Guest Post: Emma Butler

I get to play with Charlotte Stein! We realize how cool this is right? She wrote the fantastic ‘Control’ & she loves Jeffrey Dean Morgan almost as much as I do. Thus, you should all read every book she’s ever done. Makes perfect logical sense.



Charlotte broached the topic of your ‘Writing Comfort Zone’ on Twitter and I had essay brain, thinking she meant where are you comfortable writing? (Chair, IMac, cup of tea, middle of the night, Springsteen. Done) Your Writing Comfort Zone means none of these things, although tea makes everything more comfortable.



I have a dark, twisted, quite possibly psychopathic mind (you see what you let on this blog Charlotte?) that seems to revel in the macabre and dystopian. Perhaps it comes of reading Stephen King at 13 or falling in love with Gena Showalter’s heroes-who-house-a-demon-each-but-are-really-nice-guys-go-figure. So, that’s my writing comfort zone.



The dark, dank, cold, dystopian, flawed psyche of human beings is where I’m happiest. Preferably in some apocalyptic world with undead things roaming about. My main characters in my Black Rose series are twisted – an Ice Queen with no heart and a Mafia kingpin with no soul. Yet they’re my comfort zone. And once I started writing them, this romance built up until it spawned the rest of the series. It was just easier to create the whole set of books out of this misery the human race had fallen into.



Writing out of my comfort zone for me is writing contemporary or writing happy characters. Of course no character is completely happy or they’d be Mary Sue’s and we’d hate their guts. They’d be the smug kid you just want to smack. But those ones who seem to always have a positive attitude no matter what happens. Take Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series. I love Becky Bloomwood; she falls flat on her face every time but somehow comes out on top by the end and we’re all still rooting for her. But that’s not my comfort zone. I am so uncomfortable my teeth itch when I try to write characters like that. Mine just wont be that cheerful. They have to be accompanied by drinking problems, emotional blockades or have an attachment to Berettas.



The genre I write in at the moment is dystopian romance. Nothing better than love conquering everything. I’m comfortable in urban fantasy and horror because there’s no limit, no filters to your imagination. For me, contemporary has its walls – your hero cannot just come riding through the wall on a white horse because the RSPCA will get to hear about it & do you know how much a builder costs? But sometimes you just need a man to come riding through the wall, preferably swinging a sword and holding diamonds.



My comfort zone consists of flawed characters. I tend to think they’re more human that way than the ones who’re put together. When I read Charlotte’s ‘Control’ I loved it because her main character is flawed. She has these little foibles, a wicked sense of humor and talks a little too much. There are things that slip out of her mouth she’d rather not have said. The hero of the story is deliciously flawed. But that’s what made me love it. How can you identify with someone who is calm and collected in the face of frustration? At least write them a psychotic rant before they ride out to save the day.



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Thanks for being my guest, Emma! And if you'd like to know more about this lovely lady who's just made me blush, you can find her here: www.emmabutler.net She's written the Black Rose series, featuring Ice Queens and Mafia kingpins and lots of grizzly whiskers - honest! That's what she said!

Feeling too Comfortable?

Who would have thought my comfort zone would be writing hot, steamy erotica? I've been writing for as long as I can remember, but I never saw sex as my ticket to fame and fortune. Okay, so I'm neither famous nor rich, but all the money in my bank account is from sex writing. How did that happen?

I was voted the girl most likely to remain a virgin through high school (and I did). I adored Nancy Drew when I was 8 and went through puberty reading Stephen King. You'd think I'd be writing mysteries or horror novels. I did read romance fiction-- the Harlequin Presents books, with exotic settings and strong, domineering men-- and tons of gothics, but there was little to no sex in any of those. Sex happened behind closed doors, with waves crashing on the shore and curtains billowing in the windows.

I read the sweet romances and gothics at an age when I wasn't entirely sure what sex was all about. Oh sure, I understood the mechanics of the parts fitting together, but I didn't understand the point. I mean, masturbation accomplished the same goal, right? Right! So all of the drama and emotional turmoil and risk taking in those books seemed kind of silly when the end goal was orgasm and that could be achieved without a sheik or business mogul or brooding sheep farmer to boss me around.

And yet... here I am. Writing about sex in all its myriad forms. I guess I should've seen the writing on the wall when I chose to research women's sexual fantasies for my senior paper in AP Psychology. "Behind Closed Doors" was the title-- and I got an A. Thank you, Nancy Friday, for inspiring the topic, not to mention giving me a reason to buy all those smutty books and call it "research" when really it was just me figuring out what that sex stuff was really all about. I hadn't even had sex, but I finally knew what was going on behind those closed doors in the sweet romance novels-- and I wanted a piece of the action!

