Craig Sorensen Shines This Sunday

Today at F-Stop we have our first male artist revealing himself and his art in a rich and moving essay "Warm Comforts on Naked Flesh." This photograph of the author in his writer's "zone" was taken by Craig's talented wife, DeDe Sorensen--I just love that spiritual glow. When you read Craig's essay, I'm sure you'll be inspired to expose yourself at F-Stop, too, so hop on over for a true Sunday treat and then put on your thinking cap. We want you naked!

Gettysburg, Day 3: Blood and Orgies

Ha, it’s hard to see the word “blood” or "orgy" these days without thinking of those ever-lucrative sexy vampire stories, but you won’t find much of that here at Sex, Food and Writing. Except maybe tomorrow. But for today my post title refers to the bonds of blood. As in my family reunion. As in a big huge Catholic one. As in enough bonds there to make for one hell of a bondage story… but I'll try to be clean-minded, as my Magical History Tour continues with a trip into my family past the afternoon of August 9. (And the photo above is just a teaser about the orgy, which really did happen--in a rhetorical sense.)


My oldest sister had attended several of these annual events which had been revived about five years ago, and she knew the drill. First we had to stop at the big old Giant supermarket on Route 30 to buy our lunch supplies—a veggie tray and sandwiches for us, takeout Chinese for the boys. Then we stopped at my cousin’s place along the way to see her amazingly whimsical house and garden. Her husband is a jack-of-all-trades artist and blacksmith and we got to see his old-fashioned forge and some of the beautifully crafted hinges he was making for a construction project, among other highlights. I mention this because these creative touches and magical spaces (especially the “bottle tree,” an iron rack decorated with colored bottles and glittering old CD’s) reminded me that we can add delight and art to our lives in all sorts of simple, but effective ways. I’m wondering if some of the beautiful places I visited on this vacation didn’t inspire my very dedicated bout of fall cleaning this year—my first step in bringing more serenity and space into my life! So far, the unburdening of stuff has been very liberating for body and mind, although I have a lot more to do.

But I digress.

Our next stop was the family reunion itself at the hall of a picturesque church situated on a winding country road. Corn fields all around, the sense of rural community—it was definitely a trip into the past. Family reunions of yore were usually at parks in the summer or church halls in the winter. I could go on and on about my extended family, but I’ll try to keep this brief. First, the food culture. Although aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins and all greeted each other warmly as we arrived, lunch was clearly serious business and all the families sat down with their own brood and shoveled down the chow with grim determination. Most of my relatives had brought homemade things—the Smith family traditional roasted chicken or baked beans in a crockpot or some such hot lunch dish. We sat in our corner eating the fontina and roasted veggie sandwiches, and I recalled that my cousin who arranged the event said we could probably share in the other relatives’ food since we were the official “traveled the farthest” attendees. But really, that would have involved circulating from family to family with an empty plate and a hungry smile, so if you’re ever invited to the Smith family reunion, I definitely recommend bringing your own lunch.

When we’d finished our savories, people started wandering over to the potluck dessert table and the visiting began. I was also interested to see about half of the offerings were store-bought and the other half—including my pecan cookies—were homemade. To my amusement and delight, the homemade items disappeared rapidly, while the packaged goods languished untouched. Clearly my extended family knows how to indulge in sweets! A real highlight was two big dishes of rice pudding baked from my grandmother’s recipe by my cousin, the organizer of the reunion. He’s taken this as his duty to preserve the iconic family dish, which I think is very cool. Grandma Annie’s rice pudding was served at every Sunday dinner, not as dessert but more as the sweet part of the Pennsylvania Dutch sweets and sours menu. I usually make a Danish-style rice pudding recipe with gelatin, rum and whipped cream, but this version is nostalgia itself—cooked rice mixed with eggs, milk, fake vanilla (if you want to do it like Grandma) and a bit of salt. Pour it in an enameled dish, dust with cinnamon and bake in the oven with the roast chicken. The result is a soft, mildly sweet rice layer with the thinnest band of yellow custard on top. It’s very good and very satisfying in a down-home way, and I’m thinking I have to make it myself sometime, for the sake of tradition. I think it would be great as a breakfast dish!

Anyway, as I said, I could go on and on with the family stories and maybe later I will tell you how my sense of myself as an outsider was clearly formed to some degree by my relationship with my extended family (who all still lived in the same town, while my mother couldn’t wait to get out!). Suffice to say now, I have a new heroine in terms of aging gracefully, my Aunt Betty who will be ninety in a few weeks. Not only is my aunt active, smiling and beautiful (you’d confuse her for 70), her mind is amazingly lively. She told me she’s starting to write her memoirs and I encouraged her strongly because I would love to read them!

The other interesting thing about the reunion was that everyone told me I looked just like my mother. This is actually a huge compliment, so it’s not that I minded, although of course we were all sad that she couldn’t be with us. Interesting though, that on a trip that was all about ghosts, I was suddenly a ghost myself.

