July 30, 2015
I was going to post the intro to Rebel Rule Breaker today, but then I made a joke about writing a column called "Fashion Tips from a Sub," and I couldn't find a similar piece anywhere. Which made me think I should write one. (Because, why not?)
I know that I pushed back on an article seven years ago in which the journalist said an author "looked nothing like the writer of a bondage-spiked book." But this is different. I'm not going to share tips on how to look "bondage-spiked." I'm going to invite you into my jewelry box.
See, I didn't even realize I do this. But I love bracelets. I wear them all the time, have quite a collection, and prefer tight ones. Cuffs, if you will. Not only do I prefer wearing cuff-style bracelets, I tend to wear two matching ones. Yes, at the same time.
You do run the risk of looking like Wonder Woman if you're not careful. But hell, I like Wonder Woman.
As I've mentioned, my wrists are extremely sensitive. Before I knew about BDSM, I always wanted boyfriends to hold my wrists, to kiss my wrists. The sensation twisted something inside me. It's not surprising that 1,264 files on my computer contain the word "wrists," and most are about holding, binding, tying, or kissing:
From Tied Up & Twisted:
His favorite time with Hadley occurred right near the end. They were fighting a lot. That is, when they were talking. But one night she came home in a mood. He sensed the shift in the apartment as soon as she walked through the door. The molecules in the air seemed to change. She had him bound with cold, steel cuffs, his wrists over his head. She brought out a strap-on that night and a bottle of lube. She set them both on the bedside table, so he could stare at them and know what was coming.
From The Lizard Queen:
There was Nick, captured to the bed with thick leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles. A black leather mask completely covered his face, the eyes of the mask blacked out, serving the purpose of a blindfold. Bound tightly to the bed, he wore nothing else except a studded black leather dog collar.
From Dark Secret Love:
I think we are all hardwired for what we crave. When I'd gone on a few miserable dates with guys my age, I would invariably offer my wrists to them. To hold. To kiss. I didn't even know why I was doing this. And the guys never figured out what I wanted. I can imagine their confusing now. What's with this chick?
When I see the types of bracelets I worship, I'll take pictures to add here. Stay tuned for further fashionably smutty columns—and please feel free to add your own tips!
July 29, 2015
Wednesday seems to be the day to share more of "Figment." I am pleased with this project now. After years of struggling. I'm sharing the story out of order, but that's the type of story this is. Hopefully, I'll have the book finished by the end of August. Not exactly sure how I plan to publish. But I'm thrilled with the way this is going. After writing for so long, it's dazzling to be working on something that feels so new. Surreal. Meta. Mysterious.
When I wake, there’s a bottle of tequila on my nightstand and a notepad filled with my own messy handwriting. I have no recollection of writing the words. But I feel as if I know where I’m going, and I can relax and take a breath. Plotting never works for me. I fall backwards into the stories. No, that’s not right either. I sit in the backseat and let the characters drive.
It’s like taking a taxi but not telling the cabbie where you want to go.
The meter is ticking.
I hear the knob turn.
When Rick broke up with her, Maggie wasn’t just bitter. She was out for blood. She didn’t even realize that at first. She put up a wall around herself, invisible but firm, and she dared anyone to scale it. To knock it down. She knew what that would take.
She continued to make her dresses, and for that season, she only used black. Usually, she created ethereal designs, flowing, wistful. But not that year. She used black and darker black. She couldn’t help herself. Her friends tried to tell her to add a pop of color. A little red, maybe? Not everyone wanted to look like a Sicilian widow in mourning. She didn’t care.
She and Rick were supposed to be together. She’d talked to a psychic. She knew they were destined.
But he hadn’t agreed, somehow, some way, and she’d ended up in a penthouse studio, sewing and drinking.
When she met the trucker, she’d let down her guard. She knew better. She fucking knew better. But she ran out one night late, wanting a beer more than anything, and they’d met in the liquor section of the grocery store, both admiring the sixpacks.
He’d complimented her dress. He hadn’t said Where’s the funeral? He hadn’t been afraid to talk to her. They’d ended up splitting the sixpack and bringing it to the pier, drinking with a stranger—it was so satisfying. She was tired of cowtowing to the rich women and sorry of missing Rick.
She’d let the trucker love her. It was easy. She was beautiful, prettier than any woman he’d dated. She wasn’t in this for the money or presige. She’d never been. She had her own money. And prestige was over rated. What she wanted was a nice guy—and he was nice. What she wanted was someone who would never break her heart. And she found that in him.
And she broke his instead.
He bends me over the desk in the morning. He greases up a butt plug and lets me see the toy before he screws the thing into my ass. He wants me to write while I have that beast in me? I don’t try to protest. There’s no use.
