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!

Freedom Sex by Fone!

Hump day is going to be especially exciting this week, because I'm going to be the featured phone sex voice at "In the Flesh LA" organized by the very generous and ever-creative Stan Kent and banana-luscious erotica writer Jolene Hui (her story from Sex and Candy, "Banana Afternoon," featuring homemade cupcakes and naked lovers on a hot day is a mainstay of my fantasy life!). I'm very excited to be joining the ranks of such esteemed in-the-flesh phone sex veterans as Jeremy Edwards, D.L. King and Alison Tyler.

The theme is Freedom Sex in honor of Independence Day and I'll be remotely purring an excerpt from my story "Suit and Tie" first published in She's on Top, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Temp receptionist Megan finds relief from the bureaucratic grind through "self-pleasuring" breaks, but when her boss walks in on her one day (it's one of those co-ed restrooms in a suite and naturally she forgot to lock the door), the tables turn and she starts calling the shots. Yet, the erotic life being what it is, boss Steve discovers bondage brings its own special form of liberation.

If you happen to be wandering through Hustler Hollywood on Wednesday, July 8 around 8 pm PDT, do stop in to hear some hot erotica writers reading sizzling sex scenes, including yours truly! Oh, and if you want to know what I'll be wearing, no need to leave it to the imagination. I'll be donning my favorite erotica-writing outfit pictured above. It always helps to dress the part.

Diary of a New York Book Tour: Making History

Where did the time go? I’d swear it was just a few days ago that I was in New York City during a lovely stretch of Indian (or should I say “Native American”?) summer weather, finally getting to meet some of my very favorite erotica writers in person and talking dirty in front of groups of strangers to promote my novel, Amorous Woman.

As I start this year’s exciting new “public me” project of assembling the lessons I learned as a rank beginner in book promotion, I realized that my book tours to LA and New York were all about taking myself seriously as a writer—that was the real value and profit (not to mention I had a lot of fun). And so, even though my report is late enough to qualify as memoir rather than reportage, I think it is important to celebrate a wonderfully successful trip and show off my photos of my adventures on my first national book tour.

My journey began before dawn on Monday, October 13. Because of the early flight, I took a van to the airport instead of bumming a ride with my personal assistant and technical advisor—after all, he’d be watching the kids alone all week, at least he deserved his sleep. My van driver had an accent just like Len on “Dancing With the Stars” (I’m fairly decent at identifying dialects/accents and once recognized a man who grew up a few miles from my brother-in-law by his special south Virginia accent) and he was chatty. Since I’ve become a middle-aged lady cum self-promoter, I’m chattier, too, and we ended up talking about the vehicle he was driving. Hey, the conversation was more interesting than you might think. This apparently unremarkable van was once owned by Kelly-Moore paints, but the side door was sticky, so they couldn’t use it on jobs and Len got it cheap. Because he was a fix-it-yourself type, he fiddled with the door only to discover someone had dropped a lighter in the groove and the problem was solved simply by removing it. As I gazed out at the full moon hanging like a golden ornament in the sky, I was amazed to think that everything has a past, a history. Including airport vans. Cool, huh?

This was especially relevant because for me a trip to the east coast is a trip to my past. I grew up in various mid-Atlantic states and the New York area is rich with memories. Add to that the undeniable fact that a trip to NYC is a journey into the fantasyland of writing and publishing. Things are changing, but NYC is still the center of this world. My brain was a little dizzy from the idea I was a published novelist flying to Manhattan for literary events. This was the ultimate in chutzpah, in actually taking myself seriously, even if many consider me just a pornographer hack (my local bookstores topping that list). A little voice still whispered that I was cheating—I was not a real writer—but what the hell, I do fiction, I could pretend!

My plane ride was blessedly uneventful. Tell my why they always delay things for four hours when you have the kids along, but it all goes smoothly when you’re alone with a good book and could wait serenely through countless technical difficulties? I read, appropriately, Rona Jaffe’s The Best of Everything (a 1950s bestseller about young women working in NY publishing) and tried not to think about my own upcoming events and how I might make a fool of myself. The page-turning romantic and professional travails of Jaffe’s many heroines did a good job of distracting me. Of course it was weird traveling without my family, again a kind of reversion to my past in college and grad school, but it seemed right for the professional nature of my trip.

