Spark Your Moment with Jeremy Edwards!

With the nights growing chillier, and the soccer season over, I suddenly find myself with a lot more time to write--and read--the kind of books they never (unfortunately) assigned in any of my classes. You know what I’m talking about: red-hot erotica, of course! I don’t have to look far for this week’s indulgence as I sit by the fire and watch the logs crackle. My friend Jeremy Edwards, author of Rock My Socks Off, a madcap erotic novel set in my very own Bay Area, has recently published his first short story collection with Xcite, Spark My Moment.

I’ve long been a fan of Jeremy’s humor and effervescent prose. His upbeat stories should be required reading for a sex-positive approach to the sensual life. Curious about the experience of publishing a collection of short stories, Jeremy has agreed to stop by to chat about writing, story collections, and other sparkly things over cinnamon tea and Parmesan crackers with homemade chipotle salsa dip.

So welcome, Jeremy, and congratulations on publishing your first story collection!

JE: Thanks, Donna! [Pauses to indulge in another mouthful of deliciously savory and spicy crackers with salsa.] You sure know how to host.

You begin the collection with “Mom-and-Pop Enterprise,” the story of two magazine store owners who take the ideal of doing what you love in your work to a new level. Any particular reason why you chose this story to start things off?

JE: I thought the pace of this story made it a good candidate for the opener. Some of my pieces begin quietly, drawing the reader in gently with reflection or introspection, whereas this one feels more “high energy” from the outset—even though there’s a chunk of backstory to set the scene. And because the protagonists are an established couple, they can hit the ground running. All of my stories are upbeat, in one way or another; but this is one of the especially bouncy ones, and I thought it would kick things off with good momentum.

The reader will soon notice that interspersed among your longer stories are “moments” of flash fiction. These short pieces provide an intense dose of spice like the relishes and chutneys on a delicious buffet table. Tell us more about these amuse-bouches.

JE: I love writing flash pieces, but there’s not always a lot of opportunity to do much with them, publicationwise. So I welcomed the possibility of including some of these in this collection, and I was very gratified to find not only that they could fit in here, but that they might augment the structure and rhythm of the book as a whole. And sometimes I was able to specifically match certain flash pieces with the longer pieces that immediately followed them, in terms of tone or (loosely speaking) subject matter.

I was struck by the arrangement of the stories, which to me have a musical flow. Did your background as a musician influence the “composition.” Or indeed your writing in general?

JE: I do think similar concerns with structure, rhythm, pacing, and dynamics come into play in my various artistic pursuits—from composing a song to writing an erotic story to scripting a stage comedy. Most specifically here, I remember noticing while doing it that arranging the Spark My Moment stories was very similar to “programming” an album (the music-world term for deciding the song order), or the song-ordering stage of finalizing a set list for a live performance. For instance, what I was saying above about opening with a high-energy story is analogous to how I would usually begin an album or a live set with a high-energy number.

As the author of dozens of erotic stories, did assembling a collection like this give you a new perspective on your voice, your characters, the type of conflicts that intrigue you?

JE: It was indeed interesting to observe the similarities and the differences that occur across my own work, reading so many of my pieces back to back. And I think the collection represents me quite effectively, in that it offers a pretty full range of the types of pieces I write, while also allowing the constants and recurring elements that define my voice to assert themselves. I think the last line of the summary I wrote for the book largely came out of those observations about what makes me me, as a writer (if you’ll pardon my quoting myself): “These stories are united by the author’s emphasis on joyful sensuality, libidinous urgency, offbeat romanticism, and the pleasures of language and laughter.”

Would you share a favorite passage from the book and tell us why it sparks your moment? (Warning: Sparks ahead!)

Pink smiled at me after the bartender had slammed my $2 club soda down and skulked away. ‘He really wasn’t into getting you that club soda,’ she said sympathetically. Her voice was higher than I’d expected, more sweet than sultry.

‘I don’t even like club soda,’ I said peevishly. Then I laughed idiotically and explained: ‘It was the first beverage that came to mind.’

‘You’re a goofball,’ she pronounced, making it sound like it was half compliment. ‘Do you like G&Ts?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I do.’

‘Here.’ She brought it to my lips. She must have put fragrance on her wrists, because I smelled a luscious mixture of skin and design. Taking a sip of her drink was the sexiest thing that had happened to me in a long time.

I got a lot of lime juice in the gulp I took, and my mouth tingled. I passed the drink back to her, and she took a substantially bigger gulp than I had, seriously depleting the ice-heavy glass. She looked blissfully refreshed – her cheeks, for some reason, became rosier as she cooled down after her dancing. Her breasts, though they weren’t large ones, were tight against the opaque top. The snap of her jeans was seductive as it flirted with her belly button; I wanted to thrust one hand into the waistband, rub the other over her nipples, and make her come in her panties.

Gin and lime juice reverberated in the back of my throat.

JE: This bit of “Being Myself” represents a type of situation that scores very highly on my personal scale of what’s erotic: to wit, a brief but critical interaction that expresses sexual attraction; mutual recognition, appreciation, and understanding; interpersonal chemistry; compassionate teasing; and incipient intimacy.

Any new projects or readings ahead?

I’ll be appearing in another batch of anthologies in the new year, including M. Christian’s Sex in San Francisco, Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Gotta Have It, an Xcite anthology called Sex at Work, and the Oysters & Chocolate collection Nice Girls, Naughty Sex.

Thank you again, Donna! Conversing with you is always a delight. (And I’m not just saying that because we’ve been talking about me!)

Thank you for stopping by Jeremy. And now in celebration of all solstice holidays and your many spark-ling publications this year, I thought we could open a bottle of bubbly (some Schramsberg Blanc de Blanc, a local Napa favorite). Or would you prefer gin and lime? Salut!

Jeremy Edwards Naked in Reykjavik

This Sunday at F-Stop we have a new and fascinating take on self-exposure by master wordsmith, Jeremy Edwards. If you're curious about what it's like to lead two lives, why showing your face is braver than taking your clothes off, and what the hell Reykjavik has to do with this, then grab your coffee and scone and head on over to the F-Stop studio where a courageous and eloquent erotica writer is always taking it all off for your viewing pleasure!

Do You Want "More"?

