I'm in the December 2009 Penthouse!

I'm not naked, though. At least not physically. But my naughty imagination is laid fully bare in the words of my story "Nasty Little Habit," which first appeared in the soaringly sexy anthology, The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

I really love the illustrations by Charlene Chua (you'll have to buy the magazine to see the other picture--my story starts on page 116!) She does a fantastic job of capturing the spirit of my story while adding an extra element of sensual visual pleasure, so thank you for your wonderful art, Ms. Chua, wherever you are. I've experienced the thrill of having my work illustrated just a few times, and this is the most satisfying yet.

This particular publication is especially sweet for me for a couple of other reasons. I'm in the December issue and my birthday is December 31, so it's like an early birthday present. I've also been a stealth fan of Penthouse from way back, the summer of '76 to be exact. Little did I dream when I studied the pages of the Bicentennial issue so many years ago that my own work would appear in the pages of a magazine that has truly shaped the national sexual imagination.

The December 2009 issue will hold the place of honor in my collection, mostly issues bought on e-bay from 1976, but also the 40th anniversary issue from this summer and another from 2004 in which an erotica-writing friend's hot fantasy appears in an article on threesomes.

I also want to thank Rachel for yet again inspiring me to take some chances in my writing. When I originally responded to the call for plane sex stories, I set a private goal for myself--to write about something that could actually happen to an ordinary person. Some might assume (and in my less confident moments, I belong in that group) this would mean a boring, ordinary story. But Rachel and Penthouse were both willing to give the nod to a quieter, more subtle, if no less satisfying, form of mile-high pleasure. I raise my glass of champagne to you both--and happy flying to all!

Masked Men (and Women)

I've been very busy with non-blogland activities for the past week, but I wanted to post my Halloween picture before the season slipped too far away. And yes, I'm still planning to finish up my report on my summer vacation--before next June at the latest!

Here is Herr Doktor and I pretending we have pseudonyms. Simple as they were, our costumes seem to impress our viewers with an uncanny feeling. Numerous people insisted I had to drop my mask so they could see my real face, while a surprising number got that Herr Doktor was "The Corporation" without being told and confessed his costume was the most frightening thing they'd seen all night.

I myself was pretty creeped out by his deliberately measured gestures and his real eyes peering out at me through the plastic eye holes. The thought flashed into my head--yikes, do I know this person?

Nothing like Halloween to bring out a different side of you.

My younger son made a splash on bustling Mariposa Street with his fancy light saber, rushing from house to house like a Jedi on a mission. To my relief, my older son returned unharmed from trick-or-treating with his high school buddies in the wilder part of town. His costume (Garth from Wayne's World) was appreciated by many, especially merrymakers who may have smoked a bit of weed themselves. He also suffered from some hazing at the door due to his advanced age. One guy studied him for a minute and said, "You have a mustache, you shouldn't be trick-or-treating," leaving his chronologically older friends unchallenged. But at least he gave him candy anyway. Another man told him, "You look like my ex-girlfriend. And that's not a good thing." After that, my son took off the long blond wig and went as a nerd.

One gripe though--Baby Ruth's and Almond Joys were nowhere to be found in the candy piles on my living room floor, while the loathsome Three Musketeers and Milk Ways (both promptly tossed in the trash) were sadly abundant. I mean Snickers are okay, but those frothy, wimpy Three Musketeers? What is the world coming to? Do I have to go buy coconut and nougat candy at a real chocolatier or something?

I hope your Halloween was illuminating and sweet!

Size Queens and Sentence Fondling

Can you believe it's November already? But hey, it's my new favorite month of the year, and I hope that I can even fit in a little writing in the next few weeks of quiet and contemplation before the holidays really hammer us.

Not that I haven't been writing a lot this past week. Actually, I've been writing about writing and you can read all about it in the Erotica Readers and Writers Association's latest exciting edition of their fabulous newsletter, the Erotic Lure.

In my Shameless Self-Promotion column, "Bigger is Better: Bookstores from Indies to Amazon," I talk about why bigger can be better for the struggling small author and give you my tips for getting attention for your book at local bookstores and at the biggest bookselling marketplace of all.