My guidebook had recommended against taking the subway from JFK into Manhattan because it was too confusing, but since my book tour was financed from my modest advance, I couldn’t resist the price tag--$7 versus almost ten times that for a cab, hired car or even a bus. Besides, I’d found my way around a dozen foreign cities alone in my past life. Sometimes it wasn’t pretty, but I got to my destination in the end (like life itself, eh?) Sure enough, there were plenty of signs and plenty of people to follow through the terminal to the monorail, then on to the A-train station. The subway took me right to West 4th Street, just a few blocks from my NYC pied a terre in Greenwich Village, aka my sister and brother-in-law’s apartments.

Greenwich Village! Is there any place that oozes more literary history and romance? And that’s literary history of precisely my brand—disreputable, beyond-the-pale degenerate writing about things no polite person would dare speak of. Indeed, during my stay in the Village, I would stay up all night drinking, lunch with fellow writers and discuss how to make the world a better place, and attend scandalous gatherings. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

As I wheeled my suitcase through the West Village Streets, now infused with the butterscotch light of an October setting sun, I could only wonder at the strange path that had brought me here, eleven or so years after I wrote my first short story as an adult. The real thrill was that no agent, editor or publisher had descended from the heavens to lift me to the rank of Real Writer. Whatever had happened was my doing (with the help of wonderful friends and family, of course, but they were as earthbound and real as I was). Hmm, did you ever think walking along a street could be so…profound? Greenwich Village does that to you, I suppose.

Before I knew it, I was at Charles Street, one of the loveliest streets in the Village. My sister buzzed me into her apartment and we planned the rest of the evening. A trip to Whole Foods for my particular breakfast and lunch needs (yogurt, cottage cheese, Kashi cereal, Nugo Bars), then dinner at Grano Trattoria, owned by my sister’s friend and a sort of “house restaurant.” But first we watched the episode of “Mad Men” I’d missed the evening before—I didn’t want to spend the last evening with my family watching TV! My sister is a fan of the show as well, and it was fitting to watch as I was in the city of “Mad Men,” or at least the city that inspired the story, because later that week we watched the extra documentary on the first season DVD which gave details on how they New York-ified the LA sets (including having lunches at Musso and Frank Grill).

Dinner at Grano was lovely as always—grilled salmon with parsnip and potato puree and broccoli rabe, eased down with two glasses of red wine (one lighter, one heartier and more to my taste). Dessert was a complimentary plate of house-made biscotti, which were tender and tasty. Afterwards, we strolled through the Village and over to Magnolia Bakery, which had been mobbed on my last visit. I knew the cupcakes were over-rated, but wanted to taste one for myself. At 10pm on a Monday, the place was only bustling rather than inundated with “Sex and the City” tourists, so I picked up a vanilla cupcake with a breast cancer ribbon in honor of Samantha, plus a chocolate cupcake for my brother-in-law (rather evocative of breasts in its own way) and took them home in the clever take-out box.


Then I retired to the “guest room,” which was really my brother-in-law’s office. Here my fantasy of being a member of the Greenwich Village literati continued to play out as I could pretend this was my apartment.



Not that I’d lived in such uncluttered quarters in quite some time (if ever), but it certainly fit with the spare, but tasteful life of the artiste. I’ve scattered photos of my digs throughout this blog—the kitchen where I filled my water glass, the computer where I accessed email, the living room and downstairs “loft” where I slept, except that one night when I didn’t sleep at all. Yes, I’ll tell you all about that soon.



Before bed, as I checked email, I tried out my second dessert (the culinary riches of NYC call for such indulgences), the vanilla cupcake from Magnolia. Guess what? That thing was pretty darn good. The cake was tender and moist and full of complex vanilla flavor, the icing wasn’t bad either, creamy and generous. I didn’t have the chance to indulge in a full-blown cupcake orgy, like Stan Kent in his story, “Cupcake” in Sex and Candy, but maybe Carrie and company were on to something?

As I snuggled into my futon, I wondered what the week ahead would bring. Tuesday, the next day, would be busy with Japan-related meetings and talks, and of course, I was a bit apprehensive, but I tried to relax and enjoy each present moment of my trip.



I was in Greenwich Village, a published author, slightly tipsy as all good Greenwich Village authors should be. Although my footprint was gossamer light, I would leave my bit of fairy dust on the history of these streets—or at least help the local bakeries make ends meet.