He doesn’t ask me how I feel to have that toy in my ass. He knows because he spins me around and spreads my pussy lips wide open. He crests his thumb over my swollen clit in a way that is rough and gentle simultaneously. I keen low under my breath and he says,
“Don’t you dare.”
I won’t. I won’t come without his permission. That’s a lesson I mastered with tears.
“Write me a story,” he says.
I wait for it.
“Two guys,” he tells me. “Two guys out together. Where are they? Why are they there? That plug is motivation. You like that in your ass. You like being filled.” And he’s gone. I’m in that empty white room feeling the stretch of the toy in me. My typewriter is waiting for me to tell it a story.
They hated each other. Love at first sight? Not with these two. There was an instant competition. A battle of the wits, then of wills, and finally of fists. Jan didn’t know how it started even. Who threw the first punch. It was like they’d always been fighting, or about to fight. Now here they were, in the alley behind Vernon’s, pounding into each other.
And Jan realized he wanted something else. He back against the bricks. His mouth was bleeding. But his cock was hard.
So there's the installment for today. I'm hoping to have another post up for my Rebel Rule Breaker guide tomorrow. (I'm having so much fun writing it. The things I'm planning to confess are comical.)
P.S. Authors, if you're waiting for word for me, please understand that I'm waiting for word, too. I have heard nothing. I'm not being coy or playing hard to get. I have no news.
July 28, 2015
I've been chronicling my life in publishing on this blog for nine years. The ups and downs, ins and outs, overs and, um, unders. (Throughs? Throes?) I've written about rejections, about what it actually costs to make a book, about my views on ebook royalties.
When ebooks first hit, we scrambled for pricing. I remember thinking that a print book cost $14.95—about the price of a CD. Songs were selling for around $1.50—so it made sense to me that a short story would cost that much.
Many numbers float through my head. But to keep them straight, here are some facts. When I work through a mainstream publisher, for a $14.95 print book, I (as the author) make $1.05. This is because my royalty with mainstream publishers is 7%.
On Amazon, for books priced under $2.99, authors/publishers receive a 35% royalty. Between $2.99 and $9.99, authors/publishers receive 70%.
(Yes, things may change, but that's the land right now.)
Of course, there are more incentives to self-publish than simply financial. There's control. There's the fact that I won't fuck myself. There's freedom.
But now I want to get to serious pricing. If I understand this correctly, authors began banding together to create 12-novel collections for 99 cents. The thought was that if the collections sold well, the authors would all be able to say they were "U.S.A. Today Best-Selling Authors" because the bundles had a chance to climb the ranks quickly with the discounted prices.
That led to serious price wars across the board. If you can buy 12 novels for 99 cents, why pay more?
I don't know if anyone ever made money on these deals. Authors would have split a 35-cent royalty twelve ways. What I do know is that this is a work in progress. And not only for us. I've been reading extensively on pricing of ebooks. Everyone seems confused.
There will always be low-end and high-end in any situation. Motels. Whiskey. Boots. Cars. You can find an inexpensive model. You can purchase the top-shelf. Or you can land somewhere in the middle. You choose your experience. Sometimes you get what you pay for. Sometimes you score big. As an avid thrift-store maven, I'm not putting down bargain hunters.
But there's no way for me to succeed with 99 cent novels. (Not one for 99 cents. Not 12 for 99 cents.) If I price something at $1.99, I make 69 cents. If I price it at $2.99, I make $2.09—you pay an extra dollar, and I make an extra $1.40.
I'm playing around with what our books cost right now. On the collections, we divide every penny that comes in. I feel our pricing is fair. And I feel that you choose your experience. If we offer what you're looking for—then everyone's happy.
I'm calling this concept "fair trade erotica." I will try to remember to state what the authors make each time we put up a book, so you can see and decide for yourself.
One of my friends works in a boutique where people request "fair trade" clothing all the time. Her store sells sweaters for $100-$200. Because that's what exquisite handmade sweaters cost when you factor in top-of-the-line yarn and labor. She says that some people are willing and able to pay the price. Others want "fair trade" at big-box-store prices. Which isn't going to happen.
Like I said, this is a work in progress.
Of course, you don't have to agree with my opinion. All of this is from my experience, my point of view.
Next week, I'm going to attempt to write about publishing cycles. (Which can be as baffling as crop circles!) I've decided that since I have spent twenty-five years working in erotica, I might as well use my experience for something. That's one plus to getting older!
P.S. I have been in the industry long enough to remember when you could order a single short story through the mail for $12. The stories were fetish-y (and, I believe, mimeographed). That was pre-internet. The Dark Ages, right?
July 27, 2015
I still owe you all a list of my favorite albums. I know what my ultimate #1 one is, but I'd like to do a countdown backwards. But while we're waiting (for me), how about another musical question?