My writing comfort zone may be dirty words, erotic fantasies and kinky practices now, but I think I have probably written something in nearly every genre that exists. It's just that no one would buy my attempts at science fiction or horror or mystery. Sex became my comfort zone because it's the genre that pays me. The higher the number of erotica sales, the fewer stories I wrote in other genres.

This topic gave me pause because it asked about what happens when I step outside my comfort zone. I wasn't thinking in terms of my erotica comfort zone--there really isn't much in the category of sex that I haven't (or couldn't) write about-- I was thinking more generally about genres. And I will admit to a feeling of guilt-- I don't know what happens when I step outside my comfort zone because I honestly don't remember the last time I consciously decided to write fiction that wasn't erotic. I've written about ghosts and vampires, angels and demons, and they were all having sex. I have novels plotted, outlined, even half-written and they are a mashup of genres-- but they all include explicit erotic content. Does that mean I can't not write sex? Maybe. Or maybe I've just gotten lazy these last few years, too wrapped up in writing what I am reasonably certain will sell instead of venturing into the unknown.

I do think I'll be giving this idea more consideration. I love writing erotica (and erotic romance), but there is something to be said for breaking out of the comfort zone. Writing erotica has felt a little too comfortable the past couple of years. Maybe it's time to write something new, something that doesn't include sex. The mind boggles. A story (or novel) without sex? Do such things even exist? Not in my world, not in nearly a decade. But maybe it's time for celibacy-- at least in my writing. Maybe giving up sex will make me a better writer. Maybe sex is baaaaad for me.

Nah, I think that's taking it too far. I'll never stop writing erotica, but it wouldn't hurt to write something not erotic and see what happens.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

The Bait and the Trap

Erotic romance seems to be a big seller these days. And romantic comedy never went away, as far as I could see, since the time of the ancient Greeks and Romans. Why would an erotic writer stay in the margins of erotica when she could, presumably, acquire a Name for herself by writing heterosexual “love stories” that end “happily,” with a binding commitment? Note the quotation marks.

I’m not comfortable in the realm of traditional Romance for the same reasons I wasn’t comfortable in a number of dating relationships (e.g. with my high school boyfriend who dumped me after I won a writing award, with the biker who raped me the first time I said “no,” with the man who snorted every time I mentioned my plan to become a teacher, with several men who turned out to be married after we had sex). Marriage made me even more uncomfortable, especially since my husband believed that marriage vows simply erased his private promise to treat me like an equal, which was my condition for accepting his proposal in the first place. As he pointed out, he wasn’t willing to be “henpecked” by a proponent of “women’s lib.” What would the other men of his community think of him if it was obvious that he couldn’t even control his own wife?

Calling all these relationships “abusive” would suggest that what happened in them was outside the heterosexual norm in which men love, respect and protect women from harm while willingly providing luxurious material support.

Let’s look at some romantic plots.

Consider the story of Cinderella as a kind of archetypal model for most Harlequin or Mills and Boon romances. A poor girl, exploited and despised by her stepmother and stepsisters, is privileged to go to a ball in disguise. The prince falls in love with her and is determined to find her again. When he does, her rags and low social status don’t faze him. He offers to marry her.

On what planet does this actually happen?

I know it’s a fantasy, but how many young women have been encouraged to look for this outcome in real life instead of pursuing opportunities to have real-life adventures, acquire some measure of real-life power for themselves, or look for a soul-mate who shares their interests? I think it’s entirely possible for a young, attractive woman to meet a “prince” (rock star, celebrity athlete, performer or politician) if she makes a great effort to do this, AND if she’s only looking for a brief hook-up. That’s the best she’s likely to get.

In real life, it gets worse. When a “prince” proposes to a “peasant girl," it's likely because he needs a wife and children as a cover to hide his real sexual/romantic life with numerous other women – or men. And because he’s a “prince,” he doesn’t have to acknowledge the needs of his Significant Others. When one leaves or gets thrown out, s/he can easily be replaced.

Let’s consider the plot of the Shakespeare “comedy,” The Taming of the Shrew. A man is looking for a wife. He meets a girl who has a mind of her own and who resists marriage. He sets out to change her mind. By the end of the play, she obeys him like a well-trained dog. Happy ever after.

As a BDSM scenario, this plot is undeniably sexy. If a man and a woman who each have enough money for rent agree to act out this plot, or even pledge their troth in a relationship that really involves willing submission on one side and freely-accepted responsibility on the other, they’ll get no argument from me.