My sex, food, and writing meditation in Cooking Up a Storey continues the discussion of story critiquing and mentoring with "Don’t Fondle My Sentence: Sex with Strangers, Casual Critiques, and Fearlessly Arty Applesauce." You'll learn about my traumatic past and why I'm gun shy about giving critiques, then when the confessing is done, you can stir up a batch of delicious applesauce just the way you like it. It's the season after all!

Enjoy! (And, yep, that frozen peach applesauce was mighty good...)

Halloween at My House

Another quickie today, but I just wanted to share some of the sights and tastes of Halloween at my house this year. Above you see a view of the Halloween Village that magically appears on the shelf of our dining room's built-in china closet sometime around the end of September. It's been a feature of our fall celebration for about seven years.


It grew from a single pumpkin stand (center of this photo, far right in the one above) to this well-populated pirate ship port a few figures and buildings at a time over the years--all on sale at Michael's from 30-50% off, of course. My older son used to arrange the figures, but this year my younger son took the baton, and I'd say he did a great job. The village looks especially spooky and mysterious with the lights off so you can appreciate the glowing moon, the gypsy's crystal ball, the weird green throbbing from the graveyard, and the ghosts dancing in the windows of the houses. Some people ask me if I have a Christmas Village, too, but somehow the austerity of the Halloween Village appeals while the candy cane cuteness of the Christmas version just doesn't tickle my fancy. Kind of the way certain erotic fantasies push buttons while others leave you snowy.


On to the tastes. This year, in preparation for the Festival of Lights at my son's school, I tried out a new gingerbread house recipe using butter rather than shortening. The cookies tasted great--rather like speculoos we ate in Belgium--but the dough was much harder to work with and more fragile, so I think I'll go back to my classic recipe. But since I had a couple of Belgian gingerbread houses lying around, I put my kids to work. Here's my youngest's homemade Halloween house which has been attacked by aliens wielding candy corn missiles. Lots of broken M&M shingles on this poor abode. But a worse fate awaited the house in the background. My older son returned home from school and started eating it before he bothered to decorate it. In no time it resembled the ruined farm houses we saw throughout the Scottish Highlands, the legacy of the enclosure movement when the evil landlords evicted the poor farmers to use the land for sheep. The graffiti on the ruins show the farmers' descendants still remember, and so do I, so the sight of the house sort of depressed me on behalf of all who suffer from economic greed. Then again, maybe I read too much history?

Okay, enough doom and gloom. Last but not least, our costumes! Herr Doktor and I will be heading to a party with my younger son, who has an awesome Jedi costume and a very realistic light saber to light up the night. We'll be a masked couple: a creepy corporate drone in a suit and blank white mask and a Venetian Carnivale goer in a black velvet cape with a lovely silver mask ordered from a real Venetian maskmaker! (I can't help thinking about the countless erotic stories set in Venice--perhaps I'll get lucky with a masked man myself?) My older son is off for some mischief with his friends, having outgrown family entertainment. He'll be Garth from Wayne's World and for some reason, the nerd glasses were really hard to find. Afterward, we're all going to eat cheap, trans-fat laden candy until we swear we can't have any more for about a year. Kit Kat, Snickers, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth... so evil, so yummy, so very Halloween.

But enough about me. What are your Halloween plans?

Flesh, Fetishes, Sex Clubs

I've been busy writing my November ERWA columns, but I wanted to pop in to let you know about an interview I did for Rachel Kramer Bussel's latest anthology, Peep Show: Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists. You'll learn secrets about my inspiration for my story "Clean and Pretty," excerpted in some length at Fleshbot, and some insider tips about Tokyo's forbidden-to-foreigners sex clubs. Plus you'll get to see a nudie picture of me that's even more explicit than this one (hey, isn't it best to start a good meal with an appetizer?)