Kind of uncanny. But as you know, such poignant, strange moments are very nourishing for my creative mind.

So, the afternoon went by quickly for the chatting, benevolently haunting adults and very slowly for my kids (who distracted themselves building Legos with some distant cousins), but finally we had to make our exit as we had an exciting event to attend in the evening. On the way back to our hotel, my sister drove us past my grandmother’s house at 113 Oxford Avenue in McSherrystown. Here’s a picture, but the house looks nothing like my grandmother’s place as I knew it beyond the same address and the same general arrangement of porch and windows. The red shingle siding is gone, as is the trellis on the front porch, the porch swing where I spent hours daydreaming and making up my earliest stories, the Victory garden in the back. I can only imagine that the inside with its steep staircase and dusty old-fashioned rooms was gutted. In this case, the past was not waiting unchanged for my fond return!

Okay, enough of the past.


Now we get to the good part: the grand gala erotic writers’ dinner at La Cucina in Hanover! First, a special thanks to local eroticist extraordinaire, Craig Sorensen, for choosing such a yummy restaurant and making the arrangements. Once Herr Doktor and I walked in and sat down at the long table, I felt as if the restaurant were our personal party joint—not that we read aloud from our most recent BDSM-themed stories or anything, but we talked freely as the BYOB wine flowed (thanks to Jeremy Edwards, Helia Brookes and Marina St. Clare for bringing some delicious fruits of the vine). In fact, this was another reunion with Jeremy, Helia Brookes, Heidi Champa and her husband, Emerald and Craig, DeDe and Cyn Sorensen (who took the photo at the top of this post), all of whom I’d met before. However, it was my first in the flesh encounter with Erobintica and Marina St. Clare, who’d driven down from die-hard Yankee country especially for this event.

Now, as I’m sure most readers of this blog are aware, getting to know someone in cyberspace is very different from the traditional way you had to do it before technology transformed human interactions forever. In the old days, you approached a new friend from the outside in, but in blogland it’s really from the inside out. I first “met” Erobintica and Marina through the progressive blog dinner, and I’d had the pleasure of reading their stories, blog posts and emails discussing the writing life. So I “knew” them in one sense and yet I’d be seeing them for the first time.

Not that I was nervous, just I was reminded what a novel situation this was in the course of human history. I mean, sure, you could befriend someone through letters in the old days, but this was different.

And yet, it’s also interesting that it took about one second to process the face and smile, link it with the internet relationship, and suddenly it’s as if I’d had coffee with Marina and Erobintica many times, as if we’d discussed the eroticist’s experiences in person instead of through emails. Yep, it was pretty much instantaneous—cool how the mind works. Also I have to say I’ve never liked a person in cyberspace and not slipped right into warm friendship when I’ve met them in person. It could be that erotica writers are just very cool people—which is certainly true! But there are so many cautionary tales of Internet persona not being what they seem--the most obvious being men who pose as women to lure unsuspecting males into cybersex. Yet for me, the cyber-café has always been a fairly trustworthy way to get to know someone.

So, having connected and reconciled the real people with the Internet personae quite effortlessly, we all proceeded to feast and make plans to bring enlightenment to the world through smart stories about sex. A kind of benevolent global warming campaign, if you will. In the meantime we dined heartily on focaccia, salad, and various pasta dishes. Jeremy recommended the gnocchi from his past lunch with Craig, and being a big fan, I ordered that dish and thoroughly enjoyed it. But dessert was the best part for me. Erobintica had brought down her famous homemade chocolate cake with tangy chocolate frosting (I hear the secret is using some of the extra buttermilk in the frosting), so we all got to sample a moist, chocolately slice along with another tin of my pecan cookies I’d kept away from my devouring relatives.

Yes, we were all delightfully sated on pasta and sweets, but as erotica writers, we were more than ready for another round of fun, so we headed back to Jeremy and Helia’s hotel room for an orgy—of conversation, you dirty-minded readers, please! I will admit the topic turned to hotel sex and wild adventures we’d had within the oddly liberating confines of a rented room. But the physical manifestation of our verbal pleasures, as we lounged about on the beds drinking wine from plastic cups, was not especially provocative, unless you count Emerald’s boots!


These are pretty wild, don’t you think? A hotel sex story in the making all by themselves!

To conclude this delightful evening, Herr Doktor came to collect me a little after 11 pm (he was checking on our boys who’d hardly noticed we were gone since they were given unlimited Game Boy time) and I bid my writer friends a temporary adieu as we’d be breakfasting together the next morning. I can’t vouch for what happened after I left, but it may show up, transformed into fiction of course, in some future story? I know I’ll be watching the erotic anthos for group sex romps on hotel beds involving plastic cups of red wine and a few pieces of chocolate cake….

I’ll conclude by saying it was real delight to gather with so many cool, creative people who share an open-minded sensibility about eroticism. I hope we can do it again sometime—I think we all felt the same way. Perhaps in Italy with Isabel Kerr in 2012?

