My Favorite Character by Suz deMello

Now, here's a Sophie's Choice. The results of the choice aren't as radical, but a difficult choice nevertheless.

Who have I written? Everything from sheikhs to schoolgirls; Regency rakes and gardeners. Ask me to chose my fave? Impossible.

Here's a selection from one of my favorite stories, Viking in Tartan. It's currently available in Six Steamy Shorties: Short Romance Stories. 

http://tinyurl.com/6steamyARE

Keith Kilbirnie, immaculate in dark trews topped by clean white linen, stood at the scullery door and regarded his sister. Rhona had always been a brat, but he had never seen her so disheveled. And the company she was keeping—Och.

He advanced, one hand on the hilt of the long knife he always carried in his belt. “And what have we here?”

Rhona dropped the bannock she’d been devouring. “Brother!” She flung her arms around him.

“Doona ye ‘brother’ me, ye imp. Where have ye been all night long? I searched for ye everywhere! And who might ye be?” he asked the stranger, a dark giant with a fierce, wild demeanor.

“I am called Erland Blodson.”

“A Viking?” Keith whipped out his knife and crouched in a defensive position, ready.

“Nay! He rescued me!”

Keith eyed Rhona, noticing salt stains on her formerly elegant cyrtel and sand in her hair. “What have ye done?”

Rhona stared at the stone floor. “I took a boat out last night and left...tried to leave.”

“She nearly drowned,” the Viking said in a rich bass. He picked up a mug and drank deeply.

“She passed the night with ye?” Keith asked.

The Viking put down the mug and wiped foam off dark stubble with a brawny forearm. “Aye.” He locked eyes with Rhona, whose cheeks reddened.

Keith leaned against the long wood table in the scullery’s center while the maids, who should have been chopping onions, stared. “What a tangle.” He rubbed his forehead. “The Bute may attack.”

The Viking smiled. “Not likely.”

Rhona pressed against Keith and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Can ye fix this with Da, do ye think?”

“Lassie, this is not breaking a jug or taking Da’s favorite mount. This could mean war.”

“Nay,” Blodson said. “I fought the Bute on the beach this morn. He’s dead.”

Keith drew a startled breath. “And his men?”

“They fled.”

“Why didna ye tell me?” Rhona demanded of Blodson.

“A man doesn’t boast.”

“Unhhh...” Their da appeared, gripping the doorpost, eyelids puffy. He blinked. “G’morrow, me bairns, and, uh, ye.” He fixed a bleary, bloodshot gaze upon the Viking. Da’s stained linen was open over his thrusting belly. His graying hair straggled over a balding pate, and he reeked of sweat and strong drink. Pressing his lips together, Keith tried to conceal his shame.

But Blodson set down his ale and bent his head respectfully. “Good morrow, milaird Kilbirnie.”

“Who are ye?”

“This be the man who rescued my foolish sister,” Keith said, pleased the Viking showed respect despite Da’s slovenly appearance. “She took out a boat last night to flee marriage to the Bute. Who is dead.”

“Dead? How?”

The Viking shrugged and smiled. Da blinked, his attitude visibly changing. Keith could practically see Da’s clouded brain trying to sort matters out.

Da’s gaze brightened. “Och, I doona have to pay him the dower-price.”

“Nay,” the Viking said. “Nor to me. I do not want a dowry. Your daughter’s hand will be enough.”

Their da told Rhona, “Ye deserve a beating.”

“Aye, Da.”

“Ye’re lucky I am not quite fit this morn.”

“Aye, Da.”

“Get oot of me sight.”

She scooted toward the door and the Viking followed.

“Nay, not ye,” Da said.

Blodson stopped.

“From where did ye spring?” Da asked.

The Viking grinned, teeth a bright flash against his burgeoning black beard. “I was sent from Skye by King Haakon to take your keep.”

Da stared, jaw slack, then bellowed with laughter. “Weel, ye have done that, and without a single strike of a blade!”

Why do I like this selection? I think it's cute and funny. And I like all these characters.

On a more writerly note, it expresses character without telling the reader what the characters are like. Take Erland. He's obviously strong and powerful--he dispatched an enemy that who, from the context, seems as though he was powerful also. But Erland is modest about it, saying, "A man doesn't boast." The reader also gets the idea that Rhona is a bit of a brat, and her brother Keith is highly conscious of his position in life while their father is a slob.