What song cover do you think is sublime?
You don't have to like the cover better than the original song—but what cover do you think really knocks the notes out of the park?
There are quite a few I adore. Like Cake's version of "I Will Survive." And Rusted Root's version of "Evil Ways." But my favorite, my ultimate, the one that will get Beatles's fans screaming at me in dismay and horror, is the Aerosmith version of "Come Together." I adore this cover. And I'm a girl who was raised on The Beatles.
How about you? Is there a cover that makes you light up when it comes on the radio? Do you spin the volume dial to eleven?
In other news—I have no other news. Authors, I could send out an update, but it would be blank. I don't really know what's going on. I promise to keep you informed as I learn more.
So until then, let's just play some music on the stereo and chill. If you're in the mood for something musical *and* sexy, please check out....
July 25, 2015
a) sucking and
So I'm bad at marketing. (This will eventually become a chapter in my social media guide. I can feel it.)
I mean, I'm *really* bad at marketing. I come up with different ideas:
• Give away a free story.
• Actually, give away a lot of free stories.
• Mail out tattoos.
• Host a Twitter/Twister game.
• Invite readers to lunch.
• Play Bingo.
• Ask for bookshelf "shelfies."
• Run contests.
• Run more contests.
• Run a whole fucking marathon.
• Have readers "Spot the Book."
• Beg for reviews.
Over the years, I've asked readers to choose singular stories from a title to review. I've organized whole tours based on writers interviewing each other. I've built blogs for books. And more blogs for more books.
And I play around to entertain myself. I adore my...
• Blog dedicated to writers' notes.
• 100-word flasher blog.
But the marketing is mostly beyond me. I'm honestly the type of person who would say, "Buy one of my books... if you want to. I mean, well, don't. Let me send you one for free. Or two? I've got a closet full of books. Save your money for something that you really need. Like yarn. Or candy. Or t-shirts. Wait, let me send you some candy. Do you like Pop Rocks?"
I try not to do things to other people I don't like having done to myself. Case in point: I spent one demoralizing month attempting to market Banging Rebecca. I sold 35x the amount of books I'd sold the previous month. That is—one month I sold 1 copy and the next month I sold 35.
The result? I was so fucking sick of myself asking people to buy the book by the end of the month that I don't know that I've ever mentioned the title again. (You can read a portion for free here.)
There's a balance somewhere—market for "x" amount of the time, don't market for a-w and y-z amount of the time. I don't know what that is.
Which is why I've given up. No, I don't mean I've given up writing, or blogging, or tweeting. But "marketing." I surrender. I will focus on what I love. The things that entertain me and give me pleasure. I'll remind readers (via my sidebar mostly) about my books. But that pressure to write articles, do Q&As, host blog tours, "get the word out"—I'm done with that.
The relief is undeniable. Only took me 25 years to find it.
July 24, 2015
Yes! I nailed it. I know it's Friday. I know I'm putting up free smut! And I didn't swap letters and end up with "Free Frut Smiday." (So far? Today is a success.)
This is an excerpt from a filthy anthology I curated for Harlequin. Unfortunately, the book was released right when Spice was shutting the doors. So there was never a print version. But I'm seriously proud of the 70 (yeah, because I can't count) stories in the collection.
There is a foreword (69 words) by the inimitable (I love that word) Violet Blue. And a line-up of stellar authors who never fail to dazzle me with their talent. This is the longest book I've ever turned in—over 400 pages and 100,000 words. Begun, I believe, in January 2011.
The cover is exquisite. And the stories work for me in multiple ways. This is only a snippet from Eric Williams' piece.
Another Country Heard From
By Eric Williams
“We’re going to get you laid tonight if I have to guide your dick myself,” Jarred said. “It’s been three months since Suzy left you. You can’t mill around your apartment playing your sax forever.”
I was quiet. They’d dragged me out. I didn’t want to be here. Honestly, I didn’t want to be anywhere except my sofa with my remote in hand.
“You need to connect with a human,” Jarred continued.
“Yeah, no more inflatable dolls,” Byron offered from the back seat.
“Another country heard from,” Jarred said with a smirk.
“I never even blew her up,” I lied. The doll had been a parting gift from Suzy when she’d moved out. “Maybe you’ll be more animated with her than you were with me,” she’d written on the note. Okay, so I have a difficult time showing my emotions. That doesn’t make me interested in fucking a rubber doll.
“I’ve got the perfect place,” Jarred told me as he parked the car in front of what was clearly a meet-market style bar. Half-price Cosmos were being offered to the pretty, ditzy secretaries from all the nearby office buildings. “You can’t miss.”