Coming next: Donna strolls Madison Avenue, talks sex in a fancy lawfirm boardroom, and drinks enough sake to speak in Japanese to real Japanese people.

A Night to Remember: Amorous Travels in Time and Space, episode 4

Cliffhangers—yeah, they keep the pages turning, but there is a downside. Sometimes all the suspense leads to a disappointing denouement—a ho-hum crash at the bottom of the drop--which is just what I’m afraid will happen in my penultimate LA Book Tour blog entry. Because now I am actually getting to the “climax” of the trip I’ve promised for so long, the part you’d definitely have to write home about if you had understanding parents…. But no more mystery, gentle readers, it’s time to tell all about my visit to Dr. Susan Block’s Speakeasy.

Dr. Suzy is a sex therapist, TV and radio show host and all around “peace through pleasure” personality. She’s running for Vice President and would definitely make America a better place than Sarah Palin! She’s also a Yale graduate and a good friend of the awesome LA-based erotica writer, Stan Kent, who has often enjoyed Dr. Suzy’s firm hand when he appears on her show. It was Stan who introduced me to Dr. Suzy and helped me get an invitation to talk about Amorous Woman on her radio show. I’m trying to get a link to the show, which aired through Blog Talk Radio, but it hasn’t been posted yet. I’ll let you know when I get that information!

But the show itself is only half of the story. The drama and darkness around it is what got my heart pounding, but then I am easily aroused. What am I talking about? Well, I’d briefly considered renting a car to have my own transportation after my sister returned to New York on Saturday, but ultimately decided I’d be much less stressed out if I relied on cabs—I probably did end up saving money that way as well. However, that meant I’d need a cab back from downtown LA after midnight on Saturday, which was also a bit stressful to contemplate. All this to say, there were some question marks on how I’d get home that night. However, I handled this the way I’ve dealt with most of my book promotion activities—I didn’t really think about it until the time arrived.

I did gather a few phone numbers of cab companies and felt all ready to go when my brother-in-law pulled up in front of the Speakeasy address on a deserted warehouse district street at 10 pm. I innocently pulled out my cell phone to call in to the official number to have someone let me in through the gated door--only to have my first shock of the evening. For some reason, my cell phone had gone wacko and was only showing letters when I tried to punch in the proper phone number. Now, I’m barely able to manage the basics of a cell phone and this really threw me for a loop. My sister wanted to get back to her hotel to get some sleep before a fiendishly early flight, Dr. Suzy was waiting, and I needed some way to get in touch with a cab to get home because I sure wasn’t walking the fifteen dark and scary miles! After about twenty frantic minutes, we rebooted the phone and it was back to normal, but I was already sweating, although I no longer had to worry about showing up early.

We were let in by a smiling woman with a Dalai Lama pendant and led upstairs in an old-fashioned elevator. Or maybe I should call it a time machine, because as the creaking doors opened, I was inside Dr. Susan Block’s world—there’s no other word to describe it really, because it certainly wasn’t the LA of the Beverly Hills Hotel, Starline Tours and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The Speakeasy was altogether different, a cavernous loft space that seemed to exist in another dimension—New York City in 1969 perhaps? The smells and sights were straight from the flower child era, the vast, funky eclecticism reminded me very much of the Bowery loft where my sister first lived in 1983 with a collection of bohemian artist friends.

The Speakeasy is many things all at once: part museum, part art gallery, part party space, part living quarters for Dr. Suzy’s laid-back and wonderfully friendly group of pleasure-loving peace-niks. I was cordially welcomed and given a tour of the place by Mar, who also assured me he could call a cab after the show and it wouldn’t require reserving an hour in advance as the Magic Castle-recommended cab company had warned (whew!). In fact, none of Dr. Suzy’s crew drove a car, which confirmed my suspicion that the place was in fact located in some alternate version of NYC.