The best writing shows rather than tells about character and conflict.

“Tear Our Pleasures with Rough Strife/ Through the Iron Gates of Life.”


Sacchi Green

How could I decide on one favorite character? I suppose I could have chosen one I’ve written three stories about…or the one who’s been in two of my stories, with another one simmering in my backbrain…or one of the other three who’ve appeared twice (so far)…or the Olympic skater… But, on reflection, I decided the safest thing was to go with a very recent character, so I could be pretty sure I wasn't repeating an excerpt that I’ve posted before.

I tend to think of my characters in pairs, so I’ll tell you about Alex and Yev (Alexandra and Yevgeniya) from “Carved in Stone,” my story in Desire Behind Bars. Alex is the first-person narrator, but Yev was by far the most fun to write about. They’re both in prison. Alex is a tough stone cutter who designed a garden installation that turned out to conceal a drugrunner’s stash, and wouldn’t deny in court that she’d suspected something of the sort, or cooperate by giving the names of other customers who might or might not have dome something similar. Yev is the big, muscular former “enforcer” for a Chechen drug lord living in the US, and has reason to think she’s safer in jail than out, but suspects that Alex may have been hired as a “hit man” to knock her off even there. Sparks of animosity fly, but even hotter sparks are in the air when they’re both working outside on the grounds crew.
__________

I tossed aside the file. “Now for your story. I showed you mine. You show me yours.” I lay back on the grass, propped up by my elbows.

She leaned against the riding rig of the mower. “Fair enough.” For a second she reached down. I thought she was going to shed her shirt as I had, but she looked slantwise up toward the window of CO Haynes’s office and changed her mind, instead rolling up her sleeves as far as they’d go. I could tell that beneath the shirt she wore a binder that couldn’t quite conceal the swell of full breasts. I had too little in that department to bother binding, but enough to make a sweaty undershirt interesting. The fact was not lost on Yev. And, possibly, CO Haynes.

“I too would not speak at my trial. I have family yet in Chechnya...if indeed they still live.” She was silent for a moment or two. “There was a time, long ago, when I imagined a different life. Just need a little while, I thought, to save up money. But to work as bodyguard to a Chechen drug lord is a road to nowhere but destruction, even in America. He enjoyed humiliating men by having a woman rough them up. For a few, who liked very much to have a woman rough them up, he used me as a reward—and then blackmailed them. If I tried to get out...” She shrugged. “Now he is dead, but I could tell more than is known, and there are men still free who would pay much to have me dead as well.”

I nodded. Yev’s level gaze acknowledged our mutual attraction without diminishing her suspicion one bit. I gave it a try anyway. “If somebody put out a contract to get rid of you in prison, wouldn’t a cute young femme be the natural choice? Plenty of them manage to get close to you. A blade between the ribs or a contrived accident wouldn’t take much muscle.”

“Pah! Those children. Them, I can read. If not, they do not get close. But you...either you tell the truth, or you are very, very good at what you do.”

“Why not both?” My wry grin coaxed one from her. I turned back to the mower. “Come on, let’s get this rust monster put back together.”

Crouching together, conscious of being watched from above, we worked quickly, not touching, not needing touch to feel each other’s heat.

“Yev?” One of the crew members peered around the corner of the garage. “Fifteen minutes until count!”

“Go then. Shoo, shoo.” She waved an arm. “You too!” Yev could probably get away with not being in her assigned room for the thrice-daily count by the guards, but I couldn’t. Her big hand gripped my ass hard before shoving me in the direction the others had gone. I let her get away with it. Anyone else would have had that wrist in a sling for at least a month.

At dinner we kept to our opposite sides of the dining hall, casting the usual enigmatic glances at each other. A shadow of a knowing smile drifted across Miss Natalya’s face.

The next day Yev and I mowed, while the others trimmed the hedges along the drive. I stopped and got off at the rock that had bent the blade. “No digging out this one. There’s a whole lot more of it down there, like an iceberg. Was it sticking up this much last year?”

“A little more each year I have been here.” She saw the question on my face. “Three years. Six more to go.”

“By then they might as well just make a rock garden here and stick some kind of plaque on this.”

“You could kindly offer to carve words into it. Fine lines about the greatness of prisons.”