But I did miss. I sat in the dimly lit bar and missed Suzy. Except maybe I wasn’t actually missing her. I was missing being with someone—anyone. I craved a companion who knew my patterns and my habits, someone who was there when I came home, who looked forward to my arrival.
I’ll admit one thing: the whiskey tasted good, better than at home. Who knew changing locations could change the way liquor tasted?
Byron sat on the maroon-leather stool at my side. “He’s going to make you ask one of them to dance,” he motioned to a gaggle of sparkly-dressed women in a corner booth.
“I don’t want to dance.”
“They’re going to start teaching Texas Two-Step in the other room in about six minutes.”
“Which is why you and I should slip out the back.”
“And ditch Jarred?”
“He’ll be fine.” He motioned to where Jarred sat, at a table surrounded by ladies. “He’s got the car. He’ll probably wind up with two of them.”
I liked the way Byron said ‘them.’ As if ‘they’ were the enemy. That’s how I felt anyway.
I’d actually considered fucking the inflatable one vodka-fueled night. Wouldn’t matter if the blow-up doll was a woman, would it? A hole is a hole is a hole. The scent had both aroused and repelled me, and I’d fallen asleep with an arm collapsed over the inanimate object, grateful to have something in my bed if not someone. The toy had sprung a leak in the night, and I’d woken up next to a semi-deflated human—which had made me laugh out loud, a sick sound that had frightened me enough into agreeing to a night out with Byron and Jarred.
Suddenly, I felt hot and dizzy.
“I need air,” I said. Byron was quick. He led me to the rear exit, pushed open a door that led into the night.
“It’s okay,” Byron said, dragging me after him down the alley behind the bar.
“What do you mean?” I asked as I sucked in great gulps of the cool evening air. Being outside made the world upright once more. Byron stared at me for a moment, and then to my complete surprise, he pulled me closer to him.
“You don’t have to like girls.”
I had never been this close to Byron before. I don’t think I’d been this close to any man aside from wrestling. Byron kissed me, and I felt my cock harden inside my jeans.
“What do you mean?” I asked, scared, backing against the wall. “I don’t have to…”
“…like girls,” he repeated, and he kissed me again.
How did he know? How could he tell? I couldn’t ask. His mouth was on mine once more, and his hand was in my pants. I’d had plenty of women touch my dick before, but no man had ever come close. Why was there a difference? Why did it matter than Byron had his fist around my cock, and that his skin on mine felt more real than anything I’d ever felt before?
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, and now he kissed the side of my neck, and I thought about how much I hadn’t wanted to dance with those spangled girls in the bar. Pretty, they’d been. But as repellant to me as that inflatable doll Suzy had left as my consolation prize.
The book sells for $4.99—which works out to a little more than .07 cents a story. (If I did my math right.) For more about my love affair with short fiction, please read: Who's got short-shorts? And check out the blog I run dedicated to flash fiction: Flash Fuck Me. (For this blog, I put up 100-word shorts with photos by Riendo, whose work makes my heart beat faster.
The book sells for $4.99—which works out to a little more than .07 cents a story. (If I did my math right.) For more about my love affair with short fiction, please read: Who's got short-shorts? And check out the blog I run dedicated to flash fiction: Flash Fuck Me. (For this blog, I put up 100-word shorts with photos by Riendo, whose work makes my heart beat faster.
July 23, 2015
Welcome to my first rough, raw installment of my social media guide (currently called "Rebel Rule Breaker: Tales from a Social Media Failure"). I actually change the title quite a bit—which, I'm sure, is wrong. I ought to choose a title and stick with it for consistency.
But that would be too easy.
Several times a month (and sometimes a week—and on really bad days, hourly), I will be told I'm doing something wrong. And hey—I'm wrong a lot. But I'll be told I'm doing something wrong when there isn't a right way. When we can all agree that people can have different opinions on how to do the thing I'm doing.
Imagine I got dressed in one of my favorite outfits—little scarlet t-shirt, black thrift-store cocktail dress, hose, spectator pumps—and went to the library to make out with some research books, and someone stopped me to tell me I'd dressed myself wrong. Maybe I'd dressed myself weird. Because—that is mildly my m.o. But wrong? No, that's an opinion.
People have told me I blog wrong. "You use this blog like twitter." They've told me I tweet wrong. "You tweet in bursts. People will unfollow you." They've told me I write wrong. "You've got a serious boner for Anais Nin, that's obvious. And one day you might actually get somewhere, once you overcome the self-interested vanity of the first-person POV." They've told me I Facebook wrong. (I actually can't remember now why I quit Facebook.) My website's wrong. I use my "tags" wrong. My business cards are wrong. My guidelines are wrong. My promotions are wrong. My giveaways are wrong.