Next time—are the Amish really clueless or just plain perverted?

Bottoms Up is Spanking Good!

I just saw a chart in a foodie magazine showing how July is the high season for almost every stone fruit and berry: peaches, nectarines, apricots, cherries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, not to mention melons like cantaloupe, orange flesh honeydew, galia, sharlyn.... This time the press is not lying, I'm literally moaning with delight at the bounty of tempting, fragrant fruits on my kitchen counter today (I hate refrigerating fruit if I can help it 'cause it seriously destroys the ripe flavor). I don't think of myself as religious in any way, but I will agree with a man I overheard at the Farmer's Market: "When I bite into an Arctic Jay nectarine, I know there is a God."

What does this have to do with spanking? Well, the latest treat in my ripe, juicy, bursting-sweet literary July just arrived in my mailbox, Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories, edited by the empress of the spanking genre, Rachel Kramer Bussel. The anthology is full of delicious stories by Craig Sorensen, Gwen Masters, Stan Kent, Sommer Marsden, and Alison Tyler, and of course, yours truly. In fact, I start off the anthology, I'd guess because my story is about a couple's very first spanking. Although the woman doesn't know it yet. You'll have to read the story to find out what I mean!

I also wanted to announce a very special promotion involving Bottoms Up. If you purchase the book from Amazon this coming Monday, July 27, and send your receipt to Rachel (spankingantho at gmail dot com), you'll be eligible for a chance to win your own paddle (up to a $60 value and you get to choose from what's available on Amazon) and a complete library of Rachel's spanking books. I'm going to be doing my Christmas shopping early, so see you over at Amazon on Monday! Check out the guidelines for Bottoms Up Spike Day right here.

If you're wondering about the visual aid above--although you probably have a reasonable idea of why I might choose it to illustrate a post on spanking--I had my house photographer take this to show the lovely Emerald my school girl outfit. Make that my naughty school girl outfit. Guess the name of my school in the comments below and I'll send you the full text of my story "A Thousand Words" (actually 2600 words, but who's counting?). Actually, I'm not really doing a contest, I'm just curious to see what names you creative people will come up with....

Speaking of which, it's time for an excerpt from the aforementioned story. It's told from the male POV, always a forbidden pleasure and challenge for me. Enjoy!

From "A Thousand Words" by Donna George Storey:

Tamara once told him anger was a message, a sign you should change something in your life. She was always reading those get-in-touch-with-your-inner-self books, but what she said made sense this time. Maybe this week’s separation was a good thing, a chance to breathe. In the last three months they’d gotten so close, they were practically welded together.

His dick seemed to agree, for now it drooped lazily against his groin. With a shrug he got up, undressed, brushed his teeth. He’d make a point of putting Tamara out of his mind for the next few days, get a little space in his life. If she wanted to talk, she could call him.

Braced by his new indifference, he pulled down the covers, got into bed and reached over to switch off the light.

He paused, his hand floating above the nightstand. There it was again—that picture of Tamara’s ass.

And it was one hell of an ass, too.

He picked up the photograph, his eyes fixed on the rich curves of her hips. The silky fabric of the panties shimmered, the paper itself seemed to soften in his hands. The real Tamara might be off at a club, flirting with some guy named Ryan, but he had her best asset right here in bed with him.

What the fuck, jerking off always made him sleep better anyway.

Still staring at the picture, he slipped imaginary fingers under the elastic and slowly peeled the panties down, inch by inch. The black silk receded to reveal Tamara’s creamy flesh, the shadow of another female furrow. He’d licked her there, for the first time, last night. His tongue prickled with the memory of the flavor, spicy, exotic, forbidden.

He closed his fist around his cock and began to tug.

Meanwhile his other set of hands pulled the panties all the way down to her knees and over her ankles off the edge of the picture, where they fell in a heap on the floor. He squinted at the picture. Tamara was completely naked now, just the way he liked her. Then, to his surprise, her hips began to undulate, beckoning. He could even smell her fragrance, yeast and warmth, like walking past a bakery in the morning.

He was good at this.

A picture might be worth a thousand words, but what about a movie? It was time for action. In another blink, he grabbed Tamara’s hips and coaxed her up on her knees. He had to pause for a moment to admire that view: her magnificent posterior tapering into a slim waist, curving out again to her smooth shoulders. Her back was flushed now. She panted softly. And although she said not a word, he could hear the question swirling in her head.

What are you going to do to me now?

What indeed?....

So, that's your excerpt, and I stop just at the place where it starts getting harder and hotter! Now reading through this bit again, I was reminded that back in my days of wasting time at the Zoetrope writer's workshop rather than here in Blogland, a very confident gentleman critic told me, among other things meant to correct my numerous literary flaws, that the expression "rich curves" (which I used in "Blinded") was really stupid. Because how could "curves" be "rich"? I guess we could ask models and porn stars and race car drivers, but strictly speaking he is right that the particular adjective is not commonly used with that noun. But clearly I did not internalize his advice, even all these years later. I'm glad.