However, consider the context of the original play. For centuries in Western culture, the limited legal rights of an adult single woman disappeared when she married. If she stood to inherit a fortune or an estate from her wealthy father, her husband could simply take it over. A man could legally “correct” his wife by beating her, and he had a right to sex with her at any time: just after the birth of her eighth child or while she was incapacitated by accident or illness.

If a wife tried to escape from her husband, she was likely to find the doors of all her friends and relatives closed to her. Marriage was supposed to last for a lifetime, and women who wanted out were equated with adulteresses, whores, criminals, lunatics. Being an ex-wife usually meant having no family, no friends, no property and no access to a job that paid a living wage. Marriage as a woman’s “natural state” was enforced by a lack of bearable alternatives.

Historical romances about a “spitfire” who is tamed by an Alpha Male, or a rake who becomes enchanted by the one woman he can’t just use and throw away are either complete fantasies, or they are grounded in the real legal, social and economic inequality of men and women at the time. If the story is historically accurate, the eventual resolution of mutual hostility is likely to be completely on the man’s terms. Even if he agrees to make concessions, no one can hold him to his promise. He can always change his mind once she is “his.”

Could there be a different “romance” plot, even for heterosexual couples? Yes, but it requires imagination. It requires going so far beyond the well-worn paths that the result might not even be recognized as “romance.”

I try to stretch myself as a writer, so I’ve approached “romance” a few times – cautiously, like an animal who has seen the leg-hold traps. In “The Way to a Man’s Heart” (in Like a Sword from Circlet Press, a collection of four “high fantasy” stories), my heroine sets out to defend the family castle from the siege of a usurping lord – only to learn that neither he nor his claim to the land are what they seem. In the end, she can rely on more than a verbal promise. Even my more realistic “romance” stories require some device to protect the woman from bottomless oppression: a trap-door in the marital home, a clause in the will, her power in the modern world, his real vulnerability aside from being "in love."

I’m not saying that going down that path isn’t worthwhile. I’m just saying it’s not a comfortable jog. At least for me.
----------------------------------

Dancing With Goddesses

Curled in the little seat like a fox in a den, rediscovering myself red eyed awakening in the wailing, squealing, hissing cacophony of the early morning flight into Charlotte. The carnivorous winds outside are jet stream gales split by hurtling machinery shouldering through at hundreds of miles an hour; jostling and joggling us like characters in a fairy tale blown along by powerful spirits released from a magic bottle by a naïve girl.

I check my watch glow and try to go back to sleep. Three hours to go still. But I keep thinking.



One by one we’d wandered into the pool area of the Golden Keys Hotel like animals gathering around a watering hole. We were all drinking coffee and some of us nursing headaches. My wife and kid sidled up with little styrofoam bowls of cheerios and bagels from the free breakfast. We all looked like unmade beds.

“You know that was exactly the kind of party your dad would have loved," said Lavonne, my step mom.

"He’d have boogied all night." said Sharon. Sharon is one of Lavonne’s band mates. The other one, Beth, wasn't up yet. I finally got to hear Lavonne's rock n roll band, "The Wildcats", perform on stage last night at the wedding party. They careened through three songs they’d written. They were fantastic. If I’d been single I’d have signed up to be a groupie.

"He was such a great dancer. But you know who should have been there, was Tony."

"That would have been a good thing for Uncle Tony," I chimed in.

"He didn’t even answer the invitations to say if he was coming or not. He didn’t want to have to go out and buy gift, that's why."

"And he can afford it." said Sharon.

"I know!", said Lavonne. "He's just cheap. Jesus Christ. And your father did so much for him. When Tony hurt his leg that time a few years ago, Dan drove down to Chicago and stayed with him for a week and he can’t even send Laura a present."

"I don’t think it’s the money."

Everyone turned and looked at me. "We don’t have any money, and I just stuck it on the credit card and brought my family here because I thought it was important. It would have been cheaper and a lot easier to stay at home. But it’s like you have to get out of your space. I think with Uncle Tony, I think he's 'sheltering'. It’s this word I heard. Sometimes when you’re getting over something bad, or you’re just getting old, you get so you want to hide from life. You want to get into your routine and be settled and make each day the same. Because it makes you feel safe. It's maybe what it feels like to be a potted plant. It’s comforting to have a routine and just pull your shell over your head and not have any more surprises."

"But that's not good for you," said Sharon.

"Not too much, no. If you cut off the world its bad for you emotionally and physically, but sometimes you just want things to be simple and for life to go away."