I wanted to wait until October to announce the publication of a very decadent anthology for a very good cause, Ultimate Decadence, an anthology of elegant erotic tales by renowned authors on both sides of the pond such as Rachel Kramer Bussel, Elizabeth Coldwell, Jeremy Edwards and Maxim Jakubowski. The book is edited by the very cool and very sexy Emily Dubberly (I love that name, Anglophile that I am) and proceeds benefit Macmillan Cancer Support.

And hey, I'm in it, too, with a story that I wrote with the idea of northern California decadence in mind called "More." I may not look like it, and I certainly don't dress like it, but I number among my casual friends quite a number of Silicon Valley multi-millionaires. This is a world I know from a safe distance, just as Lady Murasaki observed the politics of the Heian Court from afar to write The Tale of Genji in tenth century Japan. Well, I'm no Lady Murasaki, but I had great fun cooking up this story about an ambitious (adulterous) couple who are always pushing their limits. The setting is the lovely and pricey Auberge du Soleil, a favorite retreat of my rich friends. The characters are Kendra, the up and coming CFO of a start-up, and Jason, an angel investor with a devilish streak. So, come with me and let's take a peek into their hotel room to see just how they manage to get everything they want...and more!

And now an excerpt from "More":

“How was your massage?” Jason said, as she settled onto his lap.

“Great. It got all the stiffness out.”

“I’m a bit stiff myself.”

Kendra laughed and petted his hard-on through the robe.

“That’s nice, but right now I’m more interested in sampling your ‘internal’ technique. Be a good girl and get us a condom. They’re in the outside pocket of my overnight bag.”

Jason always started off their trysts by ordering her around, as if it took him a few minutes to peel off his “captain of industry” persona like a suit and tie. But Kendra knew that before long, she’d have him naked and on his knees, in more ways than one.

When she returned with the condom, he was ready for her, his robe open to reveal his muscular chest and thick cock, which poked up imperiously from the dark curls of his pubic hair.

“Put it on me.” He was smiling, but his eyes had a steely glint.

She tore open the package and rolled the sheath over him.

“Now take off your robe and climb on.”

Not a moment of foreplay? It was a good thing that hippie masseur had juiced her up well with his magic hands. As Kendra stripped, she couldn’t resist throwing Jason a mutinous look.
He grinned. He liked it when she showed her spirit.

Squaring her shoulders, she straddled him on the chair and took him inside, one inch at a time.
His head lolled back against the chair and he groaned, a rich, sweet sound.

“God, you have the perfect cunt.”

She couldn’t help smiling. Sometimes her promotion from eager apprentice to boss was all too easy, as easy as sitting on his cock. Within seconds, he’d be babbling about how gorgeous she was, how brilliant and ambitious, how she’d leave him in the dust someday when she’d sucked him dry of his meager offerings to a goddess like her.

She liked those words, but she needed more. So she’d pull off and taunt him. You’re lying, Jason. You’re lying to me again. No more pussy until you tell me truth. And he’d swear he meant every word and beg her, near tears, to let him back into paradise. There were even times, after she finally let him come inside her, that he would actually weep and declare his love. She’d say she loved him, too, although what she really loved was the way he made her feel in bed: proud, powerful, perfect. Feelings that almost made up for the vague humiliation of creeping off to meet him in hotels, or sneaking quickies in the empty office by the storage room, or keeping as quiet as a phantom when his wife called.

But other days he made her work for it, relinquishing his power only when she’d proven herself worthy. Like today when he held her hips fast so she couldn’t move and said, his voice soft but stern, “Squeeze me, baby. Give me a massage with your hot, wet walls.”

Kendra moaned assent and tightened her secret muscles, milking him, as if her cunt really were a warm, fleshy mitten, smoothing away the stiffness from an aching limb. She remembered the melting pleasure of Narayana’s hands. He was serving her, yes, but had her in his power, too.

That’s what she’d do to Jason.

“How do you like your massage?” she drawled, giving him an extra squeeze.

This was his cue to start spurting the praise, but to her surprise, Jason only frowned. “Can you work it harder? Too be honest, I don’t feel much.”

Kendra felt her cheeks flush. He didn’t even feel it? She clenched her cunt muscles again as hard as she could, gritting her teeth with the effort.

“Nope, just the barest flutter. I know you’re trying, but it’s not enough. Have you been exercising like I told you?”

Her jaw dropped. What could she say? Of course she remembered the “gift” he’d given her the evening they fucked in a suite at the Mandarin Oriental, a weighted, penis-shaped device that was supposed to make pelvic exercises more effective. But he’d only said, slyly, that it was a way to keep her happy when he wasn’t around to do the job. At the time she thought it was a racy gag gift, nothing more.

Finally, she gathered up enough “spirit” to reply. “Come on, Jason, with keeping up with my job and this insatiable older man I’m fucking, it’s difficult enough to fit in Pilates. How do you expect me to find time to work out with a dildo?”

“I think you should make time,” he shot back, his expression strangely serious, as if he were admonishing an employee. “There’s room for improvement in your performance.”

“But you said I had a perfect cunt.” This words slipped out, her voice quivering, her eyes filling with tears. Apparently he had been lying to her all along.

His eyes softened. “No, now don’t be sad. Your pussy’s beautiful, baby, like you, but we all have to strive for more. In business and pleasure.”

“Does it really make a difference?” Curiosity trumped the sting of his insult.

“You bet. I’ve known women who have pussies like vacuum cleaners. It’s incredible. And they say it feels better for the woman, too. I know you’re a busy lady, but you want to be strong, inside and out, don’t you Kendra?”

“Yes,” she admitted meekly, unable to look him in the eye.

“Then promise me you’ll practice with your little friend every day and when we get together I’ll test you to see how much progress you’ve made. I think we have a win-win situation here. That’s what you always aim for in any deal, right?”

She nodded, unable to speak. It was humiliating to be found so lacking. Yet, down below, her secret muscles tingled as if they wanted to be worked over, tested, proven worthy.

“The female body is capable of so much more than a man’s,” he continued, his hands gliding from her hair to her shoulders then on to her breasts. “If you always reach for more, Kendra, a smart, sexy woman like you will have the world at her feet.”

She nodded again, the perfect student. She did want the world at her feet, but when she pictured “the world,” what she really saw was Jason, so wealthy, so powerful, a king in his little corner of the universe, crouched before her.

Jason hooked his finger under her chin and tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “I know what you want. You’re like me, you always need a challenge, and I have another one for you tonight. Remember that bed-and-breakfast where they let us take a room for a few hours?”