“I could do a wreath made of coils of razor wire around the edges. And in the middle...hmmm... there’s a verse I inscribed on a marble mantelpiece, for a rich guy’s bedroom. Lines from an old poet, Andrew Marvell. They’ve been on my mind lately.” I paused for dramatic effect.

“So tell!”

I basked in Yev’s impatience as I sat on the new-mowed grass. And I told:

“Let us roll all our strength and all/Our sweetness up into one ball,/
And tear our pleasures with rough strife/
Through the iron gates of life.”


The words hung between us. “Is that how you like your pleasures, McKenna?” Yev said at last. “With ‘rough strife’?”

Something about her expression told me to tread carefully. A hot, sweaty bout of rough strife with Yev had certainly been on my mind, but I remembered how her old boss had pimped her skills. And what about her new boss, if Haynes could be called that?
 “It depends,” I said, glancing back toward his office window, but it was out of sight around a corner.


“It does.” Yev slumped to the grass beside me. “Sometimes...” Her voice was so low I could scarcely hear it. “Sometimes one does things to protect others.” She jerked her head back toward where I’d looked. “Yes, he found out, somehow, and wanted some of that for himself. Humiliation, punishment, the usual. But he has a wife and cannot afford visible injuries, so he asks for other things. And of course he provides his own...implements.”

“Pegging?” Even as I said the word I was trying to shake that image of Haynes out of my mind.

Her laugh was harsh and abrupt. “There is a better word for that in Russian! But yes.” She shrugged. “The hardest part is not leaving bruises, or more, on him. But he leaves others alone and does all he can get away with to please me, for the moment. No more need be said.”

She stood and climbed back up on the mower. “But what about you, McKenna? Alex, the girls call you when they speak of you, which is often. You did not give me much of an answer. It depends on what?”

“On being equally matched,” I said. “Strength for strength.”

Her wide grin was wolfish now, and genuine. “Perhaps I should have mentioned my silver medal in Olympic wrestling.”

“Thanks for the warning!” I looked her over. “I’d sure like to meet whoever won the gold!”


“Ah, Anneliese!” Yev rolled her eyes in remembered bliss. “We still correspond. Even here she sends me letters now and again. Who knows? Maybe some day you will have the pleasure of meeting her. She lives in Norway. Where mountains also rise out of the sea.” Her mower sputtered into life, and she drove away. By the time I caught up we were back at the garage and I had to bolt for the damned count.
__________

[I’ll spare you the fierce sex scene during a thunderstorm, but I can’t resist letting Yev share her taste in poetry]
__________

We lay there, nearly comatose, until I said, “We’ve missed count. How screwed are we?”

“Maybe a lot, maybe a little. So what?” She was quiet then for so long that I thought she was asleep, until she opened her eyes and grinned at me, more wolf than lion now. A supremely satisfied wolf. “You have not quite managed to kill me yet, although you came close! I have decided what you must carve on my tombstone, just in case. Yevgeny Yevtushenko, now there’s a poet!” The lines she recited in Russian meant nothing to me, though the resonance of her voice stirred both my mind and body. Then she translated, stumbling over a word or two:

“Sorrow happens. Hardship happens.
The hell with it, who never knew the price of happiness, will not be happy.”


“Carve it in Russian,” she said cheerfully. “There are better words for everything in Russian.”

__________

Christina Pocock

Christina Pocock is the lead character of the Billionaire Dominance trilogy which I co-wrote (as Abi Aiken) with my friend overseas, Rozlyn Sparks. This trilogy was a project we started in order to explore what we saw as a more realistic portrayal of dominance and submission than some other stories tend to show.

Christina is a woman with more power and wealth than she ever imagined she'd achieve. While she started from a solid foundation, with a generous inheritance from her successful father, her motivation to achieve success came pretty much directly from that same man's emotional neglect, and dismissal of his daughter's importance as a human being. Nothing ground-breaking, of course, but a nice tension-filled seed.

There are many reasons I love her as a character, though, and none of it really stems directly from her childhood. I love that her strength is as brittle as any man's, for one thing. It's also dependent on external elements (her wealth, her power, her ability to eschew manners and niceties in order to secure whatever it is she's striving for). These are elements I abhor in people I meet, yet I love them in a character I co-created.