A bad bump in the night jostles me awake, since I wasn’t much asleep. I sit up in the seat and the seat belt buckle has been digging into my ass and my back hurts like hell. I feel like going to the lavatory just to do something physical. There's a paperback of grim and gorgeous fairy tales by Angela Carter in my carry on. I stand up and my knees hurt. I fish around in the little roller bag in the overhead bin and pull the book out and sit down. I don’t see any of the stews anywhere, maybe they’re asleep too. It’d be nice to have some coffee with my book but I don’t want to make them brew any if it’s not ready. I turn on the overhead reading light and it lights up everything like a goddamn spotlight in a prison movie. Resentful red eyes glitter at me in the dark and there are gruff mumbles over the howling of the high gale over the wings like wolves with wolf eyes on a stormy night. I turn out the light and sulk.



My sister’s big fat Armenian wedding was traditional and gorgeous. It made me want to read a book about Armenians to see where all of this came from. It was held in an Armenian Apostolic church, which on the inside looked similar to a Catholic church with candles standing vigil in sand, ornate symbolic images, paintings of Jesus with intense Armenian eyes surrounded by dewy eyed Cherubs up holding scared objects. It reminded me of the complex and compelling images found in tarot cards or the bumper stickers you see in Latin America. Brides Maids and Friends of the Groom lined up in flowered and scrubbed battalions. When Laura came in at last in her bridal dress I got a sense of why weddings have always meant so much to women. The presenting of the virgin in white, almost like a sacred sacrifice to be ritually impaled later on the penis of the protective young groom for whom she has been preserved. It’s the ritualized worship of her virginity and a public witness to their pledge of loyalty to each other. The priest read from a red velvet book chanting and singing in Latin and some language I'd never heard before. Unseen behind the altar a lady began singing a Latin hymn in a powerful operatic soprano and a woman behind me sang along with her softly.

The wedding reception followed immediately after in the banquet hall just down the street. There were about 30 of us from Minnesota, and about 200 Armenians and local friends. We were seated at a table of honor as family members of the bride. Laura and her new husband sat with the bridesmaids and grooms friends at the head table. The feast was lavish. Biblical. As the catered Mediterranean delicacies passed by tray after tray, it reminded me of ancient stories of prodigal sons and fatted calves, and Jesus turning water into wine at marriage feasts to which he had been invited as a friendly guest and maybe to give the blessing or even the wedding vows. I had to drive later so I promised myself to keep a clear head and only drink a very little bit of red wine and the rest of the time stick with cola. It seemed like a good idea.

The music started, huge, loud and carnal. Disco dancing beats mixed with Little Richard and Chuck Berry mash-ups. The guests plunged onto the dance floor and begin boogying and hopping haphazardly.

I’d finished my modest half a glass of Merlot when a bottle of some sort of clear homemade pop-skull was set down beside my plate. Because it’s strange and because I can’t resist the strange, I immediately tossed back a glass and coughed and squinched. People laughed.

My wife watched the dancers on the dance floor and languished. It’s one of the sad things of our marriage for her that I don’t know how to dance and never got the hang of it or tried very hard to. She loved to dance before she was married off to me. God should have given her a good dancing partner at the least. My step mom and Sharon were out on the dance floor, when the music changed to a slow waltz.

Aw, what the hell.

I got up and came around the other side of the table. The music was so deafening she didn’t hear me yelling in her ear so I just nudged and waved at the dance floor. Her face lit up. She held my hands, put my arms where they go and we shuffled around in a goofy box step. I started to get it. It’s like sex. The key is not to think, just trust your body and follow where it wants to go. The music changed again and I gave her a twirl and suddenly she was as happy and well loved as a ladybug. She jiggled and jived and the less I thought about it the better it worked.

An elbow bumped against me. I turned around and it was Sharon, and now Lavonne’s other band mate Beth was there flushed with energy from their stage show. Sharon had this gigantic cosmic grin and nuzzled her elbow into me then held out her elbow for me to nuzzle her back, rocking her hips. I nudged her good. Now Beth was there with us and they were grinning madly and bucking their hips and gesturing with their arms and I was suddenly in awe of them. For a moment they no longer seemed like mortal women at all, but like pagan Hindu goddesses with silver bells on their toes, cymbals on their fingers and jewels in their bellies. The cosmos was dancing and holding her hand out to me.

Off behind me I saw the dazzling gleam of white, and as I turned my sister Laura was there in her bridal gown and my sister Annie next to her. They drew intimately close and got down to it. We danced together, my long lost sisters now grown into women and their older brother the religious fanatic who'd missed his chance to grow up with them. We danced close and jungle feverish and fully happy we three, trying to make up a little for what should have been a life time of love.

It’s such a relief to have my car keys and be back behind the wheel. The parking fee at the Augusta airport is double what I expected, it always is.

"I hate this stupid town," my son mutters, throws back his head and slumps despondently in the back seat.