Still, I'd say Bottoms Up is a very rich anthology. If you're into "rough caresses" or just curious, I recommend you give it a read, preferably bent over your bed in a school girl's skirt, ass high in the air!

Is Pepper the Secret to a Happy Marriage?

And I'm not talking a threesome involving Sgt. "Pepper" Anderson from "Police Woman," although that might help, too. If you want to find out more about the power of pepper, get a peek into a shocking Idaho scandal, feast on a few nostalgic pics of Angie Dickinson, and get all drooly over a summer barbecue feast of pepper steak, baked potatoes, grilled corn on the cob and a Diet Dr. Pepper (can I have this for breakfast?), then head over to Craig Sorensen's summer spice party for some fine food and excellent peppery prose.

It'll be good for your marriage, too!

The Magic of Gettysburg

Most of you know our summer vacation plans this year include a trip to Gettsyburg, Pennsylvania, for a family reunion on my mother’s side, which will involve several thousand aunts and uncles and cousins. The highlight of the trip, however, will be an erotica writers’ soiree on August 9 at a delicious Italian restaurant recommended by Craig Sorensen. Heidi Champa, Jeremy Edwards, Emerald and Erobintica are planning to attend, and a few others mentioned they might be able to make it (don’t want to shout out until plans are firmer). The more the merrier, so please consider joining us for a living, breathing erotica anthology!

Being the nerdy types that we are, Herr Doktor and I decided to devote a few evenings to a screening of the movie Gettysburg to help our kids get more out of the upcoming trip. Both of them are really enjoying the soft history lesson, and indeed the movie is very well done, if almost as long as the Battle of Gettysburg itself. The acting is first-rate and I was especially drawn to Jeff Daniels’ portrayal of the professor-soldier Colonel Joshua Chamberlain who held Little Round Top with his brilliant strategy (and received the Congressional Medal of Honor for it). Seldom is a “hero” played with such a low-key, down to earth subtlety in Hollywood. It makes me want to read more about the historical figure…not that I don’t have a million books on my to-read list already.

Anyway, after Gettysburg, we’ll be heading south for more family visits, and I was reminded again that if we lived in the 19th century, our family would indeed be divided, sister against sister, cousin against cousin. My sister married a Virginian, I an Illinois native. Her husband’s great, great, great…[insert a few more greats]…grandfather was a 19 year old private in the Confederate Army, one of the soldiers who followed Pickett in the deadly charge across the open field on the third day of the battle of Gettysburg—although apparently, he survived to sire descendents. Herr Doktor’s kin who were in America at the time were affluent lawyers and judges who could pay others to fight for them, but their loyalties lay with the Union.

My brother-in-law is a Civil War buff and knows just where on the battlefield his forefather waited for the charge to begin. I’ve yet to have his guided tour at the historic park where my mother played as a child, but perhaps some day? I do have a wonderful photo he had taken at a Civil War reenactment of himself in a Confederate sergeant’s uniform, holding his baby son on his knee. He has a beard, so the effect was uncanny—exactly as if he had gone back in time to be his own forebearer. A year later, when my first-born was about the same age, we happened to be in Gettysburg, and I made it my project to have a twin photo taken of the Land-of-Lincoln side of the family. It was hard to get the same authentic look from the tourist trap photographers, but we finally found the best photographer in town (thanks to a family recommendation) and they were very willing to help us get an “authentic” look.

That’s what you see here, although it really doesn’t have the same haunting magic as my brother-in-law’s photo. (Wish I could show you that one—maybe in Gettysburg?) But it’s not a bad counterpart. Unlike most tourist men, who choose to pose as a general, we also went with the more realistic rank of sergeant. And in both photos, the bald one-year-old baby boys look equally annoyed, even on the verge of tears, as if they disapprove of their daddies going off to war.

I was also a big Civil War buff as a child, due in great part to the fact I visited my grandmother in Gettysburg so often. The wax museum there was one of my favorite places in the world. I always felt as if I was literally stepping back in time to spy on these momentous events, and I remember one particular Friday evening when we stopped at the museum after dinner with Grandma (usually I had to wait until Saturday). No one else was there, just my parents and I wandering through the dark corridors in the company of John Brown, Robert E. Lee and U.S. Grant. I can still conjure that hushed, wondrous feeling of time travel. Indeed, I’m looking forward to taking my children there in August, and to getting a new photo taken of the whole family at a tourist trap photographers. This time, though, we may be more playful, and promote Herr Doktor to general!

If These Walls Could Talk...

Our auditeur sharing circle continues today with a tasty tidbit from Craig Sorensen, who always delivers ear-pleasing prose that resonates with emotional authenticity. I have to say I really enjoy hosting these casual salons. I feel like I should be handing around cookies and sherry--maybe I'll go whip up a batch of pecan bars anyway?--while we read our work aloud, lounging on Indian print pillows, our sighs and murmurs of approval only adding to the enchantment of sounds.

Maybe some day my fantasy will come true?