I was definitely not in a familiar world and yet it was very familiar, too. In many ways, Hollywood and Beverly Hills were “dreams come true” in that places existing only in my imagination were suddenly real. Dr. Suzy’s headquarters was similar in that regard—it was the kind of place we all imagine erotica writers live in or at least frequent for the wild sex parties they shamelessly lift for their next not-so-fictional story. The walls were hung with huge paintings with erotic themes. Glass cases housing arty dildoes were arranged here and there. Countless tapes of past shows with provocative titles were filed on shelves. Superannuated video cameras hung from the ceiling like Christmas ornaments. In fact, it’s always holiday time at Dr. Suzy’s—the bar area has a Christmas tree year round, and of course there’s a bondage cross, a necessity for any happening get-together (I don’t seem to have a picture although I thought I took one—perhaps the spirits wouldn’t allow it?).

In the back was a huge kitchen, obviously equipped to cook for a crowd, and only from here were the lights of LA visible. Huge, old-fashioned meat grinders were fixed to a butcher block table, an entire library of spices filled one wall. Back in the timeless, windowless darkness, I saw some samples of the special pleasure chairs Dr. Suzy designed and sells on her web site. Believe me, they’re even more interesting in motion!

And of course there was Dr. Suzy’s famous bed where she interviews guests for the TV show. I was amused to see the Yalie memorabilia—for God, for country and for Yale, indeed!

The tour was compelling enough that I pretty much forgot I was nervous about being on the radio and before I knew it, I was hooked up with my headphones and microphone and Dr. Suzy was introducing me as tonight’s guest on the show. I have to say this part was the true highlight of the day. First of all, Dr. Suzy has the sexiest voice ever and it was a pleasure to listen to her. Secondly, she clearly had read my book and seemed to have genuinely enjoyed it---which I understand is not very common with hosts (I love Jon Stewart, but would bet he’d only read one of the books by the people he’s interviewed in all the shows I’ve seen). Her intelligence, curiosity and generosity were so very obvious throughout and she made me feel relaxed and interesting (which is key as a host, even if it’s not true). I may not have had the easiest path of book promotion ever, but my radio show hosts have been amazing women!

We got only one caller, a man who was interested in hooking up with an older Japanese woman, and again I was impressed with how Dr. Suzy handled his questions with acceptance and humor. It turns out the show went for 90 minutes, but the time certainly went by fast. Before I knew it, we were off the air and taking our commemorative photos—it would truly be a night to remember!

Mar called the cab, which arrived within ten minutes as promised, and he led me down the back way to the street, flashlight in hand. The unlit stairway felt like another jolt in time and place—now we were in a tenement in 1870s New York or perhaps the set of the movie Scrooge. I kept waiting for a ghostly hearse to drive past us, the driver called “Merry Christmas, Guv’ner.” Once on the street, we spied the cab waiting and I dashed inside with a final thank you. An older Asian man with an expressionless face sat in the driver’s seat. He looked friendly enough, but never smiled. The windows were all wide open and at 1 in the morning, the desert air was moist and cool. After a few blocks, the driver stopped his car in the deserted street and got out. Okay, I was a little bit…concerned. Why were we stopping? But he only meant to raise the windows for my comfort—apparently this could only be done by pulling the window pane up by grabbing the edge with his hand and pulling!

We rolled on through the night, passing lumps of bodies lying on the sidewalks, streetwalkers in mini-skirts posing on the street corners. To be honest, this real and gritty Bladerunner part of LA was just a little too close for my liking, but soon enough we were back on the freeway, racing toward familiar neon-lit Hollywood. The driver pulled up in front of the Magic Castle Hotel and I handed him two twenties, this time my generous tip was from the heart. The night clerk cheerfully handed me my complimentary bottle of chilled water and, still talky, I mentioned I’d been on a radio show. He acted mildly impressed, but didn’t ask more.

I walked past the pool, up to my second floor room, passing through a group of other guests huddled on the stairway smoking and drinking in their own impromptu celebration of life's sensual indulgences. I let myself back into my room and nibbled on the Andes mint that had been left by the turn-down service. Never had I been so glad to be “home.” There’ve been a few times in my life when I’ve been alone in threatening places after dark and I remember them all very clearly—I’ll remember this one, too. But it will be mixed in with a traveler’s wonder at glimpsing another place and in this case another time as well. I do think every erotica writer has a Speakeasy loft inside her head waiting to stage the next edgy adventure. I had the opportunity to step right into it in the flesh and be part of it for a few hours, if only on my own safely voyeuristic terms.

It was a journey I I never thought I’d take—but I’m glad I did. Thanks again, Lydia!