"Augusta's nice." I say. "It’s not Los Angeles, but it’s nice."

"It sucks," he says and turns his face away.



Our tiny Budget rent a car didn't need to go back for a few more hours before we had to catch our plane out of Los Angeles at Bob Hope airport so we went happy assing around Hollywood. I had the little road map from the rent-a-car agency and plotted a careful course down Hollywood Blvd and from there to Sunset Blvd through Beverly Hills. Hollywood Blvd in the real world isn’t that glamorous. It looks like any other big gritty loud urban street except for the names of stars imbedded in the sidewalk as we drove by. There were people in Star Wars costumes gathered in front of a movie theater for some reason. We passed by legendary clubs where the big names performed for peanuts in front of drunken audiences before they hit the big time. The Comedy Store where Eddie Murphy got his start, and the Whisky a Go Go where the Doors first learned their stage craft; and Lenny Bruce performed stand up on the same bill as the Mothers of Invention, and Frank Zappa offered peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to the audience. These places had always loomed so large in my imagination when I was a kid, but when you drive by them in busy traffic they're just little night joints and dives, that’s all, nothing special on the outside except for their storied history. We passed through Beverly Hills with gigantic houses sequestered behind hedges and iron fences. Some of the huge lawns are lavishly decorated for Halloween. Its fun. Like driving through some pagan Heaven as devoid of shame as Eden.

We hit the pacific coast highway 1 and drove north a ways. The pacific ocean was just a few yards on the left but we couldn’t see a trace of its existence for the packed and continuous wall of old bohemian beach houses such as might been glorified by Playboy magazine in the 50s and 60s. They have an eccentric sensuality and go-to-hell architecture. We went about 20 miles and turned around to go back the other way. Soon we started to see the beach itself and men carrying surf boards and girls in non-existant bikinis that make you go "What??" But out in the high waves nobody was actually surfing.



We pick up some Chinese food at our favorite little place and my kid stays in the car in a dark morose funk. At the grocery we buy something for breakfast and some tuna fish for our lonesome cat who hasn’t seen anyone in four days. When we get home I expect our big fat tabby Ronnie to be overjoyed with relief and gratitude to see us back so that everything in his world can be comfortable and normal again. There's no way to tell an animal you're coming back, you just have to trick him into letting you go. As I jingle the door keys I can hear him meowing desperately.

He barrels right past us and into the front yard. He huddles under a bush and digs a hole and squats. He doesn’t like his litter box. After four days he literally doesn’t give a shit about us, he's just been waiting all this time to go outside in the daylight and take a dump in his favorite spot. Now he feels normal too.



C. Sanchez-Garcia

Bring Out the Comfy Chair!

by Kathleen Bradean

I don't think there's that much outside my comfort zone, but things I just don't "get" are numerous.

Balloon fetishes. To me, balloons are things that suddenly make a loud noise. Or worse, they're wielded by budget clowns at parties where feral packs of screeching kids are hopped up on sugar and lack of parental supervision. Even the sound of balloons being rubbed together hits a raw nerve. So the idea of sitting on a balloon to make it pop for sexual pleasure is just... no. Or climbing into a big balloon. Having one inserted into me has all the charm of a medical exam, complete with the latex stench.

(For the record, I don't have a clown phobia. I just think they're one of those 'symbols' of fun that long ago ceased being fun for anyone. But I recognize that some people find them creepy. Most people do. Which makes me wonder why anyone hires a clown for a children's party. They must be subtly indoctrinating kids with the idea that everything that should be fun is tinged with scaryassed crap so you should never relax and enjoy yourself - never, ever, ever in your entire life - because you have to always keep an eye out for random clowns. That's all I can figure.)

Tickling. When I was really young, one of my cousins used to hold me down and tickle me until I cried so hard I couldn't breathe or I wet my pants. Some people sexualized those childhood memories of being rendered helpless by laughter and actually seek out tickle torture. I've written peripherally about it, but really can't go there because my experience was abuse, and there's nothing sexy about that.

Food in sex scenes. Maybe it's a sign of age, but when people grab out the chocolate sauce and whipped cream in a story, all I can think of is the clean up afterwards. And the person I assume will be left with the mess is the woman. How can I get into a sex scene when I'm thinking, "She should start pre-treating those sheets now before that sets," or "what would really make this story for me is if the guy let her enjoy the afterglow while he puts all that stuff back in the fridge." Hah! As if! Erotica might be fantasy sex, but it still has to be believable.