She did remember, hazily. Yet another rented room with a wide, fancy bed. The grand view of the bay sparkling before her eyes as Jason lashed her clit with his tongue, swearing he was so thirsty for her, he’d suck down the nectar of a dozen sweet climaxes.

“How many times did I make you come?”

Her blush deepened. “Four.”

“Four times in an hour and a half. I was proud of you, babe. Is that the most you’ve ever come with a man?”

“Yes,” she admitted, suddenly wishing it were a lie.

“Let’s try to top that tonight. Let’s try for a new personal best.”

“How about you? You’re forty-five, how do you expect to keep up with me?”

“Don’t worry about me. My goal is to hold off as long as I can. This is about your pleasure. You’re in charge all the way. You tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

Kendra had to smile. This was more like what she’d been expecting from a whole weekend alone with Jason.

“All right, I’m game. Double digits or die.”

“That’s my girl. Let’s start right now."

To be continued....

Okay, admit it, you want to know how many times Kendra comes. You want to know what Jason does to make that happen. And you want to know why, after having more orgasms than most women would think possible in one evening, Kendra still wants more.

So come on, be decadent and treat yourself. Don't you think you deserve "More," too?

Into Amish Country: From Blue Ball to Paradise

Sorry for the delay in the continuing saga of my trip into the past--I'll try to make up for it with lots of pictures! Anyway, it took me a while to recover from even writing about that wild erotica writers’ dinner on the third day of our Gettysburg visit. Whew! Even the morning after, when I stumbled into Perkins Pancake House on Route 30 just outside of town for another smutters' meeting, wiping the decadent wages of sin from my sleepy eyes, I still couldn’t quite believe I was again part of an assemblage of some of the most creatively filthy minds our fine nation has produced. Everyone else looked a bit rumpled, too, I will admit, but that’s to be expected in this crowd. With a little breakfast, I knew we’d all be ready to start writing it all down for posterity!

After three days of “vacation breakfasts,” I decided to go healthy and ordered the oatmeal at Perkins rather than pancakes for which I assume the restaurant is famous. Actually, I’m very glad I veered from the well-worn path (and generally always have been happy I did). The generous bowl that arrived was really tasty, the perfect texture, too—not runny, but not gluey either. Unless it’s somehow spoiled by too much water and rendered into gruel, restaurant oatmeal is really the best. Something about being cooked up in big vats brings out the full grainy goodness of oatmeal, and so again, fine food and conversation went hand in hand, or hand in mouth, or hoof in mouth, or something like that, but it was all good.

The best part of the meal, however, was our “dessert,” the dill-icious dill hummus Jeremy Edwards described in his celebration of dill on our Summer Spicy Sunday blog tour. In keeping with the setting, our dippers for this truly tasty spread was a bag of locally made Herr’s potato chips. I don’t think I’ve eaten a potato chip in thirty years, but this utterly fresh, crispy sample made me remember why people would enjoy them. Or maybe it was the dill hummus that elevated it all to moan-and-crunch levels of sheer physical ecstasy? In any case, I recommend you invite Jeremy to all of your breakfast parties, with a gentle hint that dill hummus would be most welcome as a hostess gift.

When the eating was done, we all gathered to say good-bye, hugging, kissing, shoving our hands in what most people would call inappropriate places for a friendly squeeze (okay, I made the last part up). There was talk of doing it again sometime soon, and I’ll repeat my vote for Italy in 2012, but another east coast gathering or something here in the Bay Area would be lots of fun, too.
The Storey family then piled into our rental car for a day of sightseeing. Our first stop was a teddy bear emporium, Boyd’s Bear Country, situated in a huge red barn in the middle of a field. My younger son thought the advertisements papered all over Gettysburg were appealing, and as he’d been patient with all the history and family stuff, we thought we’d indulge him. Jeremy Edwards and Helia Brookes agreed to accompany us there, while the rest of the erotica gang was heading to the battlefield right after breakfast. We chatted and strolled through acres of stuffed animals, which is an oddly inspiring location for erotica shop talk. Let’s hope those glossy-eyed, innocent little creatures couldn’t understand what we were saying!

Our consumer fantasies thus surfeited with miles of plush animals from forest and veldt, we drove off into the summer heat to finish up the CD-narrated tour of the battlefield, which we’d started on Friday afternoon. We’d bought the “TravelBrains” audio tour narrated by Wayne Motts, and while I haven’t listened to the others, I’d recommend this one for his lively storytelling and the illustrated accompanying guidebook.

As we were sort of anxious to get to Amish Country, we didn’t do the full tour, but stopped at some highlights such as Little Round Top and The High Water Mark. Little Round Top is of special interest to me because of Union Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, a college professor turned soldier, who used his smarts to keep the Confederates from taking this key high ground in a very challenging situation. I’m a big fan of professors who do surprising things, like say, writing erotica. I don’t think Chamberlain went that far (although who knows?), but he was fluent in nine languages and had a pretty cool head on the battlefield, too. After the war, he wrote things like: “In great deeds something abides. On great fields something stays. Forms change and pass; bodies disappear; but spirits linger, to consecrate ground for the vision-place of souls. And reverent men and women…shall come to this deathless field, to ponder and dream….”
Which is exactly what I was doing as I stood on top of Little Round Top, imagining what Chamberlain was seeing and thinking on July 2, 1863 as he watched the enemy swarm up the hill whooping the Rebel yell. A line of tourists rolling past on segways and the parked cars impinged a bit on my poetic musings, but the imagination can erase as well as create, so it worked out okay.


Later, when we paused at Devil’s Den, I looked up the hill with a Confederate soldier’s eyes, appreciating how daunting that climb must have looked to him, a rather gentle hill momentarily transformed into an unassailable, deadly height.

By the time we got to the High Water Mark, the northernmost point of Confederate penetration in Union territory, the kids were thoroughly immersed in their GameBoys, but Herr Doktor and I got out of the car to tour the monuments and see the location where General Armistead was mortally wounded. There is something awe-inspiring about that vista across the field to the forest where the Confederate charge began. A peaceful stretch of farmland was transformed on just one morning into a killing field of history. Waving grass and rolling earth went from ordinary land to something so invested with importance that thousands would die just to stand on a particular square foot of it. And now it is simple dirt again, anyone can walk here at any time, except of course during major re-enactments. I was in awe, not just of the history itself, but of how we instill meaning into the world around us and the consequences of that very human act.

Okay, well, back to the present now!