I guess the reason I love them in Christina is because I have the insight to know why she's like that: she's constantly throwing jabs at the world, keeping everyone else off-balance enough that she can push them around more easily. Keep them where she wants them. Control everything. Still not an admirable trait, but it's one I can sympathize with in this case.

And control really is a huge part of her nature. As we say in the blurb, she's a "hard-nosed and ruthless CEO. An obsessive, compulsive micro-manager who trusts nobody with her business. Public or private." She sees her control as a strength, yet her desperate adherence to it is what makes her so brittle.

I can't speak for Rozlyn on this one, but I know I gave some thought to the Tiger Woods saga of a few years back when I wrote for Christina. The man was practically unbeatable while his super-hero status reigned. As soon as the world found out he was human, and had indulged in the temptations thrown his way, the aura of invincibility shattered. Whatever anyone thinks of his actions and his nature, I don't think there's any doubt he's become a much more interesting character now.

That's actually the same kind of fear which holds Christina in its icy grip, and is sucking the health from her mind and body at the start of the trilogy. Her belief that the slightest loss of control will mean losing everything she's built herself up to be, and her unwillingness to find out who she truly is as a person without that facade. What if she's just a nasty bitch with the mouth of a drag queen and nothing at all worth loving?

What Your Favourite Sailor Scout Says About You

by Giselle Renarde

Here's the thing about Sailor Moon: I'm too old to have loved that show as much as I did.

I was in my late teens when the Japanese anime television series was broadcast on YTV here in Canada.  I had an excuse for watching it: a sister more than a decade my junior.  My siblings and I would flock to the living room and be like, "Oh no, not another kiddie show!" and secretly be thinking, "Yeah, I love Sailor Moon!"

My friends at school (and, yes, we're talking high school here) didn't have younger siblings. They didn't have any excuse, and they didn't feel they needed one. They loved Sailor Moon too, and they didn't care if it was a kids' show.

There was something about Sailor Moon that drew us in, drew everyone in.  Everybody related strongly with one character, no doubt because each Sailor Scout represents the astrological characteristics of their associated planet. 

While my youngest sister's generation could perform the role of their favourite Sailor Scouts on the playground, those of us approaching adulthood played them out in ways that were closer to real life. In a lot of ways, children's fantasy lives are more well-defined than those of adults. Our fantasies bleed into our everyday lives, sometimes to our detriment.

Sometimes not.

In my last year of high school, I had a friend (whose name escapes me--isn't that awful?) who was all about Sailor Neptune.  I'm not sure how we knew Sailor Neptune was a lesbian, and her girlfriend was Sailor Uranus, but we did. According to Wikipedia: "In the Canadian dub, her relationship with Sailor Uranus was redefined as being cousins."

But everybody knew what was really going on between them.

Granted, I did (still do) own VHS bootleg copies of TWO Sailor Moon movies, both of which escaped the dub. They're Japanese with English subtitles. Maybe that's where my inside information came from. Or maybe it was just that obvious.

Anyway, this friend whose name I can't remember identified so strongly with Sailor Neptune that she dyed her hair green. When I talk about fantasy bleeding into reality, that's where I'm coming from. Not that I'm one to talk. I dyed my hair orange because I was obsessed with Gillian Anderson. Pretty sure all those photographs have been burned.

One colour I didn't dye my hair was blue--despite being a die-hard fan of Sailor Mercury.

Ami was my girl. She loved school, just like me.  I wasn't anywhere near as sweet or kind as she was, though.  In fact, looking back, I think a love of studying is all we had in common.

If I re-watched the series today, Sailor Mercury might strike the same chord as an ex-lover.  I'm not sure I'd be gaga over her anymore, but she still holds a special place in my heart.

Before I started writing this blog post, I typed the following into Google:

What your favourite Sailor Scout says about you

There were a surprising number of recent and relevant results, but the one that jumped out at me was an article titled:

Your Inner Sailor Scout Based on Your Myers-Briggs Personality Type

How could I NOT click that? I mean, really!  It's got everything.

I happen to recall, from my one year as a psychology student at the University of Toronto, that I'm an INTJ.  So I scrolled down the page to see which Sailor Scout corresponds to the INTJ personality type.

INTJ – Sailor Uranus

A quiet assassin, you slash through life like a Space Sword through a block of PC-friendly cheese. You cherish your independence and have few friends – but those few friends are your life. You’ve never been easy to categorize, whether if it’s by your fashion sense, loyalty, or even your gender. You’ve never tried to shock people, but it just seems to happen naturally. You’re just too advanced for us mortal beings, who still can’t say your planetary name without giggling.