Feet. Oh, hold on. Feet. Yeah. I've never looked at a foot and thought, "Oh, baby!" But I remember years ago following a six mile walk when I grabbed some lotion and rubbed R's feet for a while. He melted. He even snoozed for a bit. When he woke up, he said, "You have to try this," and rubbed my feet. Heaven! It's not part of our regular repertoire, but occasionally we'll treat each other to foot rubs and it feels really good. Sexy though? Not to me, but I took that idea and ran with it in one of my unpublished (unpublishable) stories.

~~
Untitled Work

... "I'm sorry. I'm just too tired."

I let his semi-hard cock slide out of my mouth and grinned at him. "That's my line, Greg."

He chuckled, but I could sense the frustration as he caressed my hair. Three weeks away from each other and I was ready to show him that this momma was ready to take advantage of her empty nest. Sex in the afternoon. We hadn't done that since we dated. But my timing was off.

His flights had been delayed, and then cancelled, so finally they put him on a crowded flight with screaming kids and no leg room. By the time I picked him up at the airport, he was one tired guy. I figured a quickie then I'd let him sleep. He was all for it, but the frustrations of the day still had him in their grip and wouldn't shake loose no matter what I did. Even a pinky up his ass only got him semi-hard.

I'd been thinking about this since the night before though. Planned the whole seduction out - if a wife needed to seduce her husband. The whole ride to the airport, my clit had been tingling with anticipation. By the time we got home, it was swollen and juicy as if he'd spent an hour teasing me with his tongue. It was throbbing now, and my pussy was in need of something hard to clutch.

"Hon, I appreciate..."

I didn't want to hear it. I encircled the base of his cock with my fingers and bobbed over his failing erection. When my neck got stiff from all that work, I pushed with my knees until my clit rocked against something hard. At first I thought it was his shin or ankle, but he'd bent his knee so I was over his foot.

Greg moaned. "What the hell are you doing?"

His cock stiffened up real quick.

"Like that?" I asked.

He moaned. And in a moment of 'what the hell, I'm over fifty and can do what I damn well want to' insanity, I, well...

I fucked his big toe. No. Really. I fucked it.

I pushed down on it and as I rocked back and forth sucking his cock, I rode the fat, hard digit. My pussy gripped its rough edges and I knew that I'd be sore, oh so sore, later, but for now, my juices were anointing his foot. I slipped a hand between my legs to pinch my clit into a peak of pleasure. He lasted about two seconds before he spurted all over my face and hair.

He sat up. "Oh god. I'm so sorry."

Playfully, I shoved him onto back and wiped the long drip of his come off my cheek. "But, baby, that's what I was trying to make you do."

"That was really weird," he said, but he had that look of wonder and awe on his face that I hadn't seen after sex since the first year we were together.

~~

So now you know. Feet, maybe. Food, meh. Tickling, never. The rest - if I can find a way to make it sexy, I will. Just don't slip a balloon under me if I'm trying to settle into my comfy chair, or I'll send the clowns after you.

Discomfort

By Lisabet Sarai

This week Charlotte has challenged us to discuss our comfort zones - topics we can write and explore without getting scared or squicked or otherwise wanting to stop - and the areas outside those boundaries. When it comes to sexual topics, there's not much that bothers me. I've written orgies , exhibitionism, bondage, all sorts of corporal punishment, infantilism, incest, enemas and golden showers, even so-called blood sports (although there was nothing playful about that tale). I won't say I'm totally relaxed penning stories with extreme elements - I'm more likely to be aroused - but in most cases I'm not uncomfortable.

There is one sort of content that I find induces extreme discomfort, though - any sort of serious violence.

I'm not talking about rough sex here; I've written plenty of scenes where someone wants to be fucked within an inch of his or her life, and someone else gladly complies. No, I'm referring to cases where a character gets beaten, stabbed, burned, blinded, castrated, literally tortured by another. Even if this activity is in the context of a relationship - even if the victim apparently consents - this sort of scene really bothers me. I recognize, a bit sheepishly, that few of my dominants possess more than a subtle streak of true sadism. I've never written a pure sadist, who gets his or her thrills from causing pain as opposed to being in control. That would make me much too uncomfortable.

Back in 2010, I edited Garce's charitable short story collection, Coming Together Presents C. Sanchez-Garcia. One of the tales he included in the manuscript was "Miss Julia's Cake Club". Julia is a poverty-stricken Hispanic woman, beaten and abused by her husband, who lives in an unnamed military dictatorship. She is arrested and tortured by authorities who believe that she's somehow connected to an opposition political movement. Julia dreams of having a beautiful, well-equipped kitchen where she can cook and bake, sharing her love with others. Instead, for reasons she can't begin to fathom, she is subjected to incredible pain, terror and humiliation. One of the story's most extreme scenes offers a chilling description of water boarding, detailed enough to give anyone nightmares.