And so I've decided to embrace my failure and pen a guide. My guide (at the moment, things might change) will cover all sorts of social media rules that I have broken—and that I encourage people to break (if they want to).
It's not just me.
All day long we're bombarded with articles along the lines of: Are you making these 15 social media mistakes? My answer to that: Probably not. My other answer: If you follow all the rules people tell you to, you're going to wind up looking exactly like them. You don't know how many author blogs I've visited that all look like they use the same plug-in format. Is that better? I don't know.
What I'm going to write about includes:
Your social media
I was thinking that maybe *this* is why I have such a negative reaction to these types of interactions. I lived with someone who loved to tell me I was wrong. Who lived to tell me I was wrong. Maybe that broke my need to be right.
July 22, 2015
Each week, lovely Alana checks in to see how I'm progressing. And I'm delighted to say that, yes, I'm progressing. This isn't the easiest novel of my life. In fact, writing this book may be my most confusing experience yet. One reason? I actually have forgotten parts. So that when I re-read the passages, I think: Who wrote this?
In my search this week for missing papers, I actually found a draft of this story that's about twenty years old. So I guess this one's been circling for awhile. When that paper resurfaces, I'll take a picture.
I don't want to fight
Still Not Flinching
Objects in Motion
Pack Your Trunk
So new it doesn't have a name
I don't wear plots
Blue and Green
“How do you see the people?” he asks. “How do you know their stories?”
I don’t have a response for this, although similar questions keep me up at night. But I try my best. Not answering is not an option. It’s like a crack in the wall. A fissure. I can watch them. I know what they’re thinking. They show me what they want me to see. Sometimes the process takes longer than I’d like. Sometimes they lead me places I don’t know anything about. But I trust that they do.
“You talk about them like they’re real.”
They are real. I simply write down what happens. However much they allow me. Whatever glimpse they give.
“You’re making that up,” he says. “You know what happens to liars.”
After the show, she waited for him by the back door of the theater. She knew instinctively which car was his, a beat-up sedan that had once been white but was now a sort of dirty gray. She knew it was his by the duct tape on the bumper, by the decals in the window. She wanted him to fuck her in the backseat. She didn’t care if there were crumpled newspapers in the footwells. She didn’t care if the car smelled musty—because she knew it would. All she wanted was to feel his weight on top of hers.
Somehow, she thought, that might make everything all right.
And nothing had been right for a long time.
He walked out of the rear of the theater with his head down. He seemed to be lost in thought, so focused that he didn’t notice her standing there. She didn’t want to spook him, didn’t want to make him jump.
She waited until he had walked by her, and then she made the gravel in the alley glow.
“Write me a story,” he says. I don’t know when he first spoke the words. I have no recollection of how I got here, of whether I was ever somewhere else. I live in the room and I wait for his instructions. Sometimes he lets me move forward on one story for what feels like weeks—maybe even months. There is no time here. There are no actual days.
Sometimes he pulls me to something else. Craving a different storyline, a different form of entertainment.
“Write me a story,” he says, and the magician and his new assistant fade from the foreground. I sit up straighter, and I feel my heart go at the anticipation.
“A ghost story,” he says, which surprises me. I look at him, startled.
“What? Don’t think you can do it?”
I know I can. The ghost is already there. He’s sitting on the corner of my bed.
Tomorrow, I'm going to try to hit you with a new dirty etymology. While you're waiting, why not check out one of Sommer Marsden's latest? Haunted is racking up the five-stars. Support your indie authors—for $1.99!
July 21, 2015
I started by calling this post "The Golden Age of Porn." But then I thought that might be misleading. (Of course, someone will write to me to tell me yet again that I'm doing the titles wrong. I should be incorporating SEO terms, and so on. But that's fodder for a different post, tentatively titled: Rebel Rule Breaker: A Guide from a Total Social Media Failure.)
This past weekend, I was searching through articles online and in paper files, trying to find something I've lost. This happens to me periodically. I have a memory of a piece, and I do my best to excavate, only to come up with sixteen things I'd forgotten about and not the one thing I was looking for.
What I noticed in my quest—well, noticed is wrong. What I realized in my quest is that there really hasn't been a Golden Age of Porn. At least, not during my writing span. I've been published in the industry for twenty-five years (oh, dear lord, yes), and I've scrambled and scraped and submitted and other s- words the whole way through.
I'd bounce up (10,000 copies of one novel sold!) and then down ($750 advance for a novel that never was published). Up again! (A quick $2,000 freelance gig.) Then down. (A lot of time gone to waste when the contract was untenable.)
But for authors, I guess the most important part is the market. When I started, the market was tiny. I've covered this before, but there were really only a handful of places where you might place a story or sell a novel. Aside from a few big names—nobody was making much of a living. (I'm happy to be corrected if you have other information. I can say none of my writing cohorts were.)