I'll be writing a more detailed review of this excellent book soon, but I will confess right now Peep Show is one of my favorite set of pages to nestle in (and I've nestled in quite a few). I'm not sure what this says about me. Actually I am sure what this says about me, but I'll bet you'll find these stories of desirous watching and intimate exposure just as seductive and sexy as I do. Which might be why I'm taking my sweet time reading it cover to cover.

Rachel's also made a fantastic book trailer, which features a few lines from my story and a very wet and juicy shower scene.

Go ahead and take a long look at all of these goodies--I won't tell!

Does Sex Sell?

Well, another library book is due soon, so it’s time for yet another book report! This time I’ll talk about Buy-ology: Truth and Lies About Why We Buy by Martin Lindstrom, “one of the world’s most respected marketing gurus.” With his spiked hair and his goofy smile, he doesn’t look much like Don Draper, but the man clearly has done his research. Plus he uses expressions like “at the end of the day” all the time, which reminds me nostalgically of Stanford MBA’s.

I picked up this book because I have a special fascination for the how the mind works. Add in my daily role as chief consumer for my family and my now-dwindling side hobby as a book marketer myself and this was an appealing and potentially relevant topic. Lindstrom is a global branding expert, and since branding is what a writer is supposed to do to herself and her work, I figured I might learn something useful. In that regard, I did. For example, here’s the list he uses to help his clients formulate a marketing plan:

What’s the secret of your product?

What makes it stand out?

Are there any stories or rituals or mysteries consumers associate with it? If not, can you find some?

Can the product somehow break through the two-dimensional barrier of advertising by appealing to senses the company hasn’t yet thought of? Smell, touch, sound?

Is the advertising campaign edgy and funny and risk-taking, or is it as boring and forgettable as every other company’s?

This is not a bad set of questions to ask when you’re wondering how to “sell yourself.” But back to the book report.

Buy-ology was a fast and fairly light read, but I suspect I’ll remember more of this book than most (I find I usually take away one to three main ideas or anecdotes from a book for the long term). Lindstrom’s book is a departure from classic marketing in that it relies on the research of neurologists who scanned subjects' brains while they viewed certain images and TV commercials or listened to jingles. This “neuromarketing” is, according to the author, “the key to unlocking what I call our Buyology: the subconscious thoughts, feelings and desires that drive the purchasing decisions we make each and every day of our lives.” For those who question the ethics of mapping the blood flow to the consumer’s brain either through fMRI’s or a less-invasive bathing cap thingy, Lindstrom argues that we will empower ourselves by better understanding our irrational behavior. I agree. Knowledge is power after all!

Most of the rest of the book discusses specific experiments that shed light on what really engages consumers authentically versus merely attracts attention for the moment. A product needs the former to keep going strong over the years.

Here are a few tidbits that stood out for me:

Consumers preferred Pepsi in a blind tasting due to its sweeter taste, but when informed as to the brand names, they preferred Coke because of their emotional engagement with the brand and its history.

The same parts of the brain light up when we see “strong” brands like iPod, Guinness and Ferrari as do when we see religious symbols like crosses, rosaries, Mother Teresa and the Virgin Mary" (I assume this study was done on Catholics....)

Cigarette warning labels light up the craving part of a smoker’s brain, that is, the warning makes them want to smoke more!

When people see an image of a mini Cooper, the part of our brain that recognizes faces lights up, suggesting we see Minis as cute little people--possibly accounting for the popularity of that car.

The success of product placement depends on the way you use it. Bombarding viewers with 100 different brands yields nothing for the advertising dollar, but incorporating the brand into the narrative, as with Reese’s Pieces in E.T. or Coke in “American Idol,” is well worth the expense.

Engaging senses other than the visual makes for stronger associations, but I love this evidence to support the power of music: when classical music was piped over loudspeakers in the London Underground, robberies dropped by 33% and vandalism by 37%.

Thanks to little buggers in our brains called “mirror neurons,” when we watch someone do something our brains react as if we were actually performing these activities, seeing and doing are one in the same. Reading about it triggers the same areas as doing, too.