It was really difficult for me to work on "Miss Julia's Cake Club". It's a true, powerful, serious story about dignity, trust, freedom and redemption. It's not sensationalist or exploitative. Like almost everything Garce writes, it has a spiritual dimension. It is also, at times, intensely erotic, as Julia escapes into her fantasies. I could appreciate all this, but still, I had to force myself to read on.

I reviewed that story at least three or four times over the course of preparing the book for publication. It never lost its impact. It never failed to make me uncomfortable.

It occurs to me, looking back, that consciously or unconsciously, this might have been the author's intention. If one can read such a story of violence and abuse and remain comfortable, perhaps one has lost some aspect of humanity.

Of course, not all violent tales have redeeming social value. Pretty much all of them bother me, though. I especially dislike work that sexualizes cruelty (which Garce's story does not). I can't imagine writing something in that vein. Yes, I do have a scene in Necessary Madness where the villain plans to sacrifice the hero while fucking him, as part of a satanic ritual (and yes, that was pretty tough for me to write), but there's no violence for its own sake (and the hero of course manages to save himself, so there's just the threat of bloodshed, not the fact).

I know, intellectually, that some people find the idea of inflicting serious pain and causing real physical damage to be arousing. I can't understand that, from an emotional perspective - and although I try hard to be tolerant and broad minded, I can't help feeling distinctly queasy.

So despite my carefully cultivated reputation for being a sexual pioneer, open to experimentation, willing to try (or at least to write about!) any sort of perversion, I guess I'm really a wimp.

I make no apologies.

Why I love being a saucy Brit

By Jacqueline Applebee (Guest Blogger)

Stiff upper lips aren’t the only things getting hard.

I am a happy Black British woman. I’ve lived in London all my life. London is a buzzing, multicultural city, with something happening all the time. There are numerous alternatives scenes where you can lose yourself for an evening or a lifetime. Are you into latex and corsetry? There’s an official walking tour of rubber fetish shops that you can do in Islington. Into erotic stories and cupcakes? There’s a series of events that run all year long in fashionable Hoxton. There are also two fetish markets, sex parties galore, and lots, lots more.

London is a global city. I can hear accents from around the world on a daily basis, however listening to regional accents from around the U.K is still a rarity. It is something that makes me tingle from ear to clit in a flash. I love to hear my language spoken with a lilt; the musical tones and cadence that makes me incline my head to hear just a little more. I’ve let people with West-Country accents press me up against walls, have their naughty way with me as long as they don’t stop crooning in my ear. I become breathless when someone with a clipped British accent speaks to me. And if they talk dirty, well that’s even better. As you can see, I have a weakness for aural sex…

The U.K is full of friendly and incredibly sexy people who contrary to popular belief are not reserved at all. The drop-dead gorgeous women in Newcastle, who will happily wear micro-minis and six-inch heels in the middle of a blizzard always make me gaze in awe of their beauty and hardiness. Sun-kissed men who go surfing on the Cornish coast, all lean and athletic make me lose my senses. There’s nothing like a dripping wet man with all his features outlined in skin-tight wetsuits to make me glad to be here.

I still live in London, and I have set many of my stories in this bustling city. The following extract is from “Old London Town”, which appeared in Where the Girls Are, published by Cleis Press.

****

The next time I pointed my arm, it was to the left, where Tower Bridge lay, spanning the wide Thames. This was what I thought of, whenever I thought of London. Sure it was famous, and well known, but there was something so grand and magnificent about it too, that my unease faded, replaced by a sense of pride.

I kept hold of Mae's hand as we stepped onto the bridge. Her touch made me tingle; little sparks that grew stronger over time, until I fairly crackled with energy. I was so excited; I seemed to have bypassed the lovesick teenage stage, and had gone straight to happy little girl mode.

"This was built in 1894. It's old, but not really that old," Mae stated, and then she made a silly face. I hit her playfully as we both giggled like children.

Mae looked up, straining her neck as she took in the mighty stone towers that stretched above us. I gazed at the real attraction, and then swept a finger over her exposed throat, over the dark delicate flesh, so kissable, and so beautiful. All my apprehension evaporated as I stroked her. She stilled beneath my touch, and then turned slowly to me with a smile that made my eyes water. She moved closer, rubbed her nose against mine, and then captured my mouth in a gentle kiss. I could taste the spices from our meal, the sweet passion-fruit juice that she had gulped down, but most of all, I could taste her. Mae was earthy, salty, and so very delicious. I wanted to feast on her. How could she be here for just a few days! Hundreds of tourists swarmed about us as we stood on the bridge kissing. Cars hooted at us, a few people whistled, but I didn't care; this was my town, and this was my home. My thoughts were interrupted when Mae slid a cool hand beneath my T-shirt; she found my bare breasts beneath the thin fabric, and she brushed a fingertip across an over-excited nipple. I quaked where I stood; I had to get this woman home.