Until then we can enjoy this snippet which comes from a piece entitled "Through the Ranks." I think it's an excellent example of the pleasures of compare-and-contrast. If taste tests can help you appreciate the qualities of cinnamon or chocolate, why not sex?

And now, here's Craig:

I kissed Isabelle’s full lips gently, savored the nape of her slender neck. In the next room, a pounding akin to John Bonham playing a drum solo was in full swing.

Seemed the louder they got, the softer we became. I looked in Isabelle’s eyes to see if I could find a bit of the jealousy I felt. She was so quiet, so intense. I traced the folds in her ear with my tongue. When I held her body tight, I could feel her pulse rush. She moaned into my mouth when I introduced my tongue after long, massaging closed lip kisses.

She eased my shirt over my head.

The rhythmic pounding of the headboard in the next room was accompanied by throaty moans, approaching crescendo. Isabelle and I lay on the bed and stared into each other’s eyes. My cock was only semi-hard. Given the beauty of the woman by me I felt inadequate. The rhythmic pounding grew louder. The image of Jeanette’s body, the song of her joy, her passion became more consuming.

My cock grew to full hardness.

Isabelle unbuckled my belt and pulled down my pants. We resumed kissing, and I stroked the front of her silk panties, then dipped down to her soft pubic hair. She reached in my boxers and cupped my hard on. When I dipped a finger into her she released only her second moan.

Her body was like a jeweler’s safe, responding ever so slightly to the turning dial. I began to comprehend her silence, and tried to find new means to divine a third moan – let the tumblers announce another magic spot.

I peeled her baby doll kissing every inch of her skin until I settled between her parted thighs. We took turns, nestled in pillows atop the freshly stripped bed, one sprawled across the bed while the other knelt and feasted until the wild moans and thumps next door abated.

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.

A Spicy Gasthaus Interlude

Today our hot-el erotica wordsmith is the musical and poetic Craig Sorensen, who's going to give up a sneak peek of his new novel. That's a peep through the keyhole all writers are willing to risk a backache for... and it's just in time for the arrival of the cocktail weiners wrapped in pretzel dough. Watch out, that mustard's spicy! So without further ado, here's Craig....

First thanks to Donna for inviting me to muse on the sexiness of hotels, and for being the first to present a taste of my book, Augsburg Diary.

This story is set in a German US Army barracks in 1980. There is a healthy dose of fact in this book. For one, I was indeed stationed at Field Station Augsburg from August of 1980 to August of 1982.

Another irrefutable fact about life in the Army in Germany around 1980 is that stereo equipment and music collections were important status symbols, especially among the men. The gear was cheap at overseas Px (Post Exchange) stores, and some of the huge stereos were almost comical in their contrast to the small barracks rooms they occupied.

Another fact was the high failure rate of marriages. I don't know statistics, but I knew a lot of folks in the barracks who were carried the title: "Ex."

Through it all, a Gasthaus could be a great respite from Army life. I grew to love die Gasthäuser, both as a place to get a drink (or two, or three, or...), and as a place to spend a night (or two, or three, or...) Often they are like a cross between a Bed and Breakfast and a Hotel, such as the one in the excerpt I'm sharing, which is based on a place I stayed at in the town of Zweibrucken in early 1981.

Aimee and Ron are just such a divorced couple from Augsburg Diary. When handsome Ron is about to be rotated back to the states, he talks his ex-wife into joining him for dinner at a Gasthaus which rents rooms upstairs. It turns out he has a bit more on his mind than the köstliches Pfeffersteak!

I hope you'll enjoy this exclusive sneak-preview of my novel.

Be sure and tip your bellboy (or bellgirl, as the case may be.)

And now, a spicy sampling of Augsburg Diary.

The small Gasthaus room had no bathroom - just a sink on one side right next to an old dresser with a simple lamp atop it, a nightstand next to the small, double bed with a matching lamp and two small arch backed chairs.

The bathroom, with its bathtub and small wall mounted water heater, stood twenty paces down a narrow hall.

Aimee studied the old, vine motif wallpaper and sighed. Ron removed his jacket, exposing the back of his mint green shirt with glossy gold rank insignia on the collars. He loosened his crisp black tie and pulled the loop over his head then hung it on the small coat hanger to the side of the mirror. He removed his shirt deliberately and turned back to Aimee. She remained fixed. The sparse evening light from the eight-pane window cast over the bed. Her fingers curled to the hem of her dress. Ron approached and reached around her shoulders. Slowly, she raised her arms under his and gripped his thick shoulder muscles. His arms crushed her full breasts to his broad chest and she got that wonderful, breathless feeling. But she wanted to ask why they were doing this, with him so close to leaving.

She didn’t.

****

“So, how did you find this place?” Sweat evaporated, cooling Aimee’s skin on the warm late night.

Ron’s fingers traced her stomach and inside her hips the way he always had after they made love. “Nice, isn’t it.” He pressed his thigh tight to her soaked pubic hair.

Aimee nodded. “Mmm.”

