Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: St. Marian Beach

The sun crept over the horizon, painting vermilion and ochre over the rising and swelling sea. I checked my phone: six AM. St. Marian Beach was just opening. I know it wasn't exactly the same thing as a public place, but baby steps. Even if I was alone, and probably would be for at least half an hour, my heart stamped against my ribcage. I sighed, watching the water. The longer I waited, the more likely someone was to actually wander in and see me.

Without giving myself any more time to change my mind, I dropped my swim trunks down around my ankles. The warm breeze blew across the ocean, sliding between my legs. I nodded to no one and lay down.

Sand wriggled into the cracks and creases of my body. I felt the tiny grains work up into my crack, mingling with nervous sweat. I pressed a finger against my hole. Tiny spasms of discomfort snaked up my spine as I worked deeper into the folds and crevices of heat. The fingers of my other hand curled around my shaft, tightening. I could feel the tiny, thrumming pulse of my cock against my palm.

I twisted my finger inside myself, massaging the tender flesh. So much heat, so much feeling. A moan sneaked past my lips, then another, louder. The sensation built in my gut, electricity and pressure. It crackled across my skin, filling me, stiffening my cock.

I bucked up my hips and my finger pressed against that spot. It lanced up, heat and lightning swirling up, filling my balls with raw power. This moan, I had no hope of stopping. It didn't sneak out. It thrust itself forward. My back drew up off the sand. The breeze may have been warm, but it cooled the sweat along my spine. My calves and thighs shivered, supporting my weight even as my body numbed, as the energy built to a peak. My body, tight, forced it out, white and hot and pungent. It mingled with the smell of the sea, the fish and salt and my own sweat and come. It filled my nose.

I sighed as I lowered back into the sand. It conformed to my limp weight, hugging me. On the ocean, vermilion had faded to rose pink, ochre to peach. I wiped my hands off on the sand, then sat up.

Someone else was there. Long body, short black hair, white Speedo. My body turned frigid, save for the wash of heat in my cheeks. I looked away, but couldn't resist glancing back.

He nodded and winked, then pulled his swimsuit down, flashing a half-hard cock and a neat triangle of curly bush. He cocked his head over his shoulder toward the canvas dressing rooms. "Need to change?" he shouted.

I nodded and stood up, covering myself with my wadded up swim trunks. What did I have to hide? It wouldn't stay secret for long.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Writing News

It's been a while darlings, I know. My last publication… well, we won't talk about how long ago it was. I've left you in the lurch, but I'm fixing that. Here's how, darlings.

My newest novella, Street Magic, was sent off to Storm Moon Press, and they're currently looking at the full. I should hear back from them on that any day now, so here's hoping. It's my first real foray into the world of contemporary fantasy, so we'll see how well that works out for everyone.

I also have a few short stories submitted about this great thing we call the Internet. My first, and probably last, vampire story, See, is under consideration for the Darkly Erotic anthology from Elektrik Milkbath Press. I know, I shouldn't discount vampires outright. But I can't help it. They've never been my favorites.

The Birth of Samuel Angel, weird western erotica, is being looked at for Like a Haunted Trail through Circlet Press. They're one of my favorite houses, and this is one of my favorite shorts I've written. I had a lot of fun mucking about with the old west. Just like Bonanza… but with more sex. In fact, I liked playing in the setting so much, I jumped into it again for Cleis Press' Cowboy Up anthology. Blink is one of my lighter stories, but I quite enjoy it.

Now, of course, none of these are sure things. But I wanted to keep everyone updated. I am still working, and I am still here, frantically typing away. All for your benefit. Why? Because I love you.

If you want to stay up to date on the sheer enormity of my love for you, you can always subscribe up at the top.


Saturday, July 26, 2014

The Shocking Truth About my Bookshelf

Darlings, it's time I come clean. You see, I've been lying to you, just a little bit. Not outright, of course, and certainly not about anything all that important, but it's a lie nonetheless. Or at least a misleading lack of information.

I don't read erotica.

Well, I don't read a lot of erotica. It's not, in any way, my most-read genre. And I feel like that's the impression myself, as well as other erotica/erotic romance authors, put out front. But I'm here to put things straight: I don't read all that much erotica.

That's not to say I never touch the stuff. My erotica reading habits are mainly focused on anthologies (Shane Allison is far and away my favorite anthologist in the genre) and the few authors I've really fallen in love with (Rob Rosen, Katey Hawthorne, Cecilia Tan, and a handful of others). But even the authors and such I love, I don't spend a lot of time with.

Well, sit down and pick your jaw up off the floor, darlings. I still read books. Currently, I'm reading 'The Cities of Coin and Spice' by Catherynne M. Valente, who is one of my solid favorites for short fantasy. I devour Poe and Shakespeare. YA, like Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, The Looking Glass Wars. Classics like Alice's Adventures in Wonderland or The Odyssey. Chick lit giants like The Devil Wears Prada and The First Wives' Club.