We’d “done” Gettysburg, now a different part of the past beckoned, a pacifist past. So, we headed east on Route 30 into the mistily nostalgic countryside with Amish Country as our destination.


We made one quick detour off the highway to the Haines Shoe House in my father’s hometown of York, which I’d visited once on rainy autumn day when I was about four (I'm judging this from the dog we owned at the time)—and had never forgotten. When I noticed the entry in my PA Dutch Country guidebook, I just had to stop by again to see if the magic was still there.


Built in 1948, the 48-foot long shoe house was closed on Mondays for “ice cream” tours, but I snapped a few photos, including the shoe doghouse and mailbox. I have vague recollections of touring the inside (I have an image of the lady tour guide standing by a window with yellow chintz curtains, remember breathing in a musty smell and thinking I wouldn’t really want to live here).

I also remember how excited my oldest sister was by the all-you-can-eat ice cream sundae buffet in the gift shop. Oddly, though, I only vaguely remember eating any ice cream myself—I guess it wasn't especially good ice cream? Anyway, I’d recommend "the big shoe" as a whimsical tourist stop if you're in the area (and let me know if the ice cream is any better), but thank heavens for Herr Doktor’s GPS-ready phone, because the place is not easy to find!


I thought I'd add one more somewhat darker memory from my past--on the way into Amish country we crossed the Susquehanna River, a surprisingly wide-ass river with an odd, musical, yet to me rather terrifying name. Looking over at a parallel bridge brought back a recurring nightmare from childhood of being stranded in a huge expanse of water on a narrow bridge. That image still terrifies me, to be honest, and I realized it came from precisely this scene. When I was little, I would dive down into the well of the back passenger's seat, so I wouldn't have to look at this bridge! I'm less skittish now, but I still felt a vague sense of unease....

Our next stop was the Julius Sturgis pretzel factory in Lititz, home of the very first hard pretzels in the world. The original Sturgis “invented” hard pretzels when he baked a batch of soft pretzels too long! So mistakes can be fruitful, as every writer knows. The kids had fun twisting their own pretzels and sampling the various types of pretzels (we bought a bag of the rustic-style extra-crunchy ones), but by this time we were all pretty exhausted by the heat and the driving. The mood was getting a little punchy as we toyed with the suggestive place names of Amish Country. “I had to go through Blue Ball to get to Intercourse but then—on to Paradise!” Or, as Herr Doktor quipped “I’m worried that by the time I get to Intercourse, I’ll be too tired to enjoy it.”

Tired as we were, we made a requisite stop at the tiny and rather unremarkable town of Blue Ball for a photo op, passing “Pleasure Road” as well, and then on to the Hershey Farm Inn, our lodging for the next few nights.


On the way we passed a number of Amish people driving buggies. I mean for real—this was not a gimmick! Real horses, real black closed buggies with day-glo safety triangles on the back. There were rolling hills and old farmhouses and the smell of manure in the air and bearded guys harvesting hay with horses. Indeed, the Amish world is not just an idyllic fancy or a scene from Witness. The past really does live on here, proudly enduring our curious gazes from the future.

Now the Hershey Farm Inn cost about as much as the Courtyard by Marriott in Gettysburg, but it definitely had a down-home country feel to it—a close, musty smell, thin towels, plastic cups, a tiny bathroom. Basically just like the motels I used to stay in when I was growing up because my Depression childhood parents naturally chose budget accommodations. (The Holiday Inn was a real splurge for us). Amish Country is the home of the all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant, with Miller’s being the acknowledged best of the buffets, but we were too cranky to drive anymore and opted for our motel’s restaurant. I’ll talk about that particular trip into the culinary past next time, but I will add we saved room for dessert and went into the charming little town of Strasburg (which is where Harrison Ford beats up the bullying “English” tourist in Witness while Viggo Mortensen looks on in his film debut) for some ice cream at the Strasburg Country Store and Creamery. I had a dish of black raspberry again, which had the same tangy intensity of flavor I’d enjoyed in Gettsyburg. They really know how to do raspberry ice cream in that part of the world! Butter brickle is another local specialty—it tastes like an ice cream version of butterscotch hard candy. I also eyed the toasted coconut fudge, but since I’d been eating dessert morning, noon and night every day, I decided not to indulge. This was a big mistake, it turned out, for I never had another chance and the idea of a piece of golden, toasted coconut fudge became more and more appealing with each passing moment.

I’m over it now, but next time, I will definitely take that leap to see if my fantasy is matched by reality.

Stay tuned next time for…a gallery of T-shirts from Intercourse and confessions from the most sensually self-indulgent day of the trip (oh, those Amish!)

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?

Dill-icious Secrets of Dirty Story Writers

Spicy Summer Sundays continues with an utterly dill-icious discussion of dill and big, fat, singing pickles over at Jeremy Edwards' place.

The champagne is flowing, the green beans are fresh from the vine, the dill hummus is all over my fingers and I'm licking it off slowly, lovingly as I listen to spicy writers from near and far discuss their favorite moment of the creative process. I'm learning a lot--for example, did you know a big old tuft of dill weed makes a great sex toy? Or that fennel and dill have a thing goin' on? But I'm not going to give away all of the secrets. Head on over to the dill-ectable party! You'll be dill-ighted you di(lle)d.

Sex and Satisfaction, Too!

Fruit and vegetable markets are just so sexy. I went wild at Monterey Market on Friday, filling my cart with fresh local corn, orange bell peppers, blushing Blenheim apricots, an orange-flesh honeydew melon, a local cantaloupe that had an irresistibly lovely fragrance, plump cherries that are still under $2 a pound and very tasty (I tried one), Kika's Farms plump, red strawberries at ninety-eight cents a pint (the lower the price, the higher the season). Who can resist all of that perfect sun-ripened sweetness of July fruit? Add to that organic peaches and figs in my organic farm box and our house was overflowing with juicy bounty. My mouth was already watering when the mail arrived to deliver the best treat of all: my contributor's copy of Xcite's Sex and Satisfaction 2, edited by Miranda Forbes.

Not only is the male cover boy juicy in himself--and obviously ready to get wet--the stories inside are positively delicious. I'm sandwiched between Carmel Lockyer, who writes a very sexy tale involving "The Pirates," and Jeremy Edwards, whose "Moistened by Mercer" puts a whole new spin on the usually boring task of copying documents at the office. To finish up the anthology, Sommer Marsden serves up a very sweet three-way dessert with her "Girl Crush."