When ebooks first hit, we started trying to sell PDFs and then Kindles. We were slow but thrilled with the ability to control our words.
Now, there's smut everywhere. Look, right there next to you in the sidebar! Smut! It's easier to find—yes. It's cheaper than it should be—yes. (More on this concept soon.) Is the era worse for authors than before? No. I don't think so. Are authors making a living? Well, no. But that's the point of this post. I didn't know any who were before. I'm sure they existed, but at my level—I have always worked multiple jobs to pay the bills.
The difference? For me—the main difference is that I no longer have to scrape. (I don't mean to get by. I'm doing that.) I mean, I don't have to grovel. I don't have to bend over. I will not stab myself in the back.
My world is smut—erotica is the love of my life. But I have the feeling this is the current status quo for every niche. Mystery, fiction, sci-fi. With the advent of ebooks, the virtual shelf space is unlimited. It stretches in all directions.
And I have to think that's a good thing. There has always been competition. In the past, the publishers stood in front of the gates and let only a minuscule portion of writers through. Now, the gates are open. Wide open. There's room for everyone. You. Me. Her.
So have we reached the Golden Age? I don't think so. But maybe we're close.
P.S. For more on this topic, please check out Cyndy Aleo's post: True Confessions of a Not-Rich Writer.
July 20, 2015
I don't think I've asked this one yet. (Fingers crossed. Legs open.) My query sounds simple enough on the surface:
Are you a voyeur or an exhibitionist?
Of course, nothing is simple. There's plenty of gray area between the two fetishes. And people can be both. Take turns. Swap.
But do you lean one way or the other? Do you like to press up against the wall and watch? Or would you rather be circled by a breathless audience while you get down to business?
In 2009, I said I was both. But the truth is that I'm much more of a voyeur than an exhibitionist. I am always watching and listening. Eavesdropping. Observing. And yet in my heart, I crave to be more of the free-spirited exhibitionist. (Which may be why I am obsessed with writing stories like this one.)
July 18, 2015
One of my editors explained to me (over highballs) that word processors were responsible for the demise of modern literature. Prior to word processors, writers were solely able to share their words by pen and paper or typewriter. The sheer effort of drafting and revising in this manner was too daunting for the majority of the public. (My editor is not alone. Check out this rant in the New York Times dating to 1988.)
I think I missed word processors. My house was filled with typewriters—electric and manual. (I preferred manual.) Then at some point, we moved to computers. And I don't agree that there has been a demise. Some of my favorite books were written in the last few years. (But I just nodded during the cocktail hour and let my editor spew.)
Lately, I've been threatening to post some early work. This is not my first BDSM piece. But this is a story I wrote over and over. You can see some of my drafts. I worked in an office, and when I was alone, I'd slip a piece of paper into the typewriter and start again. I don't know where I hid the story when I wasn't writing. I'm sure I had a place. (Filed, maybe, in the X's for X-rated? Or under Y for Yearning.)
This is true. Totally true:
My boyfriend says that I like the darker side of sex because I was 'taught' to, because that was what Kelly liked and I would do anything that Kelly liked. But he's wrong. No one taught me to need, to crave, to burn. Nobody taught me to seek the shadows.
If Kelly and I had a dark relationship, it was because I wanted one. (I deserved one.) I knew that he would be good for me—if you can call what we did "good." But my boyfriend is right on one count. Kelly was my teacher, mentor, and I was his willing student. ("Anything you want.")
And if you've read Dark Secret Love, you'll recognize the boy in the cafe. Connor, with his icy blue eyes. You'll recognize Byron—who felt apparently that I could be reprogrammed. And Kelly from the store.
I'll key in the whole piece shortly to share.
I'm working up—or down—to the first piece I can find. It's in red pen—ha, Freudian slip, I wrote "red pain" on my first attempt. It's in red pen, my messy handwriting, and the desperation in the words comes through so fiercely. I was in need. I had nowhere to go.
Think about this. Whenever I had a free moment, whenever nobody was looking, I wrote my story over and over. Searching, begging, clawing for a happy ending.
P.S. I was raised in the world of publishing. I have memories of text being placed with rubber cement, of errors being corrected with X-acto knives and a steady hand. Whatever the platform, whatever the tools, writers will share their words. Because the words have to come out.
July 17, 2015
Invariably, I say to myself, "Free Frut Smiday," as I put these posts together. I should make a t-shirt with those words. And only the cool people would know what I meant... or the people like me who struggle with basic conversation before coffee.
Although I am working like a machine (an espresso-fueled machine) on my new novel, I did dip into another work-in-progress yesterday. I can't remember if I've mentioned this one before. The title is comical: My Husband Hates His Job... So I Fucked His Boss.