Which leads us to sex and erotica, naturally. You read about it, it's as if you’re doing it? Depends on the story for me... but of more interest to business types is the following "surprise." Actually, Lindstrom claims that sex on its own does not sell. In fact, it tends to distract viewers, especially men, from paying attention to the product. He does get a bit confusing here, because he also claims that we decide to purchase something based on how much social status it brings, because social status is linked with “reproductive success” (a.k.a. getting laid a lot). Again, without spelling it out, I think he is arguing that it’s how the sex is used that matters. Which makes sense, but I'm not sure most people I talk to about my erotica writing get that. They all seem to think I should be very, very rich if I'm any good. But I digress.

Apparently we need to be able to relate to the advertisement. Studies he cites show that women prefer a wholesome, pretty, more or less “ordinary” woman in an ad to a sexy vixen or gorgeous celebrity. (Makes sense to me, though he didn’t talk about men in this case or makeup ads.) The desire for authenticity is a strong factor in consumers, which suggests why reality TV shows and erotic memoirs are so popular. While we all like a little fantasy escape, “real” sex is somehow more compelling. At least it is for me. It’s all the more thrilling when I feel I’m getting a glimpse into an intimate scene that “really” happened—though we all know that any mediation adds fictionality. But that’s yet another discussion.

I found it interesting that a 2001 survey by Market Facts showed that 53% of people were (said they were?) more likely to buy a product if it showed images of “love” than if it showed images that alluded to sex (only 26%). Again, I’d like a little more definition of what he means by “sex,” but if it’s just body parts colliding, then I can surely understand why some relational context would be more appealing and easier to identify with. Naturally, I’m invested in this because I like to read and write about “real” sex within relationships, so hey, I liked what I read in Buy-ology, too.

Well, I’ve gone on long enough, but again I find myself wishing I could invite you all over for an in-the-flesh erotica writers’ book club. What is your sense of how you respond to advertising? Do you believe sex sells or maybe it's the erotic--sex married to the mind and emotions--that sells instead? Has Martin Lindstrom given you ideas on how to “brand” yourself in terms of hawking your books or your personal (not like in the Story of O--ouch!) So, have a glass of Cotes du Rhone and some baguette with a dab of fromage d'Affinois and weigh in with your opinions on biology and buyology!

A Spanking Good Time on Sunday

I had a great weekend starting with three stunning soccer victories by the teams of my two athletic sons (how did that happen from a gym-loathing mom?) and ending with a highly pleasurable reading at Good Vibrations in Berkeley on Sunday evening in honor of the publication of Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories.

This is the first time I "officially" read at my local feminist adult-toy-and-bookstore, so it was a sort of a benchmark in my erotica writing life. I did participate in an open-mike sharing circle when I first started writing erotica maybe eleven years ago during which I read from my first erotic story, "The Blindfold," but it was cool to think about how far I'd come since. Good Vibrations is such a cheerfully buzzing place, and the hospitality was first-rate, including complimentary red wine and dark chocolate truffles, both very good for the circulation and bringing a blush to the cheeks. There was a decent crowd of listeners as well, and they even had to bring out more chairs!


The anthology's editor, spanking maven Rachel Kramer Bussel, opened the event with an introduction to the book and the spanking genre, while seated on an ottoman that would have been the perfect furniture for bending over and baring the buttocks. But the evening was about the power of words not paddles, of course.


I took the podium next with an excerpt from my story "A Thousand Words." You can get a sampling of the story here and a Youtube video will be available soon! I really enjoyed bringing my story to life. There was a lot of dialogue, so my high school reader's theater training came in handy. When the guy in the story talks look left. When the woman talks, look right. Straight ahead for the narrator and deliver the punchlines without looking at the text. I was also fresh from my younger son's school storytelling festival where I got to watch professionals perform, so I tried to channel their positive energy as I spoke, even if the content was rather different.


The next reader was the elegant Zille Defeu who did a very entertaining reenactment of her story called..."Reenactment." In another life, I'd devote all my weekends to historical reenactment, and the witty adventures of the fair lady and her "knight" in shining armor piqued my imagination in all sorts of ways.