My story "Saint Valentine," celebrates the sensual appeal of a Green Party, Buddhist vegan. I confess I find left-leaning, spiritually-minded men very intriguing. Fortunately they grow wild in my part of the world, including my very own backyard! The story also includes an aphrodisiac dinner, the menu of which I will include for your food porn pleasure. "I expected seitan and sprouts, but Justin serves me a lavish salad of organic greens, porcini risotto, and a subtly earthy Barbera. Dessert is almost decadent: four different bars of fair-trade dark chocolate that Justin suggests we taste in a flight like wine." The "tasting" also involves lots of kissing, so don't think vegans don't have a sensual side.

In the mood for more? Well, I always want my visitors to have their sex and their satisfaction, too.

An excerpt from "Saint Valentine":

The problem is that I’ve fallen in love with a vegan.

To be honest, it’s more ‘in lust.’ I met Justin two months ago when he joined our theatre troupe as the lighting director. I flirt with him outrageously, but that is my specialty. On stage I play the vamps, the lusty barmaids, the whorehouse madams in crimson bustiers. All the roles a full-figured temptress plays to perfection. Justin flirts back, but I sense a reserve, as if he means to stay above life’s coarser urges. After rehearsal, when we all go off to the pub to polish off pitchers of beer and potato skins with bacon and sour cream, Justin takes a seat at the end of the table and sips a single glass of red wine.

Though I chug and gobble with the rest of them, I secretly admire my vegan saint. I find his willingness to deny himself carnal gratification for a higher principle unbearably sexy. But, because I really am a bad girl at heart, I also want to defile his purity, pull him down onto my hot, rumpled sheets for a fleshly feast that lasts for nights on end.

Which is probably why I couldn’t get up the nerve to ask him out—good, old-fashioned Catholic-girl guilt.

Fortunately, Justin is a Buddhist.

‘Would you like to come to my place for dinner Thursday night?’ He pops the question as I’m lounging backstage, waiting for my next scene.

‘That’s Valentine’s Day,’ I say, without thinking.

‘Yes. Do you have other plans?’

Nothing I couldn’t cancel to get a mouthful of you. That’s what I think, what I say is, ‘I was just planning to hang out at home hoping a prince would ride by with some chocolate and roses.’

‘You’re not going to let candy corporations and florists brainwash you with their profit-making fantasies, are you?’ He smiles, but I sense he’s not really kidding.

‘It just so happens I like chocolate and flowers. I even buy them for myself now and then,’ I say, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Of course, you probably think I’m a dupe of consumer capitalism with my silly dreams.’

He holds my gaze steadily for what seems like forever. His eyes flicker with a tiny golden flame, warming me, melting me. I realise I haven’t breathed in quite some time.

‘Well,’ he says finally, ‘I hope a wholesome, organic meal with a nice wine will be an acceptable alternative to that propaganda.’

I swallow and nod, strangely at a loss for words. But although I’m acting like a love-sick female, in one tiny corner of my mind, I’m still as clear and calculating as ever. Why not accept his invitation? There’s a risk Justin might spend the night lecturing me on organic farming techniques and corporate manipulation of consumers, but there’s an upside, too. It’s also my golden chance to slither my way inside his monk’s cell--and hopefully his bed. With temptations of the flesh so near, even he might find it impossible to resist my generous charms.

Instead temptation comes to visit me in my bed. That night I dream I’m lying on my back on some kind of stone slab, my thighs spread wide like a virgin sacrifice. Justin stands before me, wearing priestly black and a serene smile. Then his gaze falls to my pussy, swollen and exposed, and suddenly the smile stretches into satyr’s leer. I try to sit up or at least pull my gauzy shift down to cover myself, but I discover I’m bound to the slab, totally at his mercy.

My pussy tingles and throbs and a warm wetness trickles under my thighs. I know I’m shamefully aroused down there, and Justin knows it, too. He’s staring at me with glowing eyes and licking his lips with a moist red tongue. Just then liquid dribbles from the corner of his mouth, not drool but something opalescent and viscous like jism. He bends to taste my offering, grinning and slobbering, and in spite of myself my hips arch up to meet him. I know his terrible transformation from saint to sinner is my fault. Though my body is twitching and trembling in anticipation of that nimble tongue on my secret lips, a scream rises in my chest—Stop! You don’t eat meat!—but no sound comes.

I wake up drenched in sweat, troubled, but undeniably horny. Dipping my hand between my legs to masturbate, I pretend my finger is Justin’s greedy tongue, lapping and licking with devotion. I imagine him kneeling down there between my legs, his head bobbing slightly as he works me over. I hear the click of my wet flesh as he feasts, savor the vision of him pausing to smile up at me to whisper—delicious--his lips and chin shimmering with my juices in the moonlight. When I climax, I make plenty of noise, partly because it’s hot jilling off to the thought of Justin’s mouth on my pussy, partly to reassure myself dreams don’t always come true.

Then again, sometimes they do.

Another Hot Threesome at ERWA!

Tomorrow is the first day of July, the first full month of summer freedom, and I'm the proud (and exhausted) author of three essays on the ERWA website. Don't the best things always come in threes?

This month's installment of "Cooking Up a Storey" is called "Naked Lunches:
Picnics, Porn Stashes, and the Roots of an Obsession." It may seem a bit familiar to regular readers of this blog in its discussion of naughty trysts en plein air and the surprising uses of one's personal erotic history. But this time I include a recipe for "Naughty Picnic Couscous Salad," which is appropriately very portable to out-of-the-way areas and protein-rich to keep up your stamina!

If you've been following my "Shameless Self-Promotion" column (and if not, why haven't you? Are you embarrassed?), you'll be interested in this month's "Viva the Internet: Book Reviews and Blogs." The Internet is by far the most effective tool for independent promoters and I not only give you a few tips from my own experience, I invite the amazingly resourceful and creative Jeremy Edwards to share his intimate knowledge of the path of cyber-shamelessness in a must-read interview at the ERWA blog.

That's the usual couple, but I'm in the mood to invite a third hot body into bed, and what better candidate than a 21st Century Courtesan, the steamy new novel by Eden Bradley? My review of the book touches upon the nature of genre fiction and the ways writers bend its rules, often beautifully, as does Bradley in this psychologically complex erotic romance.