So, perhaps the truth isn't that I don't read erotica, after all. Perhaps it's just that erotica takes up an equal place in my heart and on my shelf as everything else, not a greater spot, as I may have led you all to believe. Well, you can still drink of my wine and be merry with that thought.


Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: His

"Babe, I'm home." I dropped the grocery bags and closed the door. I'd gone all the way into town just to pick up some chocolate for him, and here he was, ignoring me. I raised my voice. "Come on, Ricky." He thought it was funny, I bet. Probably hiding under the bed or some shit. "I'm tired and I'm not in the mood."

"Well I am." The sound came from down the hall. As I got closer, I heard gentle music in the background. Something strummed… a harp? Why the hell was he playing harp music?

"Babe?" I opened the door into the master bedroom. It was dark except for a sliver of light from under the bathroom door. "What are you doing?"

"Come find out."

He either wanted sex or he wanted me to think he wanted sex, but he was actually going to jump out when I opened the door and try to give me a heart attack. But I had to find out. Couldn't just leave him back there, wearing whatever demon mask he'd pulled out of the closet this time.

I turned the knob and pushed the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

This was definitely sex. He was in the tub with two glasses of red wine and some strategically placed bubbles. Those slipped off as soon as he stood. He dripped a trail across the floor and set the wine down on the counter. His fingers, pruny and damp, glided through my hair, then knotted into it. He stood on his tiptoes and pressed our lips together. I could taste the wine on his tongue, still, currant and cherry and dirt.

When he pulled back, our gazes met. He nodded. I nodded. He pulled down on my hair, bringing me to my knees. I stroked his half-hard cock with a single finger. Water dripped from the sheath of foreskin onto the tile floor. When I took him into my mouth, he still tasted slightly of soap. Soap and clean flesh, and his bush smelled of fake flowers, the dollar store shampoo we always bought.

I bobbed up and down on him, the tip jabbing the back of my throat as he grew to his full length. I licked across the head, just peeking out. His grip in my hair tightened. I unbuttoned my shirt with one hand. The other danced across his balls, tiny touches, barely present. I was his. He knew it. I knew it. The thought of what might happen had me pressing against my jeans, my cock stiffening, waiting for him.

He tugged my head back and looked down at me. "Still have the day off tomorrow?"

I nodded. His dick bobbed in front of me, beckoning.

"Good. You won't sleep tonight.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Porn vs. Erotica: What's the Difference?

"… erotica is simply high class pornography… designed for a better class of consumer. As with the call girl and the streetwalker… both perform the same sexual service."
-Andrea Dworkin

All right, that's not a terribly clear answer, is it darlings? Let's try again. I think I have one that might help get my point across a little better:

"What turns me on is erotic. What turns you on is pornographic."
-Ellen Willis

In short, and in my words: there isn't a difference. It's all the same thing, just like Botox is still Botox, even though now it's being marketed as a cure for chronic migraines. We can call it one thing or another, but it's still botulism and it still makes you look like somebody pulled your skin back and stapled it together.

The same thing with porn/erotica… although hopefully with fewer staplers. Unless you're into that. They are both designed for arousal, and they can both stop there or keep growing and expanding into actual story and characterization and all the other wonderful words we use to describe good literature and film.

Rather than differentiating between porn and erotica, let's just embrace them all. Free love, darlings, free love. They're not even different ends of the same spectrum. They're just different approaches to the same issue, just like A Wizard of Earthsea and Harry Potter are both different approaches to 'young person learning magic.' It comes down to the individual piece of art rather than some arbitrary labels.

Remember that, darlings: free love. It's free to love me, too. But, if you can't make it over today, you could always subscribe.


Saturday, July 19, 2014

Reading Porn in 2014

Darlings, let's go back, all the way back to the sixties. Porn and erotica were very, very different than they are now. Everything was plastic wrapped magazines and the occasional brown or black wrapped book. You didn't read it in public, and you certainly never admitted it. To anyone.

Jump forward a little bit and we hit the eighties. Now, pretty much everyone knows that you can go out and buy nudie mags. That doesn't really make it an acceptable practice, and it's still not something you bring up in polite company. Maybe with your significant other. Maybe.

And then we take another jump, all the way up into the 2000's. Now, we have the Internet, and it's fairly prevalent. Which means what, exactly? A steady stream of porn flowing into American homes 24/7, 365. And 366 on leap year. Along with them, in those next ten years or so, we see a growing return to literary smut. Sites like Literotica and Stickypen get much more popular. But why is that?

It got easy. And I would say that today, it's even easier. A lot easier. Now we have eReaders. Now we have smartphones. Now we have erotic audio books. We have big erotica/erotic romance hits like 50 Shades (My or anyone's personal feelings aside, 50 Shades was a big boon to the genre, as far as public acceptance is concerned.).

And yes, now we have much more public acceptance. Smut isn't just something that you read out in the garage, or share with your teenage cronies after you snuck it out of someone older's hiding place you're not supposed to know about. It's once more returning to a form of art. We can have books that are not only hot and steamy, but also well-written and moving. And we can carry it around in our pockets and purses. We can carry thousands of those books in our pockets and purses at a time, if we so choose. It may not all be masterfully crafted, but now it can be. Now, people are beginning to expect that porn, at least literary porn, will have some sort of quality to it. And I love it.