Rachel concluded the event with a buffet of tidbits from the book including titillating background information on her story "The Spanking Machine" and a peek into the benefits of art gallery opening nights in Jerry Arthur's intellectually (among other things) stimulating "Ass Worship," which could certainly be seen as the theme of the book: Art meets palm meets buttocks.

Afterwards the three authors chatted a bit about the writing life and historical costumes, then Herr Doktor and I browsed the books, toys and videos. I've always loved Good Vibrations' sense of humor. Too bad the sign above can't be posted for some story collections as well, because we'd all benefit from the preview whether we're inclined to more or less of that damned literary content. It gives a new twist to the title of the Nanowrimo founder's book, No Plot, No Problem!

Anyway, it was a great evening, and thanks to all of you who were there in spirit, warming your buns with us....

Female Poetry

Hey everyone, thanks so much for your comments on my "Female Brain" post. I almost didn't post it--after all it was just a book report--but I'm so glad I did. In this time of harvest, I really appreciate the bounty of your thoughts!

I've always found the idea of a writer's salon romantic, but as portrayed in The New Yorker anyway, the present-day version seems more of a party club where all the cool people drink cocktails together and talk about how much they love each other with a few side whispers about how lesser types don't belong. But I'm coming to realize the type of writer's salon I fantasized about is much simpler. You don't need the cocktails or the swanky pad, nice as they are. All you need to do is share ideas with sympatico creative souls and inspire each other to insights you couldn't reach all by yourself. I've found that with you all and I thank you for it!

Speaking of that, Isabel Kerr has posted a wonderful poem on a related theme at her blog called "At 55." I recommend you pop on over to Italy and maybe you'll get some homemade yogurt gelato to cool off afterward, too!

And speaking of poetry, although I don't really feel part of that club, I came across an idea I liked in a book on American holidays. The author cites anthropologist Mary Douglas who said that "a meal is a poem that is created within certain rules and that expresses much about the family as a group. In this regard, the woman is a poet who cooks the meals." It could be a man cooking as well of course, but this sentiment went a long way toward making me feel more comfortable with poetry as part of my life rather than something a committee of literary magazine editors deigns to recognize as worthy. In fact, today I'm making two different batches of cookies for a school story-telling festival tomorrow, and I will approach the task more self-consciously as poetry (I think on some level I always was doing that!)

So, off to "write" my poems. Happy weekend to you all!

The Female Brain

A friend recommended a book to me recently, The Female Brain, by Louann Brizendine, M.D., and I found it an interesting read as a writer and a woman--love those books with two-for-one pleasure, kind of like chewing Doublemint gum.

Of course, as I read, I was constantly battling with my natural resistance to generalizations about the sexes which abound in this book. I prefer to think of differences between men and women as closely overlapping bell curves. I read this argument in another book a few years ago, whose title escapes me alas, but the wisdom has stayed with me. In this model, men and women share much, much more in common as human beings than socially exaggerated differences suggest and while a small portion of men do have superior spatial abilities for example, any given woman could have superior abilities to any given man.

Brizendine prefers the racier path of emphasizing differences in colorful transportation metaphors, although of course, her theory that hormones construct our brains seems to call for such an approach.

Anyway, she has convinced me to take a closer look at the benefits of a low dose of estrogen at perimenopause when that time comes, to preserve my brain function, which otherwise would shrink by 40%. Wrinkles, age spots, bring 'em on, but a little shrunken brain, that's scary (if it's true).

She also came up with a few other interesting observations that do ring true to me, although again, it depends on the person.

For example, males are apparently more interested in bonding/fucking under high stress situations than women, who tend to turn off under high stress, whereas men will "mate" with the first willing female after a physical challenge (like war). So says, the doctor, anyway, and history seems to support her argument.

She attributes the longer time required for women to reach orgasm to an extra neurological step required by the female brain. "The impulses can rush to the pleasure centers and trigger an orgasm only if the amygdala—the fear and anxiety center of the brain—has been deactivated. Before the amygdala has been turned off, any last-minute worry...can interrupt the march toward orgasm." But you knew that, didn't you? And apparently science shows that it's easier to conceive if the woman comes after the man does, another evolutionary reason for the differential. "Ladies' first" as birth control?