Ron’s right arm circled her neck. His left rested in the crease of her groin. “It’s great to be with you again, Aimee.” His middle finger dipped inside her. His thumb began to swirl around her clit. She’d had two orgasms already, and the long nap between them was deep and divine. The whole evening had been remarkable, even for Ron, who had always been a good lover.

She raised her hips into his hand. His bare ring finger dipped inside.

“You know, Aim?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve got a new Teac reel to reel.”

“S’nice.” Her hips rose and fell in time as his index finger joined in, and he curled all three inside her. She fought for breath at the deep sensation. She reached between his legs. His cock was hardening again.

“So I can play the tapes we recorded on the ReVox.”

“Mmm.” He leaned over her chest and took her thick pink right nipple in his mouth. His cock was getting harder. The tingle of her nipple shot down through her waist like an electric shock. It was so powerful that it hurt a little. It felt heavenly.

“It sounds real good with my old stereo at low volumes.”

She thought of that tape. He’s going to ask me back to his apartment—the apartment we once shared. She quickly subjugated her mixed feelings. Her voice was disjointed: “Nnh. Oh.” The oh was half exclamation, half reply. His cock was as stiff as it had been the first time they’d made love in the Gasthaus room. But rather than sate it, he knelt between her legs and kissed her clit his fingers curled in and out. She gasped. Eating out was something Ron rarely did; he wasn’t particularly good at it, but the mere fact that he was doing it, while his hard on raged with an insistence that usually demanded immediate satisfaction led toward another orgasm. He rubbed the flat of his tongue over her clit inarticulately. Its roughness and the heat of his breath was enough. Aimee was stunned when her waist clenched through a gentle orgasm.

Ron’s face appeared like a hungry sunrise. He crawled up from between her outstretched legs and eased his cock inside her. “Maybe we could trade stereos,” he whispered. “I mean, I’m not in the barracks, don’t need to keep it down, you know?”

Aimee’s hands and feet tingled. She wanted to push him off her and demand he take her back to the barracks. She didn’t know cars, but she knew stereos, and the ReVox she had bought for their apartment was worth three times his old stereo, even with the new Teac, which didn’t hold a candle to the ReVox.

But it wasn’t even that.

He gripped behind her knees and pressed them to her chest and her breath escaped. His thick cock felt so good as it reached its apex inside her. He compressed her like a wrecked car in a crusher. She fought for breaths in quick swells at the small decreases of pressure while he pumped. Heavenly.

She had indeed bought the ReVox system for Ron. But after suffering the embarrassment of walking in on him screwing a willowy redhead doggy-style on their bed, not once but twice, it was one of the few things she had taken after the divorce.

Ron kissed her deeply. The taste of the beer he had just finished was slightly effervescent and blended with the taste of her well-lubed vagina on his lips. He lay his head next to hers, his nose next to her ear. “I love you, Aimee.” He slowed his stroke, his fingers curled to her clit and she felt the twinges of orgasm yet again. She’d never had so many orgasms in one sitting.

Fuck you, Ron. But she’d never say the word fuck. “I—uh—I’ll think—uh—about it.”

He kissed her deep again and she felt the fresh orgasm pulse down her waist.

I know, we all want more! I'm going to go order some more beer, in the meantime, get ready for a Friday motel frolic with Neve Black--it's quick, cheap and guaranteed to put a smile on your face!

The Feast of Dreams

By the time you have a few decades on you, you tend to get a little cynical about dreams. They seldom come true and if they do, it’s not quite the way you expected.

But sometimes, the realization of a dream turns out better than you could ever imagine. This is exactly what happened at the imaginary progressive feast, a romp through cyberspace with an amazingly generous group of erotica-writing pleasure lovers. When fearless chef and fellow foodie Kirsten Monroe and I started weaving our plans for a blog-hopping dinner, I expected a good party, given the caliber of volunteers who agreed to spend a day cooking, pouring tongue-loosening beverages and entertaining a crowd of commenters.

“Good party” doesn’t begin to describe it. What we got was a finger-licking fabulous bacchanal that took us around the world (in more ways than one), satisfying every urge with lovely views, delicious prose and sparkling inspiration for the writing life. Each host created a gathering that somehow expressed her or his character perfectly, and I’d say the sum of the parts made for a truly memorable symphony of a whole.

Frankly, I’m still floating in pleasant exhaustion from all the kissing, skinny-dipping, howling at the moon and confessing of deep dark secrets. It’s hard to believe that last week at this time I was pouring sake for eighty visitors while we enjoyed a dance recital and nibbled sesame-roasted pumpkin, all the while discussing sex manuals and other dirty books! One week later, the sensualists’ blog progressive dinner is but a memory…. but wait, actually it’s not because thanks to the wonders of the blogosphere, it will live on forever, each delicious course preserved in perpetuity, each host offering the same enchanting music, conversation and succulent goodies whenever a new guest shows up at the door.