Oh my God, yes! This is me! Independent, inadvertently shocking and genderfucked. Makes me wish I were more familiar with this character.

Moreover, Sailor Uranus is the girlfriend of Sailor Neptune--the hero of my green-haired high school friend. Maybe if I'd been more in touch with Uranus (haha) in high school, I'd have hooked up with that girl.

Imagine how different my life would be. For starters, I'd probably remember her name.

If wishes were horses...

The League of Pissed Off Women

Shinobu Dainagon No Suke

proud and sexy, kind of spooky
jumped in the sea, performed her duty
did Lady Dainagon No Suke.

She played koto, composed Haiku
and she wooed a biwa hoshi.
Who wields the blade makes up the rules
and she packed a wakizashi.

Although her man, he let her down
Lady Dainagon No Suke
her sword was mightier than his pen
and she served up penis sushi.

If trees fall, where no sound hears

does woman weep who sheds no tears?
Where no soul breathes does freedom matter?
Where no heart beats can hope be shattered?

Android Ilsa stood on the wall
Angry Ilsa had a great fall.
All the technicians and corporate men
won't put Ilsa together again.

Lawd have mercy, for Heaven's sake -
look what a mess poor Nixie makes
of a Pentecostal preacher man
who preached the blood of Christ the Lamb

Who preached of Christ's grim crown of thorns
who called her from the unicorns
though she was dead, was now reborn.

Transformed with love for God and Man
killed by mistake her lover Dan.
Thou shalt not give hope to the damned.


I let them get away with murder
That I may be a litterateur.

Ken, the Go-Go Boy

Every author has at least one favourite character that they've created.  For me, it's Ken from my novella series, Go-Go Boys of Club 21.  Whereas I normally try to create believable and fully-realized three-dimensional characters for my fiction, Ken began as a rather one-dimensional character.

He was a sex-crazed go-go boy in a gay club.  In the first two of the five novellas that make up the series, his scenes were pure sex -- wild, uninhibited, risky sex.  He was the type of guy that would do anything for dick.

By the time I reached the third novella in the series, I felt like Ken needed a twist in his storyline.  To this point, we'd seen him hook-up a couple times with Dan, the slightly-creepy and older bartender who was always hitting on the go-go boys.  Dan was similarly one-dimensional and would also do just about anything for dick.

On a whim, after a hook-up, I wrote a mild hint of emotional connection between these two fuck buddies.  I took it and ran with it in novellas four and five -- and suddenly these two one-dimensional characters blossomed into three-dimensional characters.  They go from sex-crazed men who go on hook-up after hook-up with random men to boyfriends (albeit in a semi-open relationship).  It wasn't a sudden change in characterization that was typical of bad writing -- at least I hope not -- but it was a huge sense of growth and personal development experienced by the characters and that the readers got to follow along with.

While the series started with Ken and Dan being almost throwaway characters who were in the books just to up the sexual content, they very quickly evolved into primary characters who almost competed with the main characters for attention in the series.

The language I used in Ken's scenes was far different than anything I'd done before -- straight to the point, sparse, and an interesting word choice here and there.  He was also in present tense, compared to past tense for the rest of the book.  (Dan's scenes were also in present tense -- this choice was to make their sexy encounters feel more real and in-the-moment.)  But all of that evolved with the character to a slower style, but still punctuated with Ken's almost unusual method of narrating.

Compare his first scene in the series with his last:

First scene:

*****

Break time.

The washroom door clatters closed behind me. I admire the hot asses packed in tight denim, lined up along the urinal wall like grocery store merchandise. I saunter to the lone empty urinal at the end, admiring. I’ll have a lick of that, a bite of him, and good God, I’ll bury my face in that one!

As tempting as each ass is, I’m not here to rim or fuck. No time for that and no way to clean up before going back out to dance. All I’m here to do is guzzle some fucker’s hot, salty cum.

I swivel on a heel as I stop at the final urinal and steal a glance at the cock beside me. It’s thick, semi hard, and has a fat, delicious vein snaking up the shaft. It unleashes a golden stream that splatters against porcelain. I look up at him and take in the rest of his gorgeous body. He’s all muscles and body hair and sweat; he is one hundred percent man — exactly what I lust for ... except for his douchey ball cap, but I’ll let that slide.