But here's the one that gets me. Brizendine claims--several times--that 85 percent of (twenty to thirty year old) males think about sex every 52 seconds and women think about it once a day or up to three or four times on fertile days. (Sometimes she gives the ages, sometimes she just generalizes, although I think the ages make a huge difference for comparison).

Jeez, am I a freak? Am I actually a twenty-five year old man with a vagina? I think about sex all the time, and it's not just since that became my career! I love this quote, too:

"Just as women have an eight-lane superhighway for processing emotion while men have a small country road, men have O’Hare Airport as a hub for processing thoughts about sex whereas women have the airfield nearby that lands small and private planes."

Damn, I've always thought 747's were so sexy, too! Guess I'll have to transfer my affections to those empathetic little Cessnas.

I will say it was gratifying to see some of the reviews on Amazon taking the author to task for her sloppy conflation of neuroscience and psychology, her simplification of sex and gender, and her love of pharmaceuticals as a cure-all. Still, I enjoyed the book, as an erotica writer as much as a female (if I indeed am one because now I'm wondering since I just thought about sex like five times as I wrote this), and I certainly recognized enough in her case studies to have the luxury of blaming my own psychology on biology, which is always fun. It's easier to attribute my sensitivity to movie violence to my greater capacity for emotional mirroring rather than a candy-ass wimpishness (a self-accusation). My body literally throbs with pain when I see graphic torture or injury while Herr Doktor just shrugs and says "it's a stupid movie." There's probably also a neurological basis for the effectiveness of beer ads on men versus women, but Brizendine didn't go there--Craig Sorensen did though!

So, yeah, time to take the brain back to the library, but I thought I'd give a book report to fuel that sex difference debate that's been around since the Stone Age!

Getting Spanked at Good Vibrations

Autumn has definitely come to the Bay Area. The gray skies of morning linger on into the afternoon, hinting at much-needed rain. Pumpkins appear on porches, the rich orange hues invoking the plenty of the harvest. The very air seems thicker, as if the year were a soup slowly simmering down to its essence.

Autumn is the time for nostalgia and in fact October brings the one-year anniversary of my New York book tour, the highlight of which was my reading at "In the Flesh" with so many very cool and fun erotica writers (read all about it here). I'll admit I'm relieved I can just take it easy this fall, but I do think back fondly on the experience of standing before a mildly inebriated audience and talking dirty into a microphone surrounded by friends and colleagues. Hey, try it yourself, it's fun!

Fortunately, this coming Sunday, October 18 at 5:30 pm, I'll have a chance for a mini re-creation of "In the Flesh" at a West Coast Rachel Kramer Bussel erotica soiree to celebrate the release of Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories (read an excerpt) and Peep Show: Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists at Berkeley's own Good Vibrations.

I'll be reading from my story "A Thousand Words" along with equally scintillating spanking tales by Rachel and Zille Defeu--whose eye-popping website makes me wonder if I should actually wear my naughty schoolgirl costume to fit in? Come on, dare me!

Yeah, I know, most of you can't be there in the flesh, but if you happen to be in Berkeley on Sunday, do stop by. I guarantee it will get your bottom warm and your blood racing.

Beautiful Empty Spaces

Just wanted to pop in with a report on what's going on with me. I've been entertaining visitors all week, before which I was cleaning madly, deeply, and with great passion (which is the way we should all write, too, no?) I mean this is serious cleaning not just of my house, but also of my spirit. I'm trying to get my priorities straight before I head off into the wilderness of a new novel. Or maybe it's just that gazing at the new empty spaces in my life is opening up new insights into my cluttered and confused brain?

Anyway, it feels good and necessary, but it takes time. So I haven't been writing much: no stories, fewer emails, less blog posts.

But I do plan to continue my summer vacation report to its conclusion soon. I've got one more Amish country day, two Washington DC and one entry for Virginia to go according to my picture log, so stay tuned for more musings on history, spies, carb-heaven and other such topics.