Yes, that's my working title. It's an homage to titles like the one I mentioned here...
If I've posted this before, I apologize. I can't find a whisper of it.
What is it with me and novels lately? Well, for the past few decades, I've poured myself into anthologies. I believe I turned in 54 titles to Cleis (if my math serves)—with all but three being anthos. I put together anthologies for my own press and for Masquerade and Harlequin. And now, I'm returning to my long-lost love. The novel.
I started this one more than two years ago from a note that was at least ten years old. (Yeah, it's a wonder I finish anything, isn't it?)
So finally—your Free Smut Friday!
You know I’m a bit impetuous now. And you know that I don’t always plan things out to the best of my abilities. What you don’t know is this… Cole is the sort of man who gets off on thoughts of me fucking another guy. Yes, that’s right, he has cuckold fantasies like a major percentage of the male population. How do I know this is a popular fantasy? Easy. Type “cuckold fantasy” into your search engine. Mine returned with 23,500,000 in about .02 seconds. How’d yours do?
Since we first got together, Cole has painted an ever-increasing range of X-rated scenarios in which he watches while I get my rocks off with another party. He’s never been interested in joining in, only watching. And thus far, we’d only taken this fantasy to a light level of me kissing one of his college buddies at the pool one day while he watched.
Pause for a moment so I can tell you a little about that. Cole loved explaining to me exactly how turned on he’d be if he caught me with another man. Finally, one afternoon, I asked him if he really wanted to see that happen. I know there’s a difference between fantasy and reality. One of my fantasies is to get fucked by six different men—but I’m sure that won’t happen.
So during an outdoor barbeque with a college buddy of Cole’s, I stopped my man in the kitchen and said, “Do you want to see me kiss Joe?”
Cole got a hard-on right there by the refrigerator.
“Are you serious?”
“Are you?” I asked, palming his cock through his board shorts. “You always talk about watching me with another guy. Do you want that for real?”
He didn’t hesitate a second. “Yes. Yes, I want that. If you want that,” he added quietly.
Joe was an attractive guy, blond, athletic. Kissing him wouldn’t be difficult for me at all. This would be an easy way to find out of making Cole’s fantasy come true was something he could actually handle. If things got too hot, he could stop me quickly.
“What are you going to do?” Cole asked. “What are you going to say?” He was still hard. I had a momentary thought of the two of us fucking right there, in the kitchen. But I wanted to give my man something he’d always dreamed of.
“Don’t you worry,” I told him.
I was in cut-offs and a halter made of fluttery ribbons of fabric. My outfit left little to the imagination. Joe had been eying me all afternoon, but not in a lecherous way, simply as if he appreciated the finer things in life.
I grabbed two beers and headed back out to our pool.
“Wanna beer?” I asked Joe.
He reached out his hand.
“It’ll cost you.”
He indicated he had no pockets in his swim trunks.
“Not money, silly,” I said, perching next to him on the deck chair and setting the beers on the table at his side. “A kiss.”
I heard Cole behind us, and I saw Joe look over my head to meet Cole’s eyes. My man must have nodded, because Joe said, “Fair price,” and reached for me. That’s how easy it was.
I could feel Cole’s body close to me. I could feel the yearning emanating off him in waves. I straddled Joe and kissed him. I rubbed my breasts against his chest and moaned as he sucked on my lower lip and cradled my ass through my denim shorts. I wasn’t going any further. I was in complete control. But I really gave myself over to this kiss. And when I was done, I stood up, handed Joe his beer, and hooked two fingers in the waistband of Cole’s board shorts.
“Excuse us,” I said to Joe.
“No problem.” He grinned at me as he took a sip of his beer. His hard-on was tenting his bathing suit. I liked the power. I’d given two men woodies in a matter of minutes.
Cole and I fucked in our bedroom while Joe drank his beer and stared at the cool turquoise water in our pool. And we talked about that kiss for weeks—for months—afterward, Cole telling me how sexy I’d looked being manhandled by his friend.
But could I go to his boss’s house without telling him? That wouldn’t be exactly the way his fantasy has played out.
I went home and poured myself a glass of wine. Right when I thought of calling Cole, the phone rang.
I knew it would be one man or the other, and I took a risk and answered. Thankfully, my husband was on the other line. Before he could tell me about his flight, I started talking. I told him everything in a rush of words. The plan. The failure. The come-on. When I was done, there was total silence on the line. Cole was obviously speechless. Then he said, “What are you going to do?”
Wait. What had he asked?
“You’re not upset.”
“Baby,” he said, “I think it’s amazing you did this for me.”
“But I could have gotten you fired.”