And so I wanted to give a quick recap of each fabulous party if you missed it the first time around or want to revisit. I know I will, again and again, for after all, a memory is not so different from a dream….

Here’s a summary of our Sensual and Provocative Progressive Dinner ala Blog:

Sunday January 25--Amuse-bouche

Our first host, Craig Sorensen, started us off to a slow, sweet, sensual beginning in a cozy cabin in a snow-drifted forest where we amused our bouches with Sapporo beer and a plate of Sea Scallops and Bay Fritters, followed by Potato Poppers and Chili Rondeaux. These savories came in couplets, to be tasted, then tasted again a deux in a lingering kiss to the strains of "Lipstick Traces" by Michael Schenker. And indeed with a partner the flavors of these well-crafted dishes was more intriguing and complex. Craig's topic for discussion was, appropriately, kisses. First kisses, memorable kisses, the language of kisses. After my husband and I came back from the cabin we kissed a lot, enjoying each with new awareness, a pleasure that still lingers.

Monday January 26—Appetizer

After Craig got our lips tingling, Shanna Germain took charge of our fingers as we made our own appetizers with figs, goat cheese and prosciutto, a "hands-on" experience indeed. Appropriately, the discussion turned to the erotic power of hands, the electric shock of hands brushing “by accident,” the intoxication of caresses...and why it is everything tastes better with pork!
Wednesday January 28--Soup

The ever-effervescent Jeremy Edwards and his co-host Helia Brookes welcomed us TV-style, in color-coordinated outfits, and they needed no laugh track to keep us chuckling. Over glasses of Fishnet Creek Old Vine Zinfandel, we stretched out our stocking-clad legs and sipped a voluptuous and spicy mushroom soup, perfect for a winter's day. The talk turned to literature and our earliest erotic influences. Our hosts asked us: "Do you remember moments of puzzlement, growing understanding, or arousal from reading? Did you ask an adult or a friend about it, or keep it as your secret? Did you have favorite passages you revisited for the pleasure they brought?" Click on over to the soup course to share in the confessions.

Thursday January 29—Fish

Neve Black whisked us off to Roxanne’s Brazilian Bungalow, the home of her literary alter-ego who’s sampled the bedroom skills of every man in the zodiac. During this South American idyll we listened to Astrud Gilberto sing “The Girl from Ipanema” as we sipped Caipirinhas and sampled spicy swordfish muqueca. Neve and Roxanne nudged us into a little reminiscence. “What's been your most memorable sexual zodiac sun sign experience?" In my case, I didn’t know where to begin….

Friday January 30--Meat Entrée

I knew my co-host, Kirsten Monroe, would know exactly what to do with raw flesh and I was not disappointed. With the click of the mouse we traveled from the beach to the Mojave Desert. The dress code was "naked" and before she womaned the blazing grill, Kirsten mesmerized us with a podcast of the story of “How the Mango Became Sweet.” Appetites aroused, we dug in to spice-rubbed lamb chops with chipotle cherry Pinot sauce and Peruvian Potato Dumplings with Tomato & Chile Mole Ragout, all perfectly complemented by some Torii Mor Pinot and Temptation Zin. Then Hell on Heels Burlesque Review took the stage in a memorable display of the art of pasties while we, too, exposed desires deeper than flesh when Kirsten queried: "What are your most dangerous and delicious wishes as an eroticist, as a writer? What is your Holy Grail as an artist?" I for one discovered desires I didn't even know I had.
Saturday, January 31--Vegetarian entrée

Our next stop? Right here at Sex, Food, and Writing, or rather this was our point of departure for our journey to elegant Kyoto to sample some of Japan's uplifting Buddhist temple cuisine. Fine sake, a performance by geiko from Pontocho, and a taste of tofu with mushrooms and roasted pumpkin helped us adhere to The Middle Way. After dinner, we lounged in our yukata and perused erotic books from the eighteenth century, which were once given as wedding gifts to wealthy young ladies to instruct them in the marital arts. (That's "marital" not "martial"!) Our topic for discussion? "Where and when did you encounter your first “how to do the deed” book? Do you have a favorite? Ones you find fitting for critique? Which sex manuals are on your bookshelf right now?" What would your answers be?
Monday, February 2--Salad

Next we put on our pink sequins and tuxes for a trip to Emerald’s Green Light District to give a boost to our stamina with some spinach salad full of goodies like yellow tomatoes, cranberries and pine nuts--served in green glass bowls, of course. To the accompaniment of “Any Colour You Like” by Pink Floyd we sipped Whaling Banshees and contemplated two lovely views by the magic of the blogosphere—one of flowers in bloom, the other of a forest dressed in snow. Our blood racing with the elixir of nature's bounty, Emerald turned the conversation to the seasons: "Which season do you find sexiest? Any particular one? Do you feel like the seasons influence your sexual experience? Seasonal memories you want to share? Or if you’re feeling ambitious, tell me what you think is sexy about each season." Join us for some of the most poetic writing of the feast amidst the greenery.
Tuesday, February 3—Dessert