But wait--do I see another sexy babe slinking over with a gleam in her eye and a ticket to Vegas in her hand? Yes, it's my favorite American Cool lady, Susan DiPlacido, who is the featured author at Ashley Lister's "Between the Lines." You can find out more about Susan's fascination with Vegas, her tricks of the trade (regarding writing, not gambling, although we'd love to hear those secrets, too), and how to test run your next novel in a short story. You'll think you've hit the jackpot with this down-to-earth discussion of the author's craft.

So come on, jump into bed with us. There's always room for more!

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!

Paris, Champagne, Music....

Friday, glorious Friday! I just picked up my CSA box bursting with sweet pea pods, artichokes, asparagus and—be still my beating heart—TWO boxes of lovely strawberries. Plus I’m digging in to my latest literary treat, Naughty Paris: A Lady’s Guide to the Sexy City, that I learned about on Lauren Elkin’s blog the other day. It’s full of gems like this quote from Isabel Allende:

“For women, the best aphrodisiacs are words. The G-spot is in the ears. He who looks for it below there is wasting time.”

(I must add that this book has me fantasizing about a trip to Gay Paree with all of my erotica-writing lady friends. What fun we’d have!)

But best of all, the effervescent Jeremy Edwards (who, in keeping with the French theme, I like to think of as “a glass of champagne in a fedora”) has offered up an auditory amuse-bouche from his early erotica-writing days for our delectation.

Here’s Jeremy:

Though my erotica career didn't begin in earnest until 2005, it had a little "prelude" (since we've been talking about classical music) ten years earlier. The unpublished novella that I wrote then--which started out as a proposed full-length novel--had some intrinsic flaws, as did my assessment of the market at that time. But there were a few passages I still liked a decade later, and I developed a couple of them into short stories. Thus, the auditeuristic flash piece below was
published at Ruthie's Club in 2006, as part of a suite of Jeremy pieces collectively entitled "Liquid Intimacies." When I revised this individual item yet again last year, I renamed it "Alicia's Music."

"Alicia’s Music" by Jeremy Edwards

Her apartment door was painted coral pink with navy-blue trim. I was glad I had accepted the casual invitation.

Alicia greeted me with a grin and a handshake. “Make yourself at home,” she said brightly as she stepped aside to let me in. “I’ll be right back. I was just about to pee.”

I had entered from the hallway directly into the kitchen, a space made pleasant by the low-volume cool of some modern jazz disc. Alicia now disappeared through a door on the far side of this room. I crossed to the table and seated myself facing the windows, through which I hoped to catch a final glimpse of the sunset.

Sitting there, I became conscious of the titillating music of Alicia’s fountain as it tinkled exuberantly into the bowl. For a moment, I wondered if it would be courteous to avoid listening--I couldn’t help hearing, but I could try not to listen--yet I had a feeling that she wouldn’t mind. So I relaxed, and I noticed how the sound of her intimate cascade mingled sweetly with the round, cheerful vibraphone notes that bubbled softly out of the speakers.

Our eyes met when she emerged. It was obvious that I must have heard her music. She blushed a little and smiled, shyly but impishly. Then she broke the tension.

“You haven’t lived till you’ve listened to me urinate,” she laughed.

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!

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.

Japanese Love Hotel Quickie

Since travel and hotels are the theme at Sex, Food and Writing right now, I thought I’d let you know about my article on Japan’s love hotels that was recently posted over at the Do Not Disturb blog. As you might expect from a country that values form as much as content, no-tell motels in the Land of the Rising Sun have a style and whimsy all their own.

Thanks to Jeremy Edwards for inspiring me to put a humorous spin on this trip into the realm of rent-by-the-hour sexual hideaways. Will you be a winner in the Love Hotel Madness Game? Give it a try—maybe you’ll get lucky!

Indeed, I got lucky today with a story idea after my trip to a salon for my first Brazilian wax job. Or rather Venezuelan wax job... but best to let inspiration simmer before I bare all!

Postcards from Jeremy Edwards

Mardi Gras is the perfect day to begin our party in sumptuous suite 69! Our first raconteur is the delightful Jeremy Edwards, who's confessed his own hotelphilia in private to me and in public to the world in so many steamy stories set in rented lodgings. But don't take my word for it--here's Jeremy!

The quiet elegance and modest luxury of a boutique hotel are so sexually stimulating for me. To my eye, the decor of a simply but artistically appointed hotel room is like a set of lingerie—there’s not much there, but every thoughtful detail is aesthetically pleasing. A cozy, attractive hotel room is a favorite place to rock the bed with my delicious wife ... and a favorite place to dip into a crisp, new volume of erotica. And I don’t mind admitting that it’s also a favorite masturbation setting for me. The exquisite private space within a cheerful public building; the pleasure-focused mindset of a vacation environment; and the inevitable thoughts of all the sexy women in other rooms and other buildings ... on sidewalks and subway platforms and in bedrooms and bathtubs ... it all makes me relish every moment with a special tingliness, and makes me want to dance with cosmopolitan ecstasy in the charming afternoon hotel-room light.

[“Architectural Photography,” posted at Alison Tyler’s blog]

Oh, that was the hotel in Phoenix, with the cartoonish turrets. I remember gazing down on the courtyard from our window while you hugged me from behind, frigging your bush against my buttocks and teasing my backbone with your nipples. You humped me like that till my erection pointed skyward; then you held it. I think you must have put your other hand between your legs, because as you stroked me off the sound of your breath became dense. I could smell your heat.

That one is from Chicago. Don’t be fooled by the size of the building: as you may recall, the entire block was composed of one immense complex, of which our hotel was only a sliver. There was barely room for the obligatory revolving door. Looking at this picture, what I really see is you with your ass in the air, your knees sinking into the super-soft mattress we had. That night, I went around and around in the revolving door between your thighs.

The picture next to it is the place we stayed at in Boston, of course—when they were in the middle of restoring the façade. Look how the painted-on tulips appear to be gradually resaturating from left to right! The shower in that hotel was a perfect aquatic sex-nest, just large enough for two to squeeze, really squeeze, together, without banging against the soap caddy. The steam enveloped us, and I could see it floating right into your pussy. I followed the steam.

***

[from “Pack the Essentials,” published at Oysters & Chocolate]

When I awoke in our sunny hotel room, my wife was reading a travel guide in a large, comfortable armchair, her bare feet together on the seat and her knees bent out from her body. Seated in this position, wearing a minidress, she was giving me an intimate view. Her narrowly clothed crotch took center stage, framed by the creamy curtain of her thighs and the cushion of her bottom. I noticed how the slim gusset of her lavender panties lay clingingly in the center of her slit, leaving the outer parts of her femininity visible. The lewd effect was crowned by the cute straw sun hat she had put on, in preparation for the day’s tourist activities.