What do you think, darlings? Is the ease and availability involved in porn/erotica/erotic romance/smut/etc. a good thing? Is it a bad thing? What about the amount of care being put into the work: does it matter, or is the point just to get people off, well-made or otherwise? Chime in and, if you want to hear more, think about hitting that little subscribe button up at the top.


Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: A Pound of Tea

I saw him again. It was the third time he'd come into the store in just as many days to buy a pound of tea. I don't know of anyone, even the most avid tea drinker, who goes through a pound of tea in a day. He came for another reason. Me. It had to be me. The way he smiles and winks at me when I ring him up. It isn't about tea.

I let hot water pound away the day's worries and stresses. When I close my eyes, he fills my mind. Dimples set deep into his cheeks. A mop of coffee brown hair, the ends curling into a mess. A mole just to the right of a perfectly black eye. Khaki cargo shorts that ride the curves and dips of his hips. The flash of bare skin I got today when he bent over to pick up that old lady's purse. My hand trails down my body, into soaking wet bush and deeper, clutching at my hard-on.

Him bent over. His pants slipping down. My hand slapping against a pale brown cheek. He whimpers at the strike and winks over his shoulder.

My thumb glides across the tip of my dick, sending a spasm up into my guts. Water pouring off my body against the porcelain becomes white noise.

His fingers curl into fists around the support beams of our shelves. I slip my dick between two cheeks, feeling the warm sweat coating my shaft. I find the hole and slide in. Tight. Hot. He groans, his back tightening.

I feel it deep down in my balls, rising, threatening.

Each time I pound against him, skin slaps against skin. Bags of tea, dried herbs, and flowers fall to the floor around our feet, perfuming the shop as the heat of sunlight cascades around them. I breathe it in, relishing the way it mixes with the animal musk dripping from our bodies. The rattling of nearly bare metal shelves plays counterpoint to the percussion of body against body, the tenor of his heaving groans, the steady bass of heartbeat in my ears.

I breathe in the steam of my shower. It's tinged with sex. My legs numb, the sensation flooding upward. I can't feel my knees. Next my thighs. I struggle for breath.

My back arches. I thrust into him again, a final, resounding crash as my hips slam against the soft cushion of tender skin. Heat floods up from my twitching balls and out into him. A link.

I collapse against the wall of the shower. Flowing water rinses the remnants of white from my dick and hand. I bring a single lingering thread of it to my lips and suck it from my thumb.


He comes in again. My dick twitches to life. I smile at him and pretend not to know that he's here for me.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Truth in Aesthetics

Darlings, Darlings, happy end of the weekend! I hope yours was as fabulous as mine. Many shots of vodka were taken, and a few of them may or may not have started by licking sugar off a set of chiseled abs.

I plead the fifth on that one, darlings.

But all of that got me thinking about beauty and attraction. People familiar with my work will probably be able to tell you that I don't always hold true to traditional Western aesthetics. In fact, I'd say about half the time, I skew off from that. Why? I like those kinds of things. I don't have any issue with my romantic interest being pudgy in the middle. My main characters are allowed to have hooked noses and beady eyes. I don't believe in perfection, and when I see Photoshopped 'perfect' beauty displayed on the Internet, I don't like it. Not nearly as much as I like seeing the sexy model with a gap between his two front teeth.

What are your thoughts on the matter? Yes, it's good, or no, being unrealistic is perfectly all right in these fantasies? I want to know, darlings. And, if you do like this sort of thing, perhaps consider subscribing. I'll give you a glass of wine if you do.


Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Zen of Gay Erotica

Darlings, I think it's time for a little change of pace. Normally, I'd invite you in for a glass of wine, some chocolate, and a lay or three. That's just what a good, respectable woman of my age and experience does, after all. But today, I want something different. I want to give you something different. I want to have a relaxing day. So yes, grab the bottle of wine from under the couch. But this time, let's sip it.

I want to be zen.

So much attention is given to the sweat-drenched, rippling muscles we've all come to expect on romance covers and the lingering touch of lips on blazing hot skin. But there's so much more to it, more that I think needs to be discussed.

What makes M/M erotica and erotic romance work for me is the seduction itself. Watching his hair fall. Noticing the color of his eyes, the number of piercings in his ears, the missing stud on his belt. It's in the focus, the sheer meditation of watching and knowing someone so intimately. That, above all else, makes or breaks a story for me. That is the essential zen of gay erotica. The play. The chase. While it's not unique to the M/M world, I feel that M/M readers are less likely to notice it than M/F or F/F readers. Which is a shame. The writing and development can be just as good, no matter the groupings involved.

So today, or tomorrow, or the next time you squirrel away a little time to read some M/M couplings (or triplings, or quadruplings, or what have you), promise me this: promise me that you'll take some time to find the real, loving interplay between characters. Just do that for little old me.

You could also subscribe, if you'd like. That would make me doubly happy.

Until next time, my darlings,