“I hate my job,” he said, “You know that. I mean, I like what I do, but I hate the position I’m in. You can see how whipped I am every day after work. You tried to fix it. I’m a lucky man.”
How lucky did he want to be?
“So…” I started. “What do you think? Do I go to his house?”
“Do you want to?”
“Cole… he wants to fuck me.”
There was a pause. Then, “Do you want to fuck him?”
“Do you want me to want to?”
He laughed. “This is turning into an X-rated Who’s On First.”
I wasn’t laughing. “Do you want me to fuck your boss?” I wished he were home so I could see his eyes, see the expression on his face. But I heard everything I needed in his tone of voice, wavering, hopeful, as he said, “Yes, baby doll. Yes. I do.”
If this fantasy pushes your buttons, please check out Alison After Dark. (I think you'll like my "key" trilogy!) And happy Smiday to you and yours.
July 15, 2015
I'm here with my weekly update on Figment (originally called "So New It Doesn't Have a Name") . This novel is confounding me at every turn. But I'm clinging on and doing my best. No longer am I attempting to tame the beast. I'm simply happy to be allowed into the cage.
I've been putting up these snippets without a lot of backstory. At some point, the novel will be done—and then I'm hopeful that the work will make sense. Here's another taste...
Some days he doesn’t come into the room. I’ll find a note written in my lipstick on the mirror. Or scrawled, graffiti-style on the wall. This time, he’s slid a note under the door that reads: “Write me a story.” I’ll hear his voice even as I read the words. “He’s on a break. He’s only got twenty minutes. How does she change his world?”
She’d been watching him for weeks. He worked at the garage across the street from the bookstore. A grease monkey. That’s what her manager, Ms. H, said. “Look at those grease monkeys.” Sneering when she spoke the words. As if the fact that someone could make sense out of a complicated machine made them dumber than dirt.
When the younger girl walked past the garage, some of the men would whistle or even call out to her. He never did. Was that why she was drawn to him?
If she wasn’t helping a customer, she’d watch him out the window. Today she timed her break to his, and she crossed the busy intersection at a fast clip, her red-and-white striped sundress swirling, the scent of hot asphalt in the air. She didn’t go into the garage; she went around, taking the direction she’d seen him go.
Whistle. Call. Dirty words in a string.
He was leaning against the building, not seeming to be doing anything. Staring at the ground. She came to his side, leaned next to him, looked where he was looking. Etched there in the cracked cement was a heart with two initials and the date ’87.
“I like to think that they’re still together,” he said.
He looked at her. “You work over there?”
“I’ve seen you walking by. Sorry for the way they howl at you. I told them not to.”
“I don’t care,” she said. She didn’t. Their words weren’t anything to her. They slid off the polished chrome of her surface. She liked his hands, big, working man’s hands. She wanted them on her. She leaned closer. He said, “I’m too dirty for you.”
“I hope so,” she said, and he gripped her up, one hand behind her head, cradling her as he kissed her. The heat was all around them. The sun so damn bright it shimmered in the air.
“I’ll make you dirty,” he said, his voice gruff but not apologetic.
“I hope so.”
She could feel his hardness through the grease-stained overalls. She worked his zipper. He lifted her sundress, pawed at her pristine white panties. She knew he’d leave stains. He had her in his arms, against the building. He rutted inside her. They were a broken heart etched in old cement.
I like to think they’re still together.
“You’re breaking the rules again.”
I take no responsibility.
“You edit. You can fix things.”
I edit more than I write. He knows this.
“But you’re not following proper guidelines.”
Define proper, I think.
“I’ll give you proper,” he says.
And then he surprises me. There is no punishment. He’s suddenly wearing the greasy coveralls, and I’m in the sundress. He has me in his arms, and I can smell the oil in the air, and I know the feeling of him against me, as if he’s always looked like this, felt like this. His hair is falling into his eyes. He’s got a slight scruff on his jawline, yesterday’s whiskers. And I get it. I hit the romance right for him. Not girly. Not silly. He likes it when the tough guy gets the girl. For that, I am rewarded, and this is exceptional.
We are there in the story, against the garage. I’m breaking rules, so he is, too.
There’s grease on his fingers. Stains on my panties. I feel the heat on me. I feel the lust coming off him in waves. He takes my panties down with heartbreaking slowness and then pulls me astride him. Then—because it’s him, because he’s got a dark, mean streak that he cannot hide—there are mechanics around us. I feel their eyes on us. He takes me into the garage and the door slides down with a dark metallic thud. There are men groping me, holding me, passing me around.
I try to fight for my way.
And then I remember something about myself. I don’t want to fight. I close my eyes as the hands run over me. I lean back and am buffeted up by a stranger. I spread my legs wide.
For more on this project, please check out: