Me and Jon Stewart in the Mile High Club?

This has been a good day for me on the Internet! Rachel Kramer Bussel has just posted her interview with me on the topic of airplane eroticism and her newest anthology The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories. This was an especially fun interview to do because I’ve been in love with airports, airplanes and travel from a very young age. Find out about my favorite airport in the world, why I’d like to slip into one of those cramped restrooms with Jon Stewart, and the scientific research I did for my story in the anthology, “Nasty Little Habit.”

It's flight to remember!

Story Soup and Sexy Readers

The April ERWA columns are up today, and there isn't any fooling around this month for yours truly. My "Cooking Up a Storey" continues its sexual and culinary meditations with Story Soup: Forbidden Fodder, Mystery Spices, and Very Embarrassed Eggs. First I muse about the way our pasts inform our writing and how, ironically for writers working with often taboo subject matter, it is taboo to acknowledge the roots of our work. As I was writing this month's column in the midst of my own focus on the creative process, I came to this realization about the self-reflective nature of this year's "Cooking" project:

The more I stirred the stewing pot of my own psyche, the more I realized how many different elements nourished my imagination. Some were obvious, some secret and subtle, but the bubbling brew began to seem very much like a homemade soup, crafted without a clearly defined recipe but rich with the freshest produce at hand and piquant spices from my cupboard. In short, when I write, I really am cooking up a story. Who knew?

It's nice to know I can at least convince myself of the relationship between cooking, writing, and sex! Then at the conclusion of my soul-searching taboo talk, you'll be rewarded with some juicy descriptions of Sunday dinners at my grandma's and an old-fashioned Pennsylvania Dutch recipe for a way to use up hardboiled eggs.

This month's "Shameless Self-Promotion: Websites, Blog-sites and the All-Mighty Reader" talks about the importance of seeing our readers as people, not sales stats, and ways to make your website reflect your sensibility, which is what readers connect with when they buy your book. I take a quick tour of some websites and blog-sites I like by Lisabet Sarai, Susan DiPlacido, and Jeremy Edwards and I also interview Lisabet Sarai at the ERWA blog about what she's learned from her recent website redesign.

The other day I was looking through notes and saw that my one-day publicist, Lauren Cerand, recommended an author actively promotes her book for one year. I'm not sure if she meant I should start counting from the pre-publication work I did, which would mean I should stop now, or that the clock starts ticking from the publication date (which gives me until June). Writing the Shamless Self-Promotion column is definitely helping me figure out what worked, what didn't and what I want to do next time, so that's been very helpful for me!

Tomorrow brings the start of another very exciting event, the all-star blog tour for SWING! Adventures in Swinging by Today’s Top Erotica Writers. I'm the host on April 3 with an excerpt from my story and lots of secrets to share. It's truly a fabulous roster of writers and we'll be blogging all month long. Come hang, and swing, with us!

Famous Sperm...And Eggs

A while back, in some of my diary entries for my Amorous Woman New York Book Tour, I noted that I almost saw Wallace Shawn and I actually did see Tom Hanks' son in French Roast, the restaurant where the "In the Flesh" erotica gang partied through the night. I mentioned then my interest in the cult of celebrity as a sociological phenomenon, especially when it's watered down to include progeny. Not that I am immune to our society's celebrity madness, but there is a part of me that's standing back and watching my own foolishness. Why else would the fairly ordinary young man reading the newspaper in a New York breakfast joint be of interest except that he was made with a famous actor's sperm?

I'm currently writing a new story set in L.A. in which I play around a bit with the cult of celebrity in a minor way (on several levels), and so the topic is fresh in my mind. I've always been both amused and horrified that guys who play doctors on TV get letters from fans asking for medical advice. Of course, medical science is in itself a cult of faith and perhaps advice from Dr. Marcus Welby, M.D. can work as well as a placebo and better than many so-called real pharmaceuticals in curing our ills. It gets a bit more dangerous when we elect actors-turned-politicians based on their movie personas, however.

While famous writers might avoid the worst of celebrity madness in that fewer people recognize them on the street (I know Wallace Shawn from My Dinner with Andre), they don't seem to escape the multiple marriages and other hazards of a life where you get what you wish for. This includes, naturally, the impact of mom or dad's success on their children. I realize that one of the unavoidable elements of an Ivy League education is that you constantly come in contact with the products of famous sperm and eggs. I had brunch with Adam Bellow. Made a lesbian pass at Betsy Mailer as part of a beginning acting class (the sadistic teacher assigned me the role of a stripper thinking it would be a stretch, but I performed well and was secretly thrilled to tweak the manhood of American literature's bantam rooster in such a weird way). The list of encounters that bumps up my "degrees of separation" star power goes on, but why not stick with the literary greats?

It makes for a good story, but really, when it comes down to it, these famous spawn deserve our sympathy. Betsy Mailer spoke a lot about her father in the acting class, and the sadistic teacher made her act out a scene where she had to defend her thesis about her father in front of three really mean professors. The guys acting the roles of the professors played hardball, too. But even in my rehearsals with Betsy, where we gamely puffed on herbal cigarettes to give us that proper stripper ennui and I asked her--over and over again--if she wanted to go to bed with me, she never opened up to me about what it's really like to be the child of a celebrity.

Thanks again to Amorous Woman, and my reading at a Great Good Place for Books where I was allowed to choose a book from the store as a thank-you, I recently got a poignant glimpse into the torments of a celebrity childhood. The book that leaped out from the shelves saying "take me!" was Sheila Munro's memoir of her mother, Lives of Mothers and Daughters: Growing Up with Alice Munro. Alice Munro is my favorite writer (I'm hardly alone in this), and I've always wanted to read a biography of her, but thought I'd have to wait until she died. Instead, Alice authorized her daughter to write her first extensive biography, giving intimate interviews and watching the grandkids while Sheila worked on the book. I discovered that much of Munro's work is autobiographical (no surprise) and that even this great writer had her moments of doubt and writer's block. In other words, she is very human.

When I went to write my Amazon review, I noticed that the only other review expressed disappointment that the book has so much about the mother-daughter relationship at the expense of focusing on the Great Alice, as if she could exist apart from her family. This is to be expected, but it touched me all the more because it came fresh upon the poignant confession at the end of the book where Sheila talks about how difficult it is to be a writer in her mother's shadow. One ambitious young man in a writing group critiqued Sheila's story and tore it to shreds, cruelly and completely. Then he asked her if she could pass on one of his stories to her mother with a fan letter.

The cult of celebrity makes fools of us in many ways, and this is certainly one of the saddest examples.

Here's my review of Sheila's book. Thank you to her for having the courage to take those famous eggs and make a very nice omelet :-). (Side note: "supersede" is reportedly one of the most misspelled words in the English language. I spelled it right.)

"Tell all the Truth but tell it slant." It's significant that Sheila Munro chose to open her memoir with this poem by Emily Dickinson, because this is exactly what she offers us--a distinctively honest and unique perspective on the great short story writer, Alice Munro. An exhaustive official biography this is not, nor does it supersede Alice Munro's own largely autobiographical stories as a way to connect with her magical literary sensibility. However, it does give us fascinating insights into what it is like to be intimate with the famous writer as a daughter and friend. Sheila Munro is a fine writer in her own right and she takes risks in style and organization--I happened to enjoy this and found it made for an enjoyable, thought-provoking read. The family photographs alone are worth the price, but it was equally inspiring to learn about Alice Munro's human side: her bouts with writer's block, her struggle with the "double life" of motherhood and writing, her charming reticence about her many awards. As an aspiring writer myself, I realized all women writers are daughters of Alice Munro in a way. We work in her shadow, but like Sheila Munro, we can also use her example to create valuable works of our own. A must for Alice Munro fans and aspiring writers.

Jeremy Edwards’ Sweet and Juicy YOU

Jeremy Edwards’ erotic stories are guaranteed to be juicy treats. The cornucopia of his short fiction is sweet testimony to his talent and appeal (I almost said “a-peel,” but restrained myself). We’re in for an extra special indulgence later this year with the publication of his first erotic novel, Rock My Socks Off, which is guaranteed to be fun and sexy in equal measure.

To make our weekend all the more mouth-watering, Jeremy will be sharing a second person excerpt from “You in Your Apricot Panties,” which also appears in Alison Tyler’s Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex. (For a real treat, you can hear Jeremy read the story in his own sexy voice over at Dr. Dick's Sex Advice.) This makes me wonder if the second person isn’t best suited to shorter stories. Could an entire novel work in the second person? This is perhaps a question to mull over in the future, but for now, let’s sit back and enjoy this exuberant celebration of apricot panties—a theme especially suited to spring!

Here's Jeremy:

My story "You in Your Apricot Panties," which I'm so proud to say appears in the fabulous Alison Tyler's Frenzy, came about in an interesting way. In the course of an interview with wonderful lingerie/erotica blogger A Slip of a Girl, I'd been asked how I'd come up with the concept for a different lingerie-themed piece I'd written. Here's part of what I said to Slip, in passing:

"I didn't think anyone would want to read just 1,500 words of me drooling about how yummy a character's panties look on her. (Though saying that makes me wonder now if I should try writing a story like that, seeing how far I get!)"

And that's exactly what I did. I sat down to write a rhapsody about a woman in her panties. Her apricot panties. And the spirit of enthusiasm that I thought this concept demanded made me want to rhapsodize, not merely about her, but *to* her. And so off I rode, mounted securely on a second-person saddle.

From "You in Your Apricot Panties":

Oh my fucking goodness. You! You in your apricot panties. Sitting there, cross-legged on the rug, your music magazine spread in front of you as if it were a horny girl with her legs open, just for you . . . you in your apricot panties.

You in your panties, your sun-bleached hair perennially falling in your face, your wholesome little breasts enjoying their "bra optional" freedom . . . you in only your panties, your apricot panties.

Your apricot panties, with slits at the hips that give me a window on the sleek, fleshy world of your just-below-the-waist contours. Your apricot panties, whose opaqueness around your crotch provides a modesty that is so sensually undermined by the wisps of blonde bush that peek out along the seams.

Your apricot panties, whose sunny color may say "bathing suit," but whose cotton-intimate gusset shouts "private" whenever your moisture begins to seep through.

Something in the magazine makes you laugh. But when your eyes meet mine to share the joke, I know that your mind isn't really on music-biz gossip. You look hungry for me . . . you in your apricot panties.

On the days that I fold our laundry, your apricot panties look so cute in the basket, smiling up at me in their sleep. But "cute" doesn’t cover how sexually dynamic they look on your body. When they're wrapped around your ass, it's impossible for me to separate the wrapping from the package. I'm not seeing apricot panties, I'm not seeing you . . . I'm seeing you in your panties, your panties on you.

Your panties on you, like a neon apricot sign directing me to your cunt. Your panties on you, like fluorescent orange highlighting across the word "sex" on a page full of other words. I don't just want to run my hands over your cheeks and give wet kisses to your pussy. No. What I want is to fondle your derrière in your apricot panties, to mouth your crotch with the fabric between us. To taste cotton that tastes like your pussy, to rub my lips against natural fibers that house your natural fibers.

Your ass is so round beneath them. Hell, even the reinforced seams have a rounded edge to them, as if the manufacturer wanted every detail of this garment to scream femininity. Did the manufacturer know how mouth-wateringly luscious your soft bottom would look in them? Did
he hold the fabric up to the window of his office and ponder how the rich cotton would stretch across the perfect shape of your pale behind? Did he lock his office door to pore over full-color schematic drawings that demonstrated how tightly the orange skin would cloak the corner where mound turns south toward cunt?

I want those drawings.

Craig Sorensen's Electrifying YOU

Craig Sorensen is one of the most electrifying new writers in the erotica firmament. His publication credits are already dazzling and gathering force with stories most recently appearing in Rachel Kramer Bussel's The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories and Alison Tyler's Afternoon Delight. He is definitely a talent to monitor over at the meteorology center, and what do you know, he also has a second person narrative to share that's sure to sizzle! Here's Craig reporting from the eye of the storm:

The story "Photo Finish," from Alison Tyler's Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex, was inspired by an actual late night thunderstorm. I got up and started writing while the story was fresh in my head. It was in second person in my mind, but I translated it into third person, and I realized it seemed less effective through this filter. I started over with the second person voice in my head and it flowed so naturally.

In a sense, it was an accidental success; I didn't think about why it should be in second person. Sometimes you'll hear a sculptor say they just carve the bits that don't belong from the rough stone and reveal what was already inside. This story felt kind of like that. The story was born out of the magic, tense moment of a thunderstorm, sensing the "electricity" when a warm wet front unites with a cold dry one. The lovers personify the fronts colliding. Now, on hindsight, I think second person is the natural extension of this embodiment.

What do you think?

And for the record, yes, I do love thunderstorms...

And now, a teasing tidbit from "Photo Finish":

You’re such a tough woman. Of course I pick on you for this one paralyzing fear. Your slim arms circle my neck like a vise and your breath fills my ear in the black hole silence following waves of cackling thunder. I feel your flannel clad hip graze my hard cock, and I worry that you’ll be angry at how your rare fear turns me on.

I feel you curl your nightgown up your legs. Like a strobe light in a disco, the lightning frames you peeling the nightgown away. Your dilated eyes captured burn in changing colors as you collapse to me like a koala to a eucalyptus. In a safe cocoon of early winter covers, I turn your body under me and I press my fingers between your legs. The thunder chases lightning closely now. Like rubbing a genie’s lamp, lingering on the tiny spout, I draw the moisture from you until it flows like a mountain hot spring. A long pause and I’m surprised when I feel the covers wash out like low tide.

“Please, please fuck me.” Your hoarse voice is less than a whisper. You never say ‘fuck.’ You never plead. I consider toying with you, but it’s not a time to play.

EllaRegina puts YOU in the Driver's Seat

Hey, you! Yes, you. We're not done with you yet. The wonderfully talented EllaRegina has stopped by to give us the insider scoop on one of the most celebrated second person narratives in erotica, "The Lonely Onanista," which first appeared in Best Women's Erotica 2008, was recently reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8, and received top honors from the Rauxa Prize Committee. Here's EllaRegina!

Perhaps some details about the story's original context might be helpful regarding its POV -- that is, understanding the circumstance under which it was written; I believe it informs the piece to some degree:

"The Lonely Onanista" began life as a Craigslist "Casual Encounters" personal ad (in the w4m category), one of eleven such pieces I posted anonymously over a six-month period.

Even though I was posting things closer to narratives/stories than the typical Craigslist ads, my approach was to write them as if they were ads -- elaborately written ones but ads nonetheless -- and as such I consistently used the second person voice in all eleven posts; to do otherwise (in my opinion) would have been presenting them as obvious fiction (even if, paradoxically, they were precisely that to many) and possibly deflecting potential readers in the process.

And, although I was writing to an audience comprising unknown entities in an unknowable quantity -- I was, in my mind, writing to one person, if that makes any sense. And I wanted him, whoever he was, to feel like I was addressing him alone, even if (again, paradoxically) it was quite apparent that he could not be the only one reading the post -- I wanted an urgency, an immediacy. I think many writers have done this, whether to give their work a relevance or to provide a focus -- writing as if they were sending their words to a single individual, known or imagined; Anne Frank and her "Kitty," for example. At the same time "The Lonely Onanista" was, conversely, a love letter to a specific man, someone known to me, and while I composed it the fantasy of this man contributed to my writing momentum.

It wasn't that I sat myself down and said "OK, now I'm going to write a second-person narrative" as a literary exercise. I made a choice in the POV, certainly, but it had to do with my chosen context and audience. (Maybe that decision was, in fact, a literary exercise!). It came naturally. I needed a voice that would connect directly with a prospective reader, putting him in what I call the "driver's seat."

I did get one "complaint" about the specific voice employed, from one of my Beta-testers (a cluster of friends heard these pieces over the phone or read them as they were written). This particular friend's objection was that the voice was too much of a directive: "You will do this," "You will do that" -- and he resented being told what to do, receiving instructions.

Full disclosure (TMI alert): He was a former lover and a major controlling narcissist -- everything was on his terms: a phone call or an evening would terminate when he decided it was over; I wasn't permitted to ask him about "his stuff," et cetera. So, in retrospect, it is no surprise that he reacted the way he did, especially to a piece where I happened to be the author.

I'm not saying everyone who objects to the second person voice is a control freak but I can understand how, for some people, this POV might read like a list of stage directions.

Anyway, that's a back-story tidbit for "The Lonely Onanista," at least pertaining to my use of the second person voice and (hopefully) germane to any POV ponderings.

However, I think my points here regarding POV could be applied to any story. Sometimes the voice called for is obvious. Sometimes the story finds its own voice.

We covered more about the particular genesis, among other things, of "The Lonely Onanista," in our interview, a year ago. Thanks again for that, Donna. It was great fun!

And now, an excerpt from "The Lonely Onanista":

You approach the left side of the bed, the direction where my head is turned. My face is at its edge—I am in a somewhat diagonal pose—and I look up at you, my dark hair in disarray, fallen over my pale face, my bangs in choppy clumps across my forehead. You see one big brown eye following your gaze, half a nose, a portion of mouth, its carmine lips slightly parted. You are still fully clothed. You unbutton your coat and take it off along with your beret and scarf. I watch as you undo your trousers, slowly, button by button. I would reach out and admire the soft wide-wale fabric of the corduroy but my hands are totally occupied. You extract your prick from its hiding spot. It is fat and long and I can see that it is already slightly throbbing. Although it is not the optimum setup for such things, given your height and the relative counterpoint of my horizontal state, you introduce yourself, in lieu of a handshake—another formality not physically possible at the moment—by gently easing your warm erection into my eager mouth, the saliva there already welling, and yet despite the awkwardness of our respective postures it is a most pleasant how-do-you-do. But, oh, I would so very much like to be able to properly arrange myself around your sweet upright cock and give it the salutation it so richly deserves!

You take off your shirt, your undershirt. I ask you to keep your trousers on as well as your shoes. You get onto the bed, between my legs, move my knees apart and sample, with your fingers and mouth, the glistening egg white substance emanating from my body. You lay yourself on top of me, face down, your body perfectly aligned with mine, like open scissors. Your corduroy on my nakedness, your shoes decisively holding my booted feet still, your heavy knockwurst—now steadily pulsating—in repose along the length of my ass crack, cradled as if in a warm bun. I am aware of your heart pounding, almost in unison with my metronome beat. I match my breathing to yours. You lightly bite the nape of my neck, tug my head by the hair, then release it. Your belt buckle presses into the small of my back, hurting me, and I suggest that you remove it. You pull the leather strap from your trouser loops in one motion, like an expert swordsman unsheathing his rapier from its scabbard, and throw it to the floor. My ass is tilted slightly upwards, giving the hands below me room for leverage. This stance offers you the perfect angle for your entrée. You guide your prick inside me, slowly but firmly, filling me up. You lie there for a few moments, not moving, keeping enough stress on my body to make me feel in your command yet allowing me space to freely continue pleasuring myself.

You begin to thrust, at first exactly corresponding to my speed but soon I find that I am following the tempo of your movements instead of leading with my own. The roll of coins imbedded in my ass puts some weight on your prick and this excites you. You grind into me, con gusto, gradually increasing the intensity of your delivery. At a certain point I use all the energy I can muster, untangle myself from your powerful restraint and draw my legs shut. I hold them rigidly, as if they were glued from cunt to heels, knees pressed immutably together. I like doing this. It makes your plunging more challenging yet you are of such sufficient length that you don't dislodge a millimeter—there is a sensation of unretractable tightness, as if you were fucking the virgin of all virgins. I squeeze my buttocks, amplifying the effect.

The original idea was that you would "assist" me. I am, in the end, an Onanista, generally used to pleasuring myself, thanks to the lonely confines of my profession. But you have other plans....

Second Person POV "Taste Test"

Erotic themes have been a mainstay of my writing since college, but I didn’t have the guts to write what I’d officially call “erotica” until the fall of 1997. That’s when I was almost literally possessed by a story I titled “The Blindfold.” It took me many months of revision and polishing and interviewing a fencer and acting scenes out with my husband to get it into something close to final form. I originally wrote it in first person, but a senior member of my writing group suggested second person and because he seemed very cool and was published in literary magazines, I took his suggestion and tried it on for size. I was very pleased with the results. The story seemed all the more personal and exciting and edgy in second person—as we’ve discussed here.

Like any first love, I had high expectations for my baby and sent her out to the now defunct Yellow Silk and Libido and any literary magazine in Writer’s Market that deigned to consider erotica. Form rejections came back by return mail, but finally, in the winter of 1999, the editor of a small literary journal called Rain Crow, accepted it enthusiastically for his first issue. (This editor also worked at Playboy and said my story was better than what they were publishing on their website, which led to a brief gig there before the erotica feature was canceled).

In the meantime, I’d submitted the story to an online writing workshop, Francis Ford Coppola’s Zoetrope. Most readers enjoyed it, but one guy wrote this about the POV:

One of the immediate problems with addressing a you in a story is that the you already knows most of the information you're relating so it becomes self-conscious exposition. When you recount the saber story who are you telling it to? He already knows it. So it's for the reader's benefit. Same with the father's heart attack. When the mechanics of the story show you have problems -- unless that's your intent as it would be with a postmodern story. But this is entirely conventional, realistic fiction. If you move to "him" instead of "you" the story-telling aspect of the piece would come more naturally to the fore. Also, with a you the reader is excluded as audience. In first person narratives you contextualize for an audience, that is, you'd tell the story differently to your priest than your best girlfriend. But here you're telling the story to a you -- but you want the reader to read. I think you should reconsider the mode of address.

I thought he was a pompous ass and didn’t listen to him. The story was reprinted as the first prize winner of the Absinthe Literary Review’s erotica issue. Later, in response to a call for a death and sex anthology, I revised the story to make it more “deathy and sexy.” In many ways this new version was better because I didn’t hold back as much in the sex scenes, but along the way I decided to try revising it back to first person as something “more acceptable.” Rejected by the first anthology, this first person version of the story was taken by Clean Sheets, then reprinted in Best Mammoth 6 and Alison Tyler’s Love at First Sting. For all you newbies to writing, remember this history—tons of rejections up front, five reprints in the end. Perseverance is the key in the writing life!

Anyway, I’m posting the same passage of “The Blindfold” and “Blinded” here for comparison--a taste test of first and second person POV. This section I excerpt immediately follows the introduction, a brief passage that describes the first time the man blindfolds the woman and gives her a bruising kiss. Which version do you prefer?

From "The Blindfold"

That was the beginning. I've lost count of how many times we've done it since then, but it's gotten us through this long winter. Sometimes you blindfold me. Sometimes I blindfold you. It all depends on who comes up with a new idea. It's never the same. That's our unspoken rule.

Not that it's entirely unpredictable. You seem to prefer that I wear some sort of clothing: one of your shirts or a teddy, something you can eventually slip off. After more than a year together, it still excites you to uncover my breasts, weigh them in your hands as if you are touching them for the first time. That's one of the things I like about you.

I prefer you to be completely naked. The first time I blindfolded you, I was the one who was trembling. Although it was my idea that you kneel on the bed wearing nothing but the blindfold, when you actually began to undress with a cool smile, I almost told you to stop. I wasn't sure I really wanted to see your big body so exposed, a band of flowered silk over your eyes with the long, loose ends falling softly down your back. I thought it might somehow diminish you.

But I was wrong. I'd never realized how beautiful your body was. Not that I hadn't appreciated it before, but I'd always focused my gaze on your eyes, your expressions. The rest of you I knew better by touch. But now, with your eyes hidden, I could see you with a new clarity: the taut curves of your arms and chest, the hint of soft flesh at your waist that I found oddly pleasing. I noticed that the hair on your belly fanned out more luxuriantly to the left, and by contrast, your right thigh was slightly more muscular, a legacy of your college fencing days. It didn't take long for you to get hard--it never did when we used the blindfold--and I got to watch that, the delicate jerking movements of your penis as it rose and thickened, drawn upward by invisible puppet strings which, I imagined, led straight to my hands.

I felt like a thief.

From "Blinded"

That was the beginning. I've lost count of how many times we've done it since then, but it's gotten us through this long winter. Sometimes he blindfolds me. Sometimes I blindfold him. It all depends on who comes up with a new idea. It's never the same. That's our unspoken rule.

Not that it's entirely unpredictable. He seems to prefer that I wear some sort of clothing: one of his shirts or a teddy, something he can eventually slip off. After more than a year together, it still excites him to uncover my breasts, weigh them in his hands as if he is touching them for the first time. That's one of the things I like about him.

I prefer him to be completely naked. The first time I blindfolded him, I was the one who was trembling. Although it was my idea that he kneel on the bed wearing nothing but the blindfold, when he actually began to undress with a cool smile, I almost told him to stop. I wasn't sure I really wanted to see his big body so exposed, a band of flowered silk over his eyes with the long, loose ends falling softly down his back. I thought it might somehow diminish him.

But I was wrong. I'd never realized how beautiful his body was. Not that I hadn't appreciated it before, but I'd always focused my gaze on his eyes, his expressions. The rest of him I knew better by touch. But now, with his eyes hidden, I could see him with a new clarity: the taut curves of his arms and chest, the hint of soft flesh at his waist that I found oddly pleasing. I noticed that the hair on his belly fanned out more luxuriantly to the left, and by contrast, his right thigh was slightly more muscular, a legacy of his college fencing days. It didn't take long for him to get hard--it never did when we used the blindfold--and I got to watch that, the delicate jerking movements of his penis as it rose and thickened, drawn upward by invisible puppet strings which, I imagined, led straight to my hands.

I felt like a thief.

“On Top” with the Second Person POV

Thanks everyone for your comments on POV, first, second and third! I’m thinking I may start my new novel in third person, because it would be different from Amorous Woman and I feel like I need a departure. But I may go back to first depending on how it feels. It’s reassuring that you all agree with that intuitive part of the equation!

But on to naughtier topics. Because second person is the most “forbidden” by editors and writing teachers, it’s only natural that we erotica writers would find it particularly attractive, at least on occasion. I actually have two (an appropriate number, no?) second person samples to share. Today I’ll give some author insider background about my story, “Yes,” which appears in Susie Bright’s X: The Erotic Treasury and was first published in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s He’s on Top. So I guess that wicked and verboten second person POV was a success in terms of publication credits!

This particular “you” is not a command as much as an attempt to connect, as in “You know what it’s like when you’re driving down the street and a cop pulls you over and….” It’s a “you” that’s more like an “I.” As I wrote, I felt this as a running monologue in a man’s head. I could slip inside a man’s skin, but still maintain a distance, the way I can sometimes step back from what’s happening to me and make myself into a character. I’m not sure if I’m expressing this well, but this form of second person narrative helped me tackle the challenge of writing from the male POV, which was one of the requirements of the original call for He’s on Top. With my obsession for the truth of a sexual experience, I feel a bit of a fraud when I write as a man, but I also like the imaginative stretch I have to make, too. It reminds me of my acting experiences in high school and college. Plus, my readers can be sure I always make sure to get the story vetted by a biological man a.k.a. Herr Doktor DGS!

Speaking of which, my husband said he “heard” this story as the voice of a woman describing the man’s experience “for” him. Perhaps my husband’s interpretation is not surprising because he heard me read excerpts from “Yes” twice recently as part of Susie Bright’s Bay Area X tour, but it took me by surprise, because when I read it aloud, I always feel like I should be in drag--jeans, a black leather jacket and a strap-on!

Tomorrow, I’ll post a compare-contrast snippet from my story “The Blindfold,” which is in a slightly different second person, and the revised first-person version called “Blinded.” Hey, recycling’s good for the environment….

Without further ado, here’s a fairly tame excerpt from “Yes” that shows how the second person works in this particular story. If you’d like to share your own second person story, published or unpublished, let me know and I’ll post it here for our delectation!

From "Yes":

The next time her little surprise for you is to bake cookies, not from a mix, but special ones with white chocolate and raspberries and fancy liqueur. She says white, sweet, creamy things make her think of you.

You pretend to read the paper while she stirs up the batter and hums like some TV mom from the fifties. But she’s not wearing an apron and pearls. You can see her nipples through her shirt and she has on the same jeans she had on the night you met, with a wide leather belt that makes you think of a slave girl you saw in a history book in school. Back then you wanted to do all kinds of nasty things to the girl in the picture, things you didn’t have a name for.

You know what to call them now.

She waves you over, scoops up a swirl of batter on her finger, and licks it off slowly with the pointy tip of her tongue. She offers you a fingerful and you take it in your mouth. It’s sweet—all butter and sugar and a healthy dash of booze—but that’s not what makes you dizzy. It’s the taste of her underneath, her flesh and her spit, which has the same faintly musky taste as her pussy. She told you once she smells different to herself, tastes different, too, since she met you. As if you’ve marked her.

That’s the flavor you’re searching for on her skin.

You think of taking her right here, lifting her up on the counter. Or bending her over the kitchen table, perhaps, doggy-style. But that little voice, the one you’ve learned to listen to, whispers again.

Wait.

So you pull away and slap her ass and say, “No more fun until you clean up these dirty dishes.”
She pouts, but her eyes twinkle, and she gets right to work, humming her happy homemaker tune.

You walk to your bedroom. Already the plan is taking shape. You remember a story she told about her college boyfriend who begged and begged her to let him fuck her ass until she gave in, but it was lousy. He was too rough and it hurt and he was a real wuss about the mess afterward. She’d never done it since and wasn’t sure she ever wanted to again.

In your book, if a guy begs a woman to let him fuck her ass, he should at least be a gentleman about it. You promise yourself you won’t be like him.

You won’t beg.

A Greek Yogurt Threesome!

As you see, I’m shifting direction in my blogging towards topics that reflect my passions. One of my passions is taste tests, a side-by-side comparison on different foods or wine (and, at least in my fiction, lovers ;-)

This morning I did a taste test of plain Greek-style nonfat yogurts and I thought I’d share the results with my blogosphere foodie friends. Greek yogurt is one of my favorite healthy indulgences. It’s rich and creamy, but a nutritional powerhouse, packed full of healthy yogurt cultures and extremely high in protein. I used to be an uber-carb girl—Life cereal for breakfast, bagel and peanut butter for lunch, pasta for dinner. This fit with my vegetarian preferences, but I was always hungry between meals. Then I discovered the satisfying magic of eating lean protein at every meal. Protein lasts and it’s brain food. I’ve definitely noticed that a breakfast of yogurt and high-protein cereal makes a difference to my writing productivity.

Back to my fat-free Greek yogurt taste test. I compared three brands: Fage Greek Yogurt, the most available brand in supermarkets (it’s also at Trader Joe’s at a discount and Costco in larger tubs for a good price); Stonyfield Farm’s Oikos Organic Greek Yogurt from Whole Foods; and Trader Joe’s house brand Greek yogurt. I tasted them unadorned, but usually add a touch of cinnamon (which controls blood sugar naturally) and vanilla. Here are my notes:

Fage (pronounced Fah-yeh): This is the only brand I’d had before. It’s readily available but expensive--$4 plus for two servings. The texture is thick, rather like whipped cream cheese, so it doesn’t mix with fruit or cereal as smoothly. The taste was mild and familiar. This is definitely the choice for cooking or baking. 120 calories per 1 cup serving, 20 grams of protein, $4.59 for two servings at Trader Joe’s, more elsewhere.

Oikos: Creamier than Fage. The first taste is tart, but expands into a very subtle and complex yogurt flavor. I was reminded of Bulgarian yogurt. I also got a hit of sitting on a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean. The poet’s choice, if you can find it, plus it's organic. 120 calories per 1 cup serving, 23 grams of protein, $4.99 for two servings at Whole Foods.

Trader Joe’s house brand: This is the thinnest of the three and also has the biggest hit of tartness out of the gate. However the flavor quickly fades. Quality-wise, this comes in third, but the price is right and I think without competition it will satisfy nicely. 120 calories per 1 cup serving, 22 grams of protein, $2.79 for two servings at Trader Joe’s.

My conclusion is that I’ll stick with the occasional Fage, but will splurge on an Oikos when I’m hankering for a trip to southern Europe.

Fly With Me?

Okay, I just bought another copy of The Mile High Club for a very lucky frequent traveler friend on Amazon. Won't you fly with me? You get two great erotica books in a 2 for 1 offer, plus you get to make history as part of an erotica-lovers' Amazon spike day campaign.

If you'd like to get a sneak preview of the delightfully hot and entertaining tales, check out "Wild Child" by Matt Conklin, in its entirety, and totally complimentary, like the peanuts they hand out in flight. This story was a stand-out for me and a big favorite. Okay, it could be because the feisty submissive female is named "Donna," but there are plenty of other reasons I'd best not name in a family blog like this!

After you read this story, you are sure to want to buy this book, so do it TODAY!

Here are the details from editor Rachel Kramer Bussel:

I'm running a special promotion: order The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories from Amazon.com anytime on Monday, March 23rd, and I'll send you any of my Cleis Press books you want, for free (Do Not Disturb, Tasting Him, Tasting Her, Yes, Sir, Yes, Ma'am, He's on Top, She's on Top, Rubber Sex, Crossdessing, Hide and Seek, Caught Looking, Rubber Sex, Best Sex Writing 2008, Best Sex Writing 2009).

Instructions:

1. Purchase The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories on March 23, 2009 from Amazon.com (MUST be on that date and MUST be from Amazon.com)

2. Forward the receipt to milehighantho at gmail.com AND tell me which of the above books you'd like

U.S. addresses only (sorry!)

Writer Talk: Point of View

This is my first effort at the "nonpromotional" blog post. The idea is just to share my experiences actually writing fiction and hear any ideas or comments you might have. But there's no obligation because this is more of a "morning pages" type meditation to try to figure out my own writing process.

It is so wonderful to be writing fiction again. It's like a tall glass of ice water on a hot day. I just want to keep drinking and drinking. Mmmm......

So, I finished one new story in the past two weeks and had another on my list, but a completely different one brazenly pushed itself forward and I couldn't resist the little hussy. What I found interesting (to me, anyway) is that the first story was a sort of mystery tale and I instinctively chose the third person. The main character is in a very protective place in her life and the POV seems to add to that intriguing distance, that question of why this woman is engaging in these edgy sex acts. This new one, however, just screamed for my first-person wry observer, very much like my protagonist, Lydia, in Amorous Woman. This approach to a story feels more comfortable for me, certainly for a long-term project like a novel.

I've read in writing/publishing how-to books that third-person is preferred by many editors. Some literary magazine editors will actually send rejections saying "we have too many first-person narratives." And of course third-person allows you to hop around to different characters more easily among other advantages. Most blockbuster novels are sagas which follow the fates of many different characters in that way. Yet for me, erotic writing is more intimate as a confession. I'm going to start writing my second novel with "I's" but I'm also wondering if I should try a page or two in third-person, just to see how it feels. Any thoughts on the advantages of one or the other are most welcome here or "in private."

This brings up the question of second-person, which I actually enjoy writing, but seems to drive many editors and readers INSANE for some reason. More on that later. Hope you're having a good weekend!

An Offer You CAN'T Refuse!

I'm not sure why I have this thing for Don Corleone. Maybe it's because our names have the same first three letters? But it's probably because I really like to make people offers they can't refuse. (A freshly baked cookie anyone?)

Here is one irresistible offer courtesy of editor Rachel Kramer Bussel who's inspired some of my best writing over the past several years. Her very newest anthology has my story "Nasty Little Habit," which I researched on my plane trip to Japan last spring. You can read this and many more soaringly sexy stories set in the stratosphere, plus pick up some very sweet frequent flyer rewards on Monday, March 23. Here are the details:

I'm running a special promotion: order The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories from Amazon.com anytime on Monday, March 23rd, and I'll send you any of my Cleis Press books you want, for free (Do Not Disturb, Tasting Him, Tasting Her, Yes, Sir, Yes, Ma'am, He's on Top, She's on Top, Rubber Sex, Crossdessing, Hide and Seek, Caught Looking, Rubber Sex, Best Sex Writing 2008, Best Sex Writing 2009).

Instructions:

1. Purchase The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories on March 23, 2009 from Amazon.com (MUST be on that date and MUST be from Amazon.com)
2. Forward the receipt to milehighantho at gmail.com AND tell me which of the above books you'd like
U.S. addresses only (sorry!)
But wait--it gets better! Alison Tyler is sweetening the deal with another freebie.

If you buy Rachel's book plus one of my books, I will also send you a free book of your choice from my back list. . . .

Just drop me an email (to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com) to say that you bought TMHC on the 23rd and let me know which of my titles you purchased and which one you'd like. (You need to choose a Pretty Things Press or Cleis book from me. But that gives you about 50 titles to choose from.) So you buy two books and get two books free.
I'm telling you even I cannot resist a bargain like this, though I have erotica books piled and pawed in every corner of my bedroom. But I have a traveling friend with a birthday coming up and I know she'd just love a little basket filled with The Mile High Club, the out of print Yes, Sir (that's right, folks, it's a collector's item), and Never Have the Same Sex Twice!

So join me on Monday for this 4-for-2 offer as we watch those Amazon numbers sink to triple digits. Do it for erotica, for the wonderful authors in The Mile High Club like Craig Sorensen, Jeremy Edwards, and Sommer Marsden, but most of all do it for the Don!

He never forgets a favor.

Back Home from a Long Journey

They say travel is broadening, and my boundaries have been tested in the most enjoyable way by the visits to so many wonderful hotel rooms over the past weeks. I want to thank all the party guests in Suite 69 who shared their storytelling talents in celebration of hotel sex and the publication of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. This truly was an Arabian Nights of the modern day and I am so thrilled to be part of this supportive and brilliant community of erotic artists! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

While I love traveling, but I also like coming back home. Over the past weeks, I've been thinking about another journey I've taken. It's been a little over a year since I started learning about book promotion in order to give my novel, Amorous Woman, a tiny chance of reaching readers. In a way, it was a journey to a foreign land for me, a year-long stay in a place where I didn't know the language or customs, and sometimes wasn't sure I wanted to be there at all. However, the adventure brought great rewards as well. Nearly every contributor to the party in Suite 69 is a friend now due to my efforts to "put myself out there."

Who knows how successful I was as a promoter in the "traditional" sense? Someone recently mentioned an article suggesting that only the very top writers benefit from the promotional machine and the middling writers fare the same as those who do nothing. This might be referring to corporate measures of "success," which are not my measures (by those standards I am a failure and always will be). Perhaps my resistance against that machine, which deemed me unworthy, was completely futile, but I did gain so much. I learned I can do things I never thought I could, but most of all, I made so many wonderful writer friends, so I refuse to accept that pronouncement as truth, even if the financial aspect of it proves the point.

For quite a while now, I've also been talking about a new novel I'd like to write. People are always asking "what's next?" and I had an answer in terms of what, but not when. I was still too caught up in the promotional chase. But recently I realized that it is time to come home to my own writing. I feel an urgency now, a visceral need to do it, that hasn't been there before. Of course, I will have to cut back on some activities to make time for my writing and put that first on my priority list. I will still be blogging a few times a week, doing my columns and doing a few interviews. I'll also be weighing in here on the experience of writing a second novel, which has its own challenges, many of which are the same as writing a first! I'm always happy to join in a blog tour or add my photo to a voyeur's peep into the private lives of erotica writers. But the main focus of my writing will not be in the blog0sphere for some time to come. (I'm also hoping that by announcing this publicly, I'll be motivated to keep this promise to put my new work first).

I do hope my blog buddies will continue to stop by now and then and leave comments, as I will do with your blogs. But I'm starting off on a new journey now, destination unknown. Wish me luck.

Tipping the Chambermaid

Wow, look at this suite! Dirty glasses and plates all over. Tortilla chip crumbs and egg salad stains on the carpet. The bed--a mess, but I won't point fingers. No wonder the maid is reprimanding us and reaching for her feather duster. Yes, it's time to let the chambermaids take over for this last installment of our hot-el sex party in celebration of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

The first chambermaid story I highly recommend is Andrew Wilson's "The Afternoon of a Venetian Chambermaid" in Maxim Jakubowski's Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, volume 2. I believe I first read this story in Libido or it may have been Scarlet Letters, back when I was a barely published writer, but it's really stayed with me. In spare, but evocative prose, Wilson helps us don a maid's uniform for an intimate tour of Hotel Giorgione as we handle the semen-scented sheets and wiggle our way to a pick-me-up orgasm over a bidet. It's voyeurism at its best and took me right back to the strange and gorgeous decay of modern Venice.

For a more modern taste of the chambermaid with other things on her mind, check out Alison Tyler's "Tightly Tucked," a funny and very sexy story in Do Not Disturb--definitely one of my favorites! Will you recognize yourself in Elian, the hedonist who "uses" hotels in every way he can think of? Or Sophie, who is too busy tsking at the poor maid service to do the naughty things the characters are doing in all the other stories in the anthology? Or maybe you relate to the fair Bella, a chambermaid who shares my bad habit of falling into sailors' dialect a little too easily?

I'll admit I see a little of all three in myself. In the spirit of Elian, I lift all the replaceable hotel swag and gobble up any complimentary fruit baskets or mints on the pillow and love throwing towels on the floor. Like Bella, I swear like a Navy Seal and have freckles. And I also clean up after myself, not as much as Sophie, but I sometimes wonder if the maids tsk at my light footprint, my presence nothing more than a slightly rumpled bed and a dirty novel on the nightstand. Having worked as a "maid" in high school, I don't want someone else to have such an intimate look into my life as I did into theirs--and yes, it's been material for stories. I also do it because some of those maids will re-arrange my stuff, and that creeps me out, too, having someone organize my toiletries in some apparently more proper way.

Bella in Alison Tyler's story would never fuck with my stuff--but that's only one of the reasons I like her. In fact, this party was named in her honor ;-).

Tomorrow--final credits and a big thank you to all who shared wonderful stories and left brilliant comments here at the party in Suite 69. Oh, and help yourself to the pens and notepads. They're on the house!

Banker's Lunch at the Roosevelt Hotel

The party in celebration of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, is winding down in Suite 69. I've so enjoyed peeping into hotel rooms around the world--each day a new vacation, a new indulgence. Before we check out, though, I wanted to share one more naughty scene of my own before the chambermaids take over (believe me, you'll want to hang around discreetly for peek at what they do when no one's looking).

Let's travel back to New York again, the hotbed of so much ambition, so much lust and greed. The financial crisis has brought the titans of Wall Street to its knees, as described most recently and eloquently by Jon Stewart in his interview with "Mad Money" Wall Street shill, Jim Cramer. But sometimes, a banker on his knees isn't such a bad thing, especially when you lure him to a midtown hotel room and take total command. Today's refreshments to accompany this snippet from a "woman in her prime takes charge of her life" tale? Provided solely by the hostess herself, of course. Time for lunch!

From “Banker’s Lunch” by Donna George Storey

The sheets had barely warmed around her in the hotel bed when she heard the soft click of the card key in the slot. The door opened. In another moment her afternoon lover was standing at the foot of the bed, blinking in the dim light, an animal unexpectedly set free from its cage.

“You had something you wanted to discuss?”

She liked the hesitation in his voice. A touch of fear, perhaps? She sat up, giving him a glimpse of the red satin corset. She waited a moment before she spoke, savoring the look of surprise on his face.

“We don’t have to talk at all if you’d prefer silence, Mr. Flynn.”

“I’ll let you decide. It pretty clear you’re the one calling the shots here,” he said. Not that he seemed to mind it.

Lauren smiled. Taylor P. Flynn was right. In bed at home—in her ordinary life--she liked to be dominated, although more and more she chafed at such attempts in other parts of the house. But here she was totally in charge, a woman in the prime of life who knew what she wanted and took it. Selfishly. One day at a time.

She stood and walked over to him, her fingers grabbing the lapel of his jacket as she leaned up to kiss him. The cloth was cool and smooth, yet vaguely irritating to her skin. She resisted the urge to tear at it, pull away the shell to uncover the warmer, more vulnerable skin beneath it. She would defile it—and him--in a different way.

“First I want you to turn off your Blackberry. Then take down your trousers,” she said. “I’m going to suck your cock.”

His eyebrows shot up. At her tone or the brazen abruptness of the request, she wasn’t sure, but he went for his zipper without protest. She watched as he stepped out of his trousers and boxers, privately delighting in the fact he was already hard. For her. Which was foolish because penises were notoriously impersonal in their loyalties. His cock would stand to attention for any female in a red corset, no doubt, his admin, a prostitute.

“Don’t take off the jacket yet.”

He stopped, hands on his lapels, and immediately dropped his arms to his side as if to await her next command.

She knelt to take his bobbing erection in her mouth. It tasted…different. Faintly bitter, smelling like money, and yet it was a flavor she craved. It was the first time she’d ever sucked off a man wearing a jacket and tie and the perversity of it spurred her on to a new vigor, lapping and circling the head with her tongue, gripping the base with her hand and she swallowed him and began to hum.

“Jesus,” he whispered, his hand, the one with the wedding band, stroking her hair.

She pulled away. “Do you like that?”

“Yes. Very much.” His hand brushed the corset. “I like this. Where did you get it?”

She sat back on her heels and gazed up at him. He towered over her, and by all rights, it should have been a submissive position, but, oddly, it didn’t feel that way today.

“No questions from you, Mr. Flynn. Just answers. Are you telling me that you are glad you took time off from your esteemed job at one of our nation’s finest banks to do naughty things with a hussy like me?”

“I can’t deny it,” he replied, his lips twitching.

“Then we’ll proceed. Take off your jacket. Not the shirt or the tie. I want you wearing them while we fuck.”

His brow creased in a faint frown. Naturally a fastidious banker would be worried about a mess on his nice, proper uniform.

“I won’t get them dirty. Just a bit of pussy juice on the shirttails maybe, but you can tuck those into your trousers. You won’t mind a little souvenir of me, will you?”

A smile playing on his lips, he shook his head obediently and took off his jacket, tossing it over the desk chair.

“Good boy. Before you put it inside, though, I want you to lick me. With proper deference. Get on your hands and knees, please.”

The smile shifted back to surprise, but he did as he was told.

Lauren sat at the edge of the bed and parted her legs. The garter straps tightened over her thighs, dark against her pale skin. “Come here. Let’s see how wet you can make me.”

His cheeks were flushed now as he crawled the three steps to her, his tie dragging on the carpet. If only the bank president could see him now.

Positioning himself between her thighs, he looked up, as if for a sign to begin. Lauren nodded. His tongue darted out, teasing her clit with quick little flicks. But this felt strange, too. New.
She closed her eyes. She had to get past the strangeness, the chill of this anonymous room, the unusual position, the glint of bright noon sun peeking through the window. Afternoon used to be her favorite time to do it, before her daughter was born. How many times had she wanted just this, a banker licking her twat for lunch?

Hot Shower at the Kabuki Hotel

Saturdays are meant to be lazy. You sleep in nice and late, then take a long, hot shower. Even here in Suite 69, after yesterday’s electrifying story, we all needed a morning in bed to gather our creative energy.

And now it’s time to get wet.

Today’s feature is a steamy little hot-el vignette from Erobintica, another talented newcomer who makes the erotica world such a fun place to be. This piece was originally written from a prompt over at Alison Tyler's blog--the hotbed of many excellent quickies. Robin also took inspiration came from a Japanese-themed hotel, the Kabuki in San Francisco. I love her photo of the shoji windows—there’s nothing softer and sexier than light filtered through fine Japanese rice paper. The story, too, has a definite Japanese flavor, the silences as eloquent as the words.

Our refreshment is, appropriately, the dainty snack that always greets you when you check into a hotel in Japan. This includes a pot of fresh, hot tea and a sample of the local sweet, often something similar to a high-class fig Newton with a baked covering and a filling of sweet bean jam, although interesting variations are common. So snuggle into that hotel robe, sip your tea and get wet with Erobintica.
I tend to take pictures of hotel rooms where I've stayed (well, the nice ones), and I have several shots from our stay at the Kabuki in San Francisco last summer. But I've only once before taken a picture of the shower and that was ... a long time ago. The shower at the Kabuki was large enough to host a decent size party - it was probably 5 X 10 feet or so - the controls were at one end and the nozzles at the other. My husband and kids thought I was silly getting so excited about it (if you saw my shower at home you'd understand). I actually took several shots - but this is the best. Only problem was ... my right arm was in a cast and having a garbage bag over one arm is decidedly unsexy. But I'd bought this giant waterproof mitten thing (in a stunning blue color) for swimming and though not much more attractive, it did require the assistance of my husband. We had some fun, but it would have been easier without the cast. I didn't want to break the other wrist!

Pulsating Jets by Robin Elizabeth

As the sun crept around the heavy hotel drapes, we snuggled. Sleeping clothed is unusual for us. Though sometimes we wear something to bed just to have something to take off. But thanks to a screw up in reservations we had to share a room with your business partner and his wife. They weren’t happy about it. Neither were we.

While our roommates snore, you caress my arm, slide over my tummy, brush my upper thigh. I can feel your arousal nestled against my butt. We rub feet together, wordlessly communicating the longing we both feel. What I wouldn’t give for a wall and a door right now. But you break away and get up to shower. I don’t dare join you.

I lay touching myself as I listen to you turn on the water and adjust the spray. The sounds emanating from the shower are subtle at first. Could easily be mistaken for washing hair or soaping arms. But soon they become more regular, last longer than it should take to wash any single body part.

Listening, I see you in my mind’s eye, water coursing over your body, your hand moving faster and faster. I wonder what images are jumping your synapses. I hardly breathe, straining to hear. Part of me is sad, wanting to be your fist, be the water. The sound is insistent now.

Then, just the steady sound of the shower, the gurgle of the drain.

Swiss Tease at the Hotel Bellevue

The party in Suite 69 has been a buffet of delights, and I'm sure the many talented writers who've already shared their stories will be as happy as I am to know that our tales have brought back fond memories for many of our guests and inspired new writers to step up to the "naughty chair" and share their treats with us.

It's a particular pleasure to introduce this very provocative piece by Isabel Kerr that offers us another perspective on the hotel experience--that of the management who seem to find the milieu just as sensually inspiring as the guests. Isabel herself has gotten my imagination sizzling with her hotel memories of the Swiss lakes, surely one of the loveliest and sexiest places on earth, not to mention this gorgeous photo which has my fingers inching toward my passport. I'm very much hoping to read more of this electric hot-el story soon! Please!

Our refreshments today? Cognac. Just cognac. And a Maitre d'Hotel named Olivier. Do you really need anything more?

Hotel Bellevue by Isabel Kerr

It was early evening and her day was not even close to finished. There was a full list of bookings in the restaurant to attend to and important guests called to say they would arrive later than expected. She had been there since seven in the morning. It was not unusual. The position of Director of The Hotel Bellevue, a five star hotel on Lac Leman in Switzerland, required long hours and unusual dedication. Sometimes she felt chained to the post. She walked quickly and breathed deeply and tried to take her mind off of work for a few minute’s brisk walk along the lakeside.

Sonia stepped through the door into the rich belle époque interior and looked back to see that the distant yellow lights surrounding the lake had begun to flash. It was a warning that there was very bad weather coming and all boats must return to shore. The placid lake was deceptive.

The trees and tall shrubs at the lake side were swaying wildly and the tall lights of the promenade projected the frantic shadows in the interior.

She returned to her office and sat at her broad antique desk reviewing the day’s activity when the head Maitre d’Hotel tapped at the door and entered carrying a silver tray with a bottle of cognac and two snifters. He quietly slid the tray on the desk and leaned forward so that the edge of the desk indented his perfectly creased trousers at the top of his thigh.

She looked up and smiled gently.

“I do apologize for my outbursts this evening. You know this important arrival has made me very nervous, in addition to the impending electrical storm,” she said taking a deep breath and gazing intently into his blue eyes.

“That’s all right, you know I’m up to the punishment. There is indeed electricity in the air, but I’m not sure it has anything to do with the storm,” he said.

She shifted forward so that she was leaning against the desktop. Her silk blouse was pulled taut across her breasts and he could see her nipples hardening . Olivier poured their cognac, walked around to where she was seated, handed her a glass, and half sat on the edge of the desk. He crossed his legs and Sonia could see the swelling in his trousers.

The wind was howling on the lake outside her office window and rain slammed against the building. With a great crack the first bolt of the lightening lit up the room. The lights flickered and went out.

“We should take care of that,” she said.

“Won’t Serge see to the generator?” he said with a confused look.

“No, I mean this,” she smiled as she slid her hand up his thigh.

Welcome to Hotel Guacamole

EllaRegina is a relatively new presence on the erotic scene, but she's already a monumental presence. We first met when we shared the TOC in Best Women's Erotica 2008, which is still a bestseller on Amazon--and I'm certain one of the main reasons is EllaRegina's fabulous story, "The Lonely Onanista." Today, she's agreed to entertain us with some south of the border hotel fun. The refreshments? Margaritas by the pitcher, a tub of fresh gaucamole with a big, fat stirring stick, and plenty of freshly fried blue corn tortilla chips. I just can't stop chowing down on those puppies, the more guac, the better...which is just how I feel about EllaRegina's delectable erotic tales. Here she is!

I live in a city boasting an abundance of hotels, motels and Holiday Inns -- to slightly paraphrase the Sugarhill Gang -- from the tawdry to the refined. I have never bunked in any of them, however, though I have visited people, and when I say visited I don't mean it with quotation marks. EllaRegina has neither hanked nor panked in a Manhattan hotel room, much to her chagrin, mostly because she has her own apartment.

My hotel story offering for Suite 69 is a fun feverish frolic in sunny Mexico, inspired by the ever-awesome Alison Tyler and written for one of her famous flasher contests. In this case we were presented with a lovely Post-it note sketch by the artist behind the website Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes and asked to write a short piece based on what we saw.

Naturally, being the nutty broad I am, I wrote a story involving a man and a woman, then realized -- duh -- we're tawkin' naked CHICKS, yo, so went back and produced a green tale of Lesberotica. (Frankly, I thought the figures looked quite androgynous, myself...) Here is the hetero flasher, slightly edited. This nutty broad always has some loose nuts and bolts to tighten.

Ñ-joy!

EllaRegina


"FUCKING GREEN" by EllaRegina

We were fucking green. And it wasn't the food or the water. Yes, we were in Mexico so it could have been either but it wasn't. For starters, the bed in our hotel was made up with sheets the color of guacamole.

And tonight, after a few too many Margaritas, we decided to go all the way. I knew it was only a matter of time before this would happen.

"Call Room Service," said Frederic, "and order a tub of guac."

"Tub?" I asked, wanting to be sure. "You mean a 32-ounce container, like what I buy at Whole Foods?"

"No, I mean tub, as in industrial size. Their entire pantry supply. Whatever they have. The other guests are going to be guacamole-free tonight, I'm afraid."

Twenty minutes later a small man carried a white plastic bucket half his height and twice his width into our room and set it down like a sacrificial animal. It was identical in size to the gigantic pail of drywall compound the construction workers had brought to our loft when we were remodeling.

"OK, Mami, follow me," commanded Frederic, hauling the delivery of green.

We went into the bathroom and stood in the shower. First he covered me, every part of my body except my pony-tailed sun-washed hair. Then I slathered him, finishing with his heavy cock which immediately gave me a stiff green salute. The guacamole was the perfect consistency. Not too many chunks, nicely thick. It was like getting a full-body facial. And avocados are good for the skin.

All coated, Mexican Martians, we ran to the bed and jumped into the green cotton, some guacamole going splat onto the multicolored tile floor in the process.

Frederic was inside me before I could say ayuda.

His guacamole stirrer fucked me hard. The sound was amazing, like a cartoon inventory of squeaks, slurps and drips. Frederic normally did more than fill me up but this was dinner and a show. The guacamole gave his cock an indescribable additional texture.

I was already wet. This made me wetter, and spreadable.

We were all over each other, really messing up the dip. It rubbed onto the sheets but was invisible, being of the same hue. We scrambled in a south-of-the-border guacamole-mud wrestle.

Frederic licked my every inch -- he was a big fan of avocados -- and when he arrived at my pussy, he got a refreshing midnight snack along with my indigenous flavor. He fucked me until we both came in a psychedelic dream of green. I felt him shoot into me, mixing with the guacamole, and the sensation of it all -- the cool pulpy ooze, his hot offering, cock in war cry shiver as he gave a primal grunt -- was overwhelming. I thought we would both die on the spot. I imagined the hotel staff finding us the next morning, dead, limb-locked in an embrace, streaked with slimy green patches, shaking their heads over yet another pair of guacamole-crazed American tourists. I wondered if the color of our lifeless flesh would go well with avocado green.

Sexy Hotels and a Taste of "Room Service"

I just wanted to mention that another juicy bit of excerpt from "Room Service," my story in Do Not Disturb is up on Rachel Kramer Bussel's blog along with some of my musings on sexy hotels around the world, my favorite part of a hotel room for erotic encounters, and other hot-el related secrets.

Check-in time is now, baby!

Motel Sex and Dangerous Women

Kirsten Monroe is a dangerous woman. I’m an easily distractible kind of girl and Kirsten’s lovely blog, Aphrodite’s Table, is always serving up the kind of distractions that are mostly likely to…distract me. There’s the lush, provocative images to intrigue the eye. The mesmerizing musings on life and art to feed the spirit. The luscious tidbits and links to her sizzingly sensual prose, such as her latest story in Lucrezia, “Blessed Hellride,” to get some other juices flowing. And last, but not least, there’s the food porn, oh, god, the recipes, the descriptions—through Kirsten’s words and her obvious passion for sensual pleasure of the culinary kind (which is the Siamese twin of eros, imo), I’m lost. But sometimes distractions lead to wonderful things, like the sumptuous blog progressive dinner Kirsten and I co-hosted back in darkest January and February of this year.

Naturally food is a highlight in Kirsten’s offering in our celebration in Suite 69. She’s brought us a charming picnic: a crustless egg salad sandwich (home-baked bread and the best egg salad you’ve ever tasted with fresh dill and fresh mayonnaise), rum & Cokes (the combination works, especially in motels), and a selection of sweet coconut treats, among other things, for dessert. She’s also brought a delectable story in a flavor that’s very nostalgic to me—the English lesson that turns into something much more. And of course, these photos are courtesy of her, each a snapshot of inspiration, a narrative in themselves. Without further ado, I’ll pass the mike to Kirsten. Sit back and enjoy!

When Alison Tyler put out her contest call for Motel stories I immediately thought of Miami. Then I thought about Miami in the 1950s, which led me to imagine an old library, a hot librarian, a Cuban boy, a red Bel Air, Cinderella pumps, yellow chiffon, dark skin on white marble, tacky bedspreads, and English lessons. Of course I thought of food too. Sandwiches in waxed paper bags pulled from a little picnic hamper. Rum & Coke to soothe the nerves & untangle the tongues. Older woman, younger boy. Illicit sex. Teaching moments. Naughty and sweet, tacky and literary. That's how this odd little tale came about.

Rubber on Paper by Kirsten Monroe

Manny Cruz is sweating. His hand is India ink on the white marble countertop. A damp pool of it. I look up at him, sternly, through black-framed cat-eyes.

There is a rustle of yellow chiffon against calf as I reach for my stamp. I press wet rubber to paper and mark the due date. My recommendation. I know what he’ll ask next.

“English lessons?” His accent is molasses and honey.

I nod, then whisper, “Tomorrow. Sweet Coconut.”

It’s tacky and so outrageous that it’s discreet -- the Sweet Coconut. All burnt-orange bed spreads and Pine-Sol twang, a couple of haggard old palm trees in front.

We shower. Manny feels me up slowly, eyes closed, trembling. I press the small yellow soap between his cheeks, across his chest, under his balls. He is taught and smooth and hard. I tell him no. Not yet.

I open a hamper, hand him a crustless egg salad sandwich, mix a couple of rum & cokes. The boy can’t learn on an empty stomach.

“Now,” I say, climbing onto the bed in a black babydoll and Cinderella Lucite pumps. “Read.” He cracks the spine. Dirty words leap from the page. A month from now he’ll understand them -- after I untangle his tongue and smooth out his diction.

He reads slowly, his twisted words like tantra music. I moan corrections, touch myself to show him. His heavy, dark cock swells against his belly. I take it, spread my lips, lower myself onto him, and the words come tumbling out.

Is Bigger Better "Down There"?

Happy Hump Day, everyone! This is an especially happy hump day because my cheeky little report on a cute Japanese folklore figure with extra large...ahem, male endowments...is being featured on Sommer Marsden's "Hump Day Heresy" feature at her always-titillating Smut Girl blog. Pop on over for some eye-popping photos--and do not miss that woodblock print!

A word of warning: Once you learn about the tanuki, the word "money bags" will never be the same again.

Your Very Own Complimentary Suite at the Plaza

Suite 69 is a lovely place, but it’s rather difficult to describe the décor. Maybe that’s because it keeps changing every day as we travel around the world, in more ways than one. Today we find ourselves in the Big Apple, the stomping ground of D.L. King, when she’s not off in Blackpool cavorting with other erotica writers, hosting spanking parties for visiting West Coasters or at her desk editing Erotica Revealed. I got my first delicious taste of D.L.’s New York stories in her haunting and appropriately named “A New York Story” in Best Lesbian Erotica 2008. Today D.L. takes us on a teasing tour through time and space to that prime bit of real estate, a suite in the old Plaza Hotel. There's no room service at this fading beauty, unless you bring your own picnic, but I guarantee when you feast on this juicy appetizer, you’ll be begging for more! And now, D.L. King in her own words:

Here’s the beginning of a short story I wrote about the closing of The Plaza Hotel in New York. It’s since been reopened, but it’s not the same. Now there are apartments going for between four and eight million. There are still some hotel rooms, too, but things have changed; an era has ended. Before the renovation began, they closed the old Plaza and let all the staff go. (There were waiters who had worked there for more than forty years.) This story is about saying good-bye to a piece of New York that will never return. But however sad that thought might be, this isn’t a sad story; it’s just another New York story. Hope you like it.

“I told you, I have a master key. Who’s gonna know?”

I couldn’t help being sceptical. There stood my bride of thirty-six years, right in font of me, hand on her hip, getting more and more pissed off by the second.

“It’s your last chance to be a part of New York history. Look, I worked there for thirty-eight years but I’m not old enough to retire. You know what that means? That means I get crap. What do they care? Where am I supposed to go now?

“Mira, I really want to do this. I dreamed about it forever. I want it to be with you, Papi, but if you won’t come with me, I’ll go by myself. Where’s my fucking vibrator?”

Immaculata rummaged in the drawer of her bed table, pulling out various items; a flashlight, an eye mask, a pair of handcuffs, a paperback... “Fuck, where is it?” Finally she found the blue vibrator with the pearls and the little rabbit on it. It was her favorite.

She pointed it at me like a gun. “Last chance; Mami’s still pretty hot, don’t you think?” She turned around and wiggled her ass at me, then turned back to face me again. “Don’t you want to fuck in a suite at The Plaza?”

She was so hot. I think she was even hotter than the day we got married. Standing there, in her black suit and those red stilettos, her hair in a bun at the back of her neck, she was scary-hot.

“¿A qué le temas? I can’t get fired, Baby.”

“I’m not scared of nothin’. All right, come on, I’ll go with you.”

“Good, go get your jacket, I’ll be right there.”

Sure, she couldn’t get fired, but we could probably get arrested or something. She was right, though; I’d never seen anything more than the housekeeping offices and one of the kitchens. I’d always wanted to see the upper floors and the fancy rooms and now that they were closing the hotel, this would be my only chance. Besides, Immaculata always knew what she was doing.

She came out of the bedroom with her sexy leather jacket and sunglasses on, carrying her black Coach bag, and we were out the door. We rode the train downtown to the park and got off. I followed her half-way down 58th Street, to an unmarked door which she opened with a key. We didn’t meet anyone else as we walked down the dim corridor, finally arriving at the deserted housekeeping offices.

“The supervisory staff is the last to go. The maids are long gone and now there are only three of us left. I doubt anyone’s here tonight, so relax,” Immaculata said. “The top floors haven’t been stripped yet. We’ll take the service elevator.”

“Ms. Rivera!”

We both turned around to see two men entering the offices. Emmie seemed unfazed as she greeted one of the department heads.

“Hello Mr. Williams. This is my husband, Juan. I wanted to finish the floor inventory list before I forgot. Is this your son?”

“My son? No, Mr. Malone is, ah, interested in the hotel plumbing fixtures. Nice to meet you Mr. Rivera.” They headed off toward the service elevator. “Don’t work too hard,” Mr. Williams added from down the hall.

After they’d gone up, I turned to Immaculata. “That was close Emmie, maybe we’d better—Aye, Mami!“

“What’s the matter, Baby?” she said. Her hand had found its way inside my pants after taking the zipper down. Her fingers were cold, but warming up fast. So was my cock. “Let’s go,” she said, leading me to the elevator.

“But Immaculata, Mr. Williams...”

“...Is already upstairs. I’m so sure they’re interested in plumbing; well, maybe each other’s plumbing. Anyway, he’ll probably be going up to 19; we’ll go to 15. Have I got a view of the park for you!”