As morning consciousness pushed out the haze of sleep, I remembered how our evening had begun. “Are you busy?” she had called to me from the bed, while I made some notes at the neat little hotel-room desk. “Because I was hoping you might come over here and kiss all the invisible hairs on my bottom. I’m situated just right, see?” Her eyes had lit up her otherwise impassive face as she gracefully flipped the back hem of her short, silk dressing gown to reveal the soft curves of her naked cheeks. They were radiant with anticipated delight. I had approached her and watched her derriere wriggle in a brief, involuntary spasm of pleasure. Her slight lime underpants, which she had peeled down silently while I had been absorbed in my work, nestled politely on the carpet at the foot of the bed. A minute later, I was feasting on her, watching the flesh of her hills drink every squeeze, every playful little slap, every tiny kiss; and seeing her roll into each titillation of our bedside feather up and down the sensuous crack.

New York Book Tour 6: Spanked!

Saturday, October 18, the sixth day of my Amorous Woman book tour, was a much more leisurely day than the two that had come before. I certainly felt better after a real night’s sleep. That morning I decided to get a little exercise by walking back over to “Japan Town” to check out the Japanese grocery store I’d seen the night before. There was a definite chill of fall in the air. I felt I was witnessing the very moment when the tingly vanilla autumn of Indian summer turned to the bite of hardcore fall.

As I headed down Charles Street to Greenwich Avenue, I noticed that a street fair/farmer’s market was set up along Greenwich, which would change plans for meeting Jeremy Edwards and Helia Brookes to get a ride out to Brooklyn for the sex party—I mean, salon. But that’s what cell phones are for, so I made a note to call them with an update and enjoyed the scenery: booths selling scarves and New Age crystals and incense, one selling deep-fried Oreos (which tempted me briefly for the bizarre factor), and another promising the best cannoli in the city delivered from Brooklyn after 1 pm (which genuinely interested me, but unfortunately I myself would be heading to Brooklyn at that time, and possibly passing the famous cannoli in transit.)

The grocery store was interesting, but nothing too different from what we have in the Bay Area. I also scoped out restaurants for the next day’s lunch (more about that later). I stopped back at my sister’s place to pick up the two bottles of red wine I’d bought for the sex party—I mean salon—and rendezvous-ed with EllaRegina, who was going to be carpooling with us.

Our Seventh Avenue pick-up went smoothly and soon the four erotica writers were sailing along on the West Side Highway, with just a short detour through the Financial District to admire the Woolworth Building, and on our way to the home of the fabulously otherworldly writer and founder of Erotica Revealed, D.L. King, for an afternoon of wicked wordsmith shop talk. I have to say I was very impressed with Jeremy’s cool-headed driving. My idea of hell would be driving in New York City, but he managed it with perfect good cheer—as he seems to handle all of life’s challenges :-).

D.L. lives in a charming neighborhood in Brooklyn, although it was strange to return to a land of single-family houses and trees after the uber-urban landscape of Manhattan. Inside, the house was definitely the realm of an erotica literati (literata?)—bookshelves everywhere, comfy-looking sofas, a cozy kitchen and the bedroom that would be the setting for the spicy climactic event of the afternoon, but I’ll get to that soon. Already in attendance were Joan, the ERWA Sheriff (who’s not at all scary or policewoman-like in person) and her companion, who were regular participants at the salon.

I’d been looking forward to this event since I started planning my trip. When I mentioned to D.L. that I’d be in New York, she immediately offered to host one of her famous “salons” (not sex parties) in my honor. At first I was a bit nervous, thinking eighteenth-century Diderot and Madame de Stael, but D.L. assured me it was just an informal gathering, nothing pretentious at all.
Indeed, everything was very informal and relaxed. D.L. had set up a nice lunch spread in her backyard, which was also very charming and full of living, green things. Actually the fence and gate reminded me of my grandmother’s house in Pennsylvania. I hadn’t thought of fences as being regional, but indeed they are. As you can see there were plenty of things to munch, crudités and dip, bread and cheese, fried chicken, crab salad.
But the favorite food of all was the “cheese balls” in the great big jar, presented here by the hostess herself. Soon Rachel Kramer Bussel and the talented fetish photographer and book trailer maestro Stacie Joy (whose work can be found on Flickr under "editrixie" and who took the better pictures in this post) arrived—with a big box of cupcakes naturally--and the party was complete.
Again I passed around my fortune cookies. Here is one of the guests holding up one of the fortunes—not sure who it is (Joan?), but the suggestions were greeted with enthusiasm by this creative and open-minded crowd. However, they didn’t immediately put them into practice—not yet, anyway.
And here is Jeremy, lost in a book again. I think he was perusing his story, “Laura the Laugher,” in Xcite's Ultimate Burlesque to enjoy that "Masterpiece Theatre" experience from the UK spellings. Or maybe he was reading my story “All Eyes Upon Her”? In any case, we were both happy to contribute to a good cause and as always delighted to hold the book in our hands. (All proceeds go to help fight breast cancer).
Once we’d satisfied our nutritional needs with the rib-sticking and vitamin-packed cheese balls, we started in on the cupcakes. Rachel told us October 18 was National Chocolate Cupcake Day, and of course, as a renowned cupcake blogger, along with Stacie, she should know. Because there were other flavors in the box, such as pumpkin, vanilla, and carrot, we decided the best way would be to cut the cupcakes into small pieces so everyone could sample them all. Helia also passed around her delicious homemade chocolate chip cookies, which had a lacy texture and a lovely butterscotch flavor. I need to get that recipe!

I’m so busy focusing on the food—typical of me, isn’t it?—that I forgot to fill you in on an important sub-plot. Both D.L. and Rachel are well-known experts in the area of erotic spanking, and although we were all curious about our fellow salonists' achievements, EllaRegina expressed a special interest. She’d attended a spanking demonstration in Manhattan some time before, where a buff ex-CIA guy (or was it FBI?) plucked a gorgeous blonde “volunteer” from the audience and proceeded to demonstrate the proper techniques for an arousing fanny-paddling. EllaRegina still had a few questions about what the subjective experience might involve. Calm yet encouraging, D.L. suggested that maybe Rachel would be willing to give her own demonstration. Which is exactly the sort of thing outsiders expect would transpire at erotica-writer salons.