A confession--as much as I enjoyed every feast, every nibble of nourishment, a little voice was always whispering, save room for dessert! Sommer Marsden satisfied my desires to perfection with her multiple desserts, multiple obsessions and a wonderfully engaging discussion of fantasy fucks. I had a long list to begin with and added a few after indulging in heirloom cheesecake, Perfect Peanut Clusters (to compliment the perfect lovers) and Popcorn Cake for the kid in us all. Who is your fantasy fuck? You don't have to limit yourself to one--none of us did....
Wednesday, February 4--Truffles and Whisky

By the last course, we were all basking in the afterglow of indulgence and our host Nikki Magennis chose the perfect way to cater to our needs. She welcomed us to bonny Castle Comeagain in the wilds of Scotland--all men in kilts please (which was a mouthwatering vision in itself with so many lads of Scottish descent among us). As we lounged by the fire, to the sounds of gentle guitar music and poetry, comely serfs massaged our feast-weary shoulders. Nikki poured us coffee, which we could spike with a smooth, honey-flavoured Balvenie from Speyside. I took my whisky neat, and suddenly felt energized to help make heart-shaped cherry brandy truffles and crystallized cape gooseberries, which I popped into guests' mouths with abandon. Between bites we considered questions that served as the fitting conclusion to our feast, yet looked forward to further pleasures as well: "What does the future hold for erotica? What would you like to see happen, in the genre itself and in your own work? Look into the flames and tell me what you see …." Ghosts, shadows, dreams, come join our discussion with some of your own.

And now, bellies full, libidos satisfied, I want thank you all, hosts, guests (both quiet and chatty) and fellow sensualists for a truly fabulous feast!

A Sweet Welcome to the Year of the Ox

Hey, I'm a cow and this is my special Chinese zodiac year, which calls for special celebrations as we contemplate the year ahead like an unopened gift. The feasting already started yesterday with kisses over at Craig's and continued deliciously with sticky fingers at Shanna's. Tomorrow, Jeremy is hosting a special party for the release of Nikki Magennis' The New Rakes, so we'll all be partying there, but he'll be taking a break now and then to stir up some soup for Wednesday's stop on our sensually stimulating progressive dinner. Which is perfect, because we all know that soup tastes better with a day in fridge to let the flavors mellow.

This wonderful food is getting addictive, though, and so, as I passed a wonderful local bakery today called Masse's Pastries, I couldn't resist bringing home a selection of their special Chinese-New-Year-inspired treats. The box alone was so festive--lucky red and yellow ribbon with a little firecracker favor attached.

But the pastries, ah, the pastries, were truly as delicious as they were gorgeous! On the upper left is the coconut cream tart: "coconut custard finished with whipped cream in a sesame and almond sable tart shell." My mother used to make the airiest coconut cream pie and this confection might possibly be the first time a coconut custard exceeded her legendary creation. Top right is the green tea opera: "almond, green tea jaconde, chocolate ganache, green tea buttercream--an exciting twist on a Parisian classic." Indeed it was, a happy marriage of flavor and texture. The cute little cow on the bottom was a flourless chocolate cake, but somehow fluffier than the usual. The shop also offered a mandarin firecracker, a small orange chiffon jelly roll with mandarin curd, iced in bright red frosting, but visually appealing as it was, I knew there were limits to our appetites. Especially after all the fine eating I've been doing in blogland!

Please help yourself to a taste of artistic sweetness and accept my wishes for a happy Year of the Ox as well. Gong Hei Fat Choi!

We ARE Amused

As I mentioned in my post below, I’ve been dreaming of being part of a progressive dinner since I was in elementary school. Immediate gratification was not to be mine in this desire, but you know, sometimes it is definitely better to wait until the time is ripe.

That time is now.



The sensual feast of my dreams has just begun over at Craig Sorensen’s blog with the amuse-bouche course and oh, my, I am not only amused, I am enchanted and transported. Craig truly takes us on a journey, beginning with a hike through the snowy woods to our secluded cabin (an irresistibly romantic setting) where, appetites aroused, we sample succulent tidbits in pairs—and I mean that in more ways than one. Suffice to say, I'm glad I brought my husband with me.

It’s no surprise that with Craig’s magical way with words, my lips are now tingling and my palate is singing with the heat and the spice and the thrilling blend of flavors we’re sharing.

I can’t think of a better way to be amused and delighted on a winter Sunday.

AW Blog Tour: Can Men Write Erotica?

The next stop on my fabulous Amorous Woman Internet Tour is the blog of Craig Sorensen, one of the most exciting new voices in the erotica world today. Craig is a gold member of that very exclusive club, Men Who Can Write Sex Scenes That Don't Make Me Roll My Eyes But Are Actually Intelligent Not To Mention Hot or MWCWSSTDMMRMEBAAINTMH for short. Craig definitely has a way with words, so check out his musings on "eroticists" and sexy writing here.

By the way, don't you think he looks a bit like Carlos Santana?