He notices my stare of seduction and gives me the nod that says, “Game’s on.”

I recognize him from the dance floor. He knows how to use his body, how to move it in all the right ways. I’ve had my eye on him for most of the evening.

Around us, a symphony of flushes and footsteps fill the air, but neither one of us moves until the washroom empties out. Alone. Mmm.

Ball Cap finishes pissing, shakes his cock until it’s dry — and hard. Wide, not too long to take in my mouth, this is gonna be good.

*****

Final Scene:

*****

Dan and I say goodbye and head out to his car. We get in and he puts his key in the ignition, but before he can start the car, I grab his shirt and pull him to me, kissing him, shoving my tongue in his mouth. Fuck, I need him. He turns in his seat so he can lean over me, dominating me in the car. Fuck, he’s powerful and it just turns me on all the more.

When our kisses slow and stop, I say to him, “What did you think of tonight?”

“The birthday party?” he says, and I see a fire in his gaze. “It was incredible. You have no idea of the things I want to do to you right now.”

I kiss him again and grope his crotch. He’s hard, thick, and ready to do naughty things to me, I know it. My cock swells at the thought of what that might be.

“I think you should take me home now,” I tell him. “And we can do some of those things you have in mind.”

“Mmm ... I can’t wait.” He rights himself in his seat, buckles up, and starts the car.

*****

It was a wild journey with Ken -- and one that Ken noticed in himself.  Below is the moment he comments on this change in himself.  It remains my most favourite line I've ever written for the simple fact that it sound ridiculous, but fits in perfectly with Ken's character and how he's grown.  It's a line that I don't think I could pull off in any other book.

*****

I smile to myself, still mystified at this change I’m going through. It’s like I’m metamorphosing from a horny slut caterpillar into a beautiful and majestic cock-hungry butterfly that has a boyfriend with a tasty dick.

*****

:)



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Seduced by My Best Friend’s Dad (co-written with Sandra Claire). 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.

Working Class Heroine

By Lisabet Sarai

I strip for the fun of it. Don’t let anyone tell you different. It’s not the money. I could make nearly as much working at the mill and keep my clothes on, but then I’d have to suck up to the bosses. Here at the Peacock, I’m the one in charge, and I like it that way.

Sometimes I think it’s a sort of revenge, for all the times I heard those nasty calls trailing after me: Honey Jugs, Monster Boobs, Bouncer. Not to mention those sweaty, awkward clinches in back seats, trying to please. Trying to be popular. Now they can’t take their eyes off my breasts, swinging back and forth in time to the music. Their tongues are hanging out. I can see the tents in their laps. They all want me. I know how to make them want me. I’m an expert. But I’m off limits. They can look, they can drool, they can beg me. But my job’s to turn them on and bring them to the bursting point, then send them home unsatisfied.

That’s my view, anyway. Some of the other girls think different. All in all, though, the Peacock Lounge is a pretty classy joint, not like some of the sleaze pits down near the railroad.

I love the moment when the lights come down, and the DJ introduces me. There’s this strange pause, as if I was floating. I can feel them out there, the audience, holding their breath. Then, I hear the first notes of my routine. Energy surges through me. I’m one hundred percent alive. My nipples get hard and my sex tingles when I step out onto the stage and meet their eyes.

That’s my secret weapon: eye contact. Up close and personal. I can bump and grind, shake my tits in their faces, bend over so they get a good look at the G-string settled in my ass-crack. It doesn’t do any good without my stare. I try to see their darkest fantasies. This one pictures me sitting on him, his mouth burrowing in my bush. That one wants me to hold his dick while he pees. That guy in the back, oh, he’s bad news. He aches to tie me up and beat me with his belt. Tough luck, feller. Dream on.

This is the voice of Stella Xanathakeos, the heroine of my erotic thriller Exposure. After seventeen years, nine novels and a raft of shorter work, it’s hard for me to decide on a favorite character, but Stella has to be near the top of the list.

I’d written three novels before Exposure. Stella was a real departure for me, the first working class heroine I’d ever created. Kate O’Neill (Raw Silk), Miranda Cahill (Incognito) and Ruby Maxwell Chen (Nasty Business) all have at least masters’ degrees. Stella has a diploma from a public high school in gritty Pittsburgh. Kate and Miranda are upper middle class, while Ruby is the scion of wealth. Stella grew up motherless in a shoddily built row house, which she inherited when her electrician father succumbed to cancer.

Stella doesn’t use fancy vocabulary. Her grammar isn’t always perfect. She’s tough, practical and assertive, a first generation Greek-American with strong ties to her heritage.

Even physically, she’s different from the trio in my first three books. They’re all petite (like me), or at least willowy. Stella’s a big woman, tall and imposing, with a lot of flesh on her bones in all the right places. She has the body of an Aphrodite, and she knows it.

“Just a moment, Jimmy,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. I stand and face him, continuing the work he began on my buttons. One hand unfastens them from neckline to waist, the other from waist to hem. He’s transfixed, watching me. I see the fabric between his legs stir as he grows more excited.

My timing, as always, is perfect. The delay at each button is painful and yet he savors the wait, the building suspense. I don’t try to get into Jimmy’s head. I merely watch him as he watches me. His excitement feeds mine, and mine his, in a hot loop spiraling tighter with each breath.

I shrug my dress onto the grass. “Take out your cock, Jimmy,” I murmur. “I want to see you. Touch yourself for me.”

Jimmy needs no second invitation. In a flash his fly is open and his erection is swaying in the night air. The taut skin on the shaft shines pale in the dim light. The knob is much darker. Without taking his eyes from mine, he cups the bulb in one hand, rubbing the swollen flesh against his palm. With the other hand, he grips himself near the root and begins a slow stroking.

“That’s lovely, Jimmy.” Exposed by the half-bra, my nipples throb each time he squeezes himself. I roll them between thumb and forefinger, wishing I could take them in my mouth.

There’s no point in removing the brassiere; he can see all my charms, and the black lace contrasts nicely with my dusky skin. But the thong is definitely in the way. I can feel myself blooming, unfolding in anticipation of having that hardness inside me. I suddenly lose patience with my gradual progress. Without ceremony, I push the panties down to my ankles and step out of them.

In twinkling city light, I think I must look like a goddess: breasts like globes, thighs like columns of marble flanking the dark entrance to the mystic grotto. Jimmy is hugely erect now, but he almost looks frightened, confronted as he is by the awesome mystery of womanliness. I feel a surge of affection that nicely seasons my lust.

Of course Stella is highly sexed. I find it amusing that she claims to be very discerning about who she beds, yet she has an erotic encounter with a stranger in the very first chapter. Like many real people, she’s capable of self-delusion. She’s smart, though, and amazingly brave, though perhaps a bit foolish in her persistent attempts to discover the truth about the murders that occur in Chapter 1. In fact, her stubbornness nearly kills her.

Stella was the first of my characters to literally speak to me. She sprang into being fully formed, unlike my other heroines, who really began as abstract concepts that I fleshed out as I wrote. In fact Exposure began as a short story called “Private Dance” which I wrote for an ERWA theme challenge—erotic noir. I sometimes wonder if that explains her vivid reality.

Exposure was also the first book I wrote that did not have a happy ending. Perhaps that’s why it has never sold well, though it has been through three publishers. Ultimately Stella unravels the web of treachery that spawned the murders, but in the process she loses her precious home—and her innocence. The novel’s conclusion is deliberately ambiguous in terms of which of her lovers, if any, she will return to. She’s damaged, her heart in some sense broken, by the deceits of those lovers and the terrible reality of evil she has encountered.

In Exposure’s three incarnations I’ve had some attractive covers, but none of them has presented Stella the way I envision her. When I was working with my first cover artist, Stella Price (at Phaze Publishing), I found this photo, which really captured the character for me. 

 

The artist told me it would be much too difficult to remove the background. The final cover for that edition was nice enough, but I’ve often wished I could have had my way. 

 

Of course now that I’ve tried making some covers of my own (including the one for the most recent, Excessica edition of Exposure) I know she was right. 

 

I sometimes think about resurrecting Stella in a new book. Perhaps she’ll manage to find the love she needs. Perhaps she’ll be confronted by even darker foes.

On the other hand, she has never been anyone else’s favorite. That’s too bad, because she deserves to be.

If you're interested, you can read another excerpt from the book, and find buy links, here:

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2016/05/sunday-snog-225-exposure-erotic.html