melody, from major to minor chords, suggest the bittersweet nature of life, especially for those who feel. Love is said to be a blessing, but it often hurts. The more we have, the more we have to lose.

A drawing of Violeta Parra hangs in my front room because I am separated from her by less than six degrees: she was a blood relative of the ex-husband of my spouse. I sometimes wonder where she would be if she had never met Gilbert. Would she be a 94-year-old matriarch of Latin American music and culture, still leading the resistance against Big Money and the military goons who protect it? Would she be fading away in a nursing home or a back bedroom? Would she have died in a plane crash while on tour, like other legendary musicians?

I honestly can’t imagine committing suicide for love. I also can’t imagine launching a musical or cultural movement. Maybe one capacity is necessary for the other. Or maybe too many women are fools for men. As a feminist, I sometimes wish some companera had talked some sense to Violeta in the dismal winter after the end of her love affair. (Girlfriend, what are you thinking? He didn’t deserve you.)

But then, I’ve been told I just don’t understand romance, and I suspect that’s true.

So many creative spirits have died from unnatural causes, supposedly before their time. However, they left their creations behind, and we who are still here can still enjoy them.

I’m grateful for that.

Gracias a Violeta.

A Toast

By Lisabet Sarai



So our topic this week is “Giving Thanks”, and to be honest, I hardly know where to begin. Everywhere I look, I see occasions for gratitude. I love my life – my family, my work, my home, my history. Everything has turned out so much better than I ever dreamed. Even an abbreviated litany of my blessings would require several weeks' worth of blog posts!

Let me start right here, then. I want to spend a few hundred words saying thanks for Oh Get a Grip and my wonderful fellow bloggers.

I didn't start the Grip. I “inherited” it from another set of authors. I'd been a guest once or twice and really enjoyed the theme-oriented concept of the blog. Then one day a member contacted me to ask if I'd like to take her place, because she was moving on to other things. I accepted enthusiastically, only to discover that all the current members had decided to retire. So there I was, with an empty roster of five slots. If I wanted to keep the Grip going, I needed help.

That was (I find, consulting my email archives) almost three years ago. The membership over those years has varied. The roll of ex-Grippers includes some of my favorite authors, and people: Jude Mason, Jenna Byrnes, Devon Rhodes, Kim Dare, Michelle Houston, Ashley Lister, Mike Kimera, and Helen Madden. The number of names in that list reflects, to some extent, the demands of doing a weekly, theme-focused blog. It takes commitment, organization, flexibility (in order to write on topics posed by others) and creativity to be a Gripper. Thus, I'm incredibly grateful for the current diverse team of contributors.

Kathleen makes me think of diamonds – brilliant, tough, sharp enough to cut to the heart of things. I've known her for at least a decade, through the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, but we didn't meet in the so-called real world until this past April. She turned out to be the same intelligent, unconventional, no-nonsense person I'd come to value in our cyber-relationship. And I love her writing. Her story in Cream, “Challenger Deep”, remains on my list of absolute favorite erotic tales. I only wish she'd pull out and publish the science fiction novel she let me read, 'way back when we first connected!

Charlotte is a much newer friend, but no less dear. Before I'd had any personal contact with her, I reviewed her astonishing, arousing book Things That Make Me Give In. I'd never encountered anything like her breathless, stream-of-consciousness approach to erotica. I was thrilled when she agreed to join the Grip. Her posts never fail to make me laugh, but at the same time I identify with the confusion and self-doubt she so often expresses.

Garce has been at the Grip ever since I made the decision to keep it going. It's a good thing that he and I live half a world away from one another. If we didn't, we'd probably have a torrid, heart-wrenching love affair that would wreck both our lives! Ever since I did a crit for his incredible Color of the Moon, I've been in awe of his depth, creativity and emotional honesty. He's repaid the favor by serving as a beta reader for my work, taking fierce delight in “muddling” my often simplistic plots and characters. Garce is my anchor here. If he decided to quit, I'd probably close the Grip or hand it on to someone else.

Jean is another long-time friend from ERWA. For a number of years, she had a great column on the ERWA website where she expertly deconstructed issues related to sex, gender, and politics, throwing in a generous portion of personal experience to illustrate her points. I knew she'd be perfect for the Grip – and I was right. Jean and I came face to face only once in “meat space”, years ago in New York City. I hope that we get another chance in the future.

Before asking Kristina to join us, I knew her only by her reputation as an author and editor. She agreed to take the Friday slot, adding a caveat that she might be MIA for a bit since she was expecting a second child in a few months. Little did I know that (as she shared a few days ago), she's the type to gleefully take on new commitments and then kill herself to fulfill them! Her introspections on the experience of being a writer have been a joy to read. I count myself lucky that she was crazy enough to accept my invitation.

Why do I keep the Grip going? I doubt that it's an effective promotional tool. We rarely talk about our new releases or urge readers to buy our books. It's just that – I love these people. I love reading their incredibly honest and well-crafted posts. They make me laugh and cry.

We've each shared truths about ourselves and our lives, things so private that possibly even our families aren't aware of them. The intimacy I feel with these other authors – some of whom I've never even “met” - is rare and precious. I'm honored by their trust. And I've found that I learn new truths about myself here at the Grip - both in writing, and in reading the posts of my colleagues.

So as the traditional day for gratitude approaches, I want to express my thanks to you – Kathleen, Charlotte, Garce, Jean and Kristina – for joining me here and making the Grip the very special place it has come to be.

I raise my glass to toast you all, wishing you peace and joy, personal satisfaction and professional success. You deserve it.