But, hell, I didn’t believe it would actually happen.

By then we’d opened the second bottle of wine, which was better than the first. For some reason the second bottle of wine is always better than the first. Again I had wonderful conversations with Joan and Stacie on the topic of the reaction of the general public to our work and stupid assumptions that our personal lives and erotic art were one in the same. D.L. made me jealous by talking about her trip to visit Ashley Lister in Blackpool, and I chatted again with Jeremy and Helia—we never run out of things to discuss. It really was pretty much like any other gathering of like-minded writers on a Saturday afternoon. As the shadows lengthened and the October breeze turned chilly, we moved inside to the living room.
Then D.L. offered to give us a tour of her “toy closet.” Now I myself have a drawer at home filled with adult amusements: a variety of thigh-hi stockings, a corset, some thongs and a few Good Vibrations accessories of my own, but it was pathetically amateur compared to this imaginative and extensive collection of erotic aids. I’ll leave you to identify the items for yourself. Needless to say, if you’re into spanking above the vanilla novice level, you’d find plenty to pique your interest here. And, I’m told, many have.

Again EllaRegina was particularly intrigued and at some point D.L. approached Rachel and Stacie as go-between for a proposed lesson. In private conference, they agreed to a quick demonstration of the spanker’s art a trois, behind closed doors of course. Although I myself had written a story about a three-couple spanking party, “A Rare Find,” in Rachel’s Spanked anthology, I wasn’t ready for any hands-on demonstration myself. As an erotica writer, I believe the imagination is free, but I am very monogamous where physical interaction is concerned. Still I didn’t think my husband would object if I were merely chatting in the next room while two women spanked another in the bedroom, involving no nudity and no actual “sex,” although it would be disingenuous to deny that eroticism was in the air. I also knew it would make a good story—either as fiction or memoir (or both). So, I poured myself another glass of wine and sat with Joan, Jeremy, Helia and D.L. to discuss erotica and French philosophers. Or maybe it was Althusser and the hidden coercive effect of ideology, which naturalizes society’s systems of control and makes us believe it comes from within us. Whatever we talked about, trust me, it was profound and worthy of Mme. de Stael.

Admittedly, the entire time I had one ear tuned to the sounds coming from the bedroom. First there were voices, rising and falling. I thought perhaps maybe the spanking had happened. But no, soon enough it was clear from the rhythmic thwacks that the spanking was indeed in progress. There was more discussion—no howls or sobs, just talk—and then some harder thwacks. The other guests continued talking, perhaps distracted, but diplomatic like I was. Or perhaps they were genuinely cool to the point of disinterest? Some had attended these salons before.

I’d had a few experiences like this in the past, of being a voyeur—or rather auditeur. When I lived in Yokohama, the woman in the apartment next door would have very loud sex with her boyfriend at 2 in the morning a few times a week. It was mildly annoying as my husband was thousands of miles away, but I did learn some interesting bedroom Japanese. And then there was that party at my sister’s Bowery loft in the winter of 1980. I came up from Princeton for the big event, but developed a terrible headache and finally collapsed on my sister’s mattress on the floor of her bedroom, the sounds of the party echoing in my pounding temples. As the only resident with a real job and income, my sister scored the one room in the loft with a door.

At some point during the party, her Parisian call-girl roommate decided she had to have sex with her downstairs neighbor (I also knew this guy was the consolation prize because she had her sights on another man) and since I was apparently asleep, the bedroom was a fine place to do it. So, while I lay there, my head throbbing and my stomach queasy, the two of them fucked on the mattress beside me. My back was to them, so it was mostly an auditory experience. There was some grunting, some squeaking of the mattress. It didn’t last long. Except in my memory. I do believe that every experience is a lesson for us, in this case my beyond-Princeton teaching was that New York was a place where anything really could happen.

But back to October 2008, to D.L.’s salon. Suddenly the thwacking stopped. The door opened and the three women emerged looking very much as they had when they went in.

“How was it?” I don’t think we actually asked this in words, but the question floated in the air.

“It feels like my buttocks just had Indian food.” As always, EllaRegina had a way of capturing experience with a unique style.

Not shy about spanking and running, Rachel and Stacie got ready to leave and gave us hugs all around. EllaRegina was apparently still able to sit down after her encounter with leather and told us more over another glass of wine. Perhaps she should relate the story herself, but I remember it begins in my memory with the image of EllaRegina walking in to the room to see Rachel sitting on the bed waiting for her, paddle in hand.

“Did she bring it with her from Manhattan?” EllaRegina wondered aloud to us. The idea of Rachel always at the ready with a spanking implement was certainly within the realm of possibility.

D.L.’s eyes twinkled. “No, I think she got her supplies right here.”

Apparently what happened next was something like this: after a discussion of the demonstration, EllaRegina lay down on the bed. Stacie held her hands down while Rachel did the warm-up spanking. Then they switched and Stacie administered the serious blows.

And so it was EllaRegina’s ass dined on thali that evening.

Clearly any social intercourse after this would be anti-climactic, so to speak. The party was winding down and we all needed to be on our way. We said sincere thanks and goodbye to our hostess, D.L. and Joan, expressing the hope we could meet again soon on one coast or the other. Then Jeremy and Helia drove us back to the city and dropped us off at our respective neighborhoods. EllaRegina disappeared into the Washington Square Arch, and I’d swear I saw a park ranger follow her in with a stack of quarters in his hands. Over at Charles Street, my sister had a light supper waiting for me. Tiny roasted potatoes with salmon caviar, bread and cheese, and a salad with a new dressing she’d just discovered. It has a decided Japanese flavor, but would probably go well with Indian food, too. So, I’ll leave you with the recipe and perhaps a whisper of vicarious heat on your lower regions.

After-the-Spanking-Party Salad Dressing

Mix together in a bowl or dressing shaker:

1/4 teaspoon dry mustard
1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger (she uses The Ginger People Pantry Essentials)
1/4 teaspoon mirin
1 teaspoon low-sodium soy sauce
1 1/2 teaspoons mellow white miso
3 Tablespoons Marukan lite rice vinegar
3 Tablespoons olive oil

Serve over fresh greens.

Bon Appetit!

Next: A climax of a different sort and every writer's dream: all of New York at her feet....