I looked around us, at the position where we stood, precisely in the middle of the bridge. I could spot the line that separated one half of the edifice from the other, the place where each side of the bridge would open and raise, whenever a tall ship would sail through. I felt as if we were in the centre of the universe; that all the people, and all the planets circled us in a full cosmic sweep.

"I'm staying in a hostel in Greenwich," Mae whispered into my ear. "Will you come back with me?" I said nothing in return, just held her hand tighter, and pulled her across the busy road.

We caught a river boat down the Thames, and we sat in the shade at the back of the vessel as it sped through the water. Mae massaged my sensitive hands, stroking once and then twice whenever she hit a particularly promising spot. I gasped and mouthed soundless groans into the air as she stimulated me. My clitoris begged for attention, my nipples needed to be sucked, and I wanted to kiss every inch of Mae’s body.

"Hungry, aren't you," she drawled with a suddenly strong accent. "I think I can take the edge off your appetite before we get home." Mae made a reach for the hem of my skirt, and I suddenly froze, aware of where we were. "Everyone's up top, snapping photos. We're all alone down here," she continued, and before the words were even out of her mouth, she lifted the hem of my frayed denim skirt. I looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was about, but for some strange reason, my vision suddenly blurred. Two of Mae's fingers pressed against the outside of my knickers; she ran them up and down the elastic on each side, murmuring happily, and smiling like the sun whenever I trembled in her grasp. I heard footsteps coming down the staircase that led to the lower deck of the boat, and I tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let me. Public sex always seems like a good idea, until you actually attempt it; I didn't want to perform for a crowd. This country girl was starting to make me look bad. The footsteps I'd previously heard halted, and then retreated back to the upper level. I sighed with relief, and then almost screamed as Mae pinched my clit. Her fingers slipped on my juices, but she still tugged on me, grinning a wide country girl grin as I bucked and shook.

"What do you want, Lesley?" she teased me, purring her silky voice against me. I kissed her, sent the message directly to her mouth, straight down her throat with every press of my lips to hers. Her fingers slowed down, but they pushed harder instead. Old London Town swirled around me, twisting into a thin wavy line that became the river we sailed on. I couldn't see, couldn't breathe … she tweaked my clit in a cruel movement, and I stifled a yell as I came hard. How had she done that? How had this country girl known?

I felt the pull of the ship's brakes, and Mae yanked me bodily off the boat. She dragged my weary backside through the streets, and up the steep hill to the Royal Greenwich Observatory. The mature green trees on the pathway dappled the sunlight to shadows, like doubts chasing around my big city mind. Mae let go of me as we entered the main yard, where a thick brass line ran across the paving slabs, marking the Prime Meridian Line. I knew this place, knew it was special, but right then, my sex-clouded brain was refusing to cooperate further.

"This is the start," Mae announced. "All time on Earth is measured from this spot, and all space is measured from this place." She stood with strong brown legs straddling either side of the brass marker. "Let's start something, Lesley," she said, looking at me shyly. "Let's start something right now."

"But you're only here a few days," I said, and I felt ashamed for my whiny words.

"Don't you get it? You can always reach me; whenever you come here, you'll always feel me." She pulled me to stand beside her. "Each of your feet is in different parts of the world, Lesley. One is in the West and one is in the Eastern hemisphere. Each step you make here will bring you closer to me."

I've lived in London all my life, loved the big dirty city with all my heart, but right then, I would have happily given it all up if I could follow Mae to her volcanic island in the blue Caribbean sea. I didn’t want her to fly away from me, to leave me all alone in this old town. Her words had softened the hard city girl within me; the part of me that was cold, tough, and always moving, always consuming. I didn't want to listen to her, I just wanted to go home, and forget this strange amazing woman, but as I shrugged out of Mae’s grasp, I felt something strange; a tingling sensation that ran from the Meridian line, up my legs and straight into my cunt. I felt the miles from my home to Mae’s diminish, felt the power of the spinning globe we lived on as it twirled time and space into a single moment, a single step, from one side of the world to the next.

I looked up at Mae in wonder, and my smile shone like the sun.

****

If you’d like to read more about sexy shenanigans in the U.K, please take a peek at my anthologies, Erotic Brits and Sexy Scotland, both published by eXcessica.

Jacqueline Applebee

www.writing-in-shadows.co.uk

@applewriter on Twitter