In the meantime, I took a picture of this bumper sticker I saw on a car in the parking lot of the Giant supermarket in Gettysburg (I liked the Satan one, but the other one shows a certain kindred spirit as well) and forgot to include it in the geographically correct post. Actually, though, I think this image stands best alone, in the midst of a beautiful empty space.

Be back at ya soon!

Christmas in October--Tell Santa What You Want

Nothing in life is free.

Maybe your mom said that. Or a wise uncle. Maybe you read it in a book of aphorisms (what are aphorisms anyway?). But whoever said that is wrong. At least right here, right now.

Because I'm giving away books for free. That's right. You don't have to enter a contest, or answer a question, or write a flasher or take of your clothes and actually flash someone. All you have to do is email me here at the North Pole and say "Give it to me, baby." I'll send you the book(s) of your choice in order of request received, no postage and handling required. Unless you live outside of the US, and then I'll need postage. (Hey, I've got two kids to put through college).

That voice is still nagging you though. What's in it for her? A whole bookshelf of free space, that's what. These are extra copies I've collected for one reason or another. The books are all awesome erotica collections and I'd never part with my two copies of each (mom's legacy), but hey, I don't really need three copies, right? But you might want to take a look for your own pleasure or simply to research erotica in the mid-golden age. So here's the list and remember, all you have to do is email me at donna@donnageorgestorey.com telling me which books you want and where to send them--first come, first served--and they'll be on their way well before Christmas. Btw, these babies all make great stocking stuffers.

Ho, ho, ho!

Best Women's Erotica 2005 (edited by Marcy Sheiner)
Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4
Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5
Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories
Naughty or Nice: Christmas Erotica
Foreign Affairs: Erotic Travel Tales
Bottoms Up
He's on Top

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?

Want to Be a "Real" Writer Who Makes Book Trailers?

The October edition of the Erotica Readers and Writer's Association's wonderful newsletter, The Erotic Lure, is up today and, I have two red-h0t columns in its titillating pages.

This month's "Cooking Up a Storey" is entitled "Are You a “Real” Writer?:
Fiery Maestros, Spicy Thai Tofu, and the Writers’ Country Club." Readers of my blog will be familiar with the recipe, but you may not know about my sure-fire way to determine if you have the talent it takes to be a real writer. So pop on over to find out the secret!

In October's Shameless Self-Promotion, I talk about how to make your own book trailer, with a special guest appearance by my technical advisor, Herr Doktor. The jury's still out on whether trailers sell lots of books, but they are fun to make and will improve your marriage, even if it's pretty darn good to begin with. So check out "Make Your Own Movie: Promoting Through Book Trailers." I hope it inspires you to make a movie of your own.

I'm Seeing Eddie Izzard Live!

"Thank you pop-up ads, for making my life worthwhile!"

So quoth my younger son, because, for the first time in our lives, a pop-up ad has made a positive difference. Herr Doktor was checking out Raider news when a pop-up ad announced that Eddie Izzard would be appearing in Oakland in January 2010 as part of his "Big Intimacy: Stripped" tour.

"See if they still have tickets!" I screamed and sure enough, they did, we bought them, and suddenly Christmas is no longer the big upcoming event, Eddie is our present! We're all big fans in this household and my kids can do whole routines in charming British accents. Besides, seeing Weird Al was so fun (at the California State Fair in 2007), how could we resist the chance to see an icon in the flesh? And frankly, I thought Eddie was retired from stand-up--maybe he needs the money, but his loss, our gain.

I also love the title of his tour. A friend told me that David Tennant appeared at a manga conference and assured a large room of adoring fans, "I love each and every one of you in a very special way" or some such impossible promise, so Eddie clearly sees the absurdity of "big intimacy."

Plus, he looks great in eyeliner! I'm definitely taking along the binoculars.

Thank you, pop-up ads, indeed!

Fending off Vampires with Banana Ice Cream

My house (and mind) cleaning project continues, although at a slower pace. The main impetus was to open up some space in our house—so I could finally put away last December’s Christmas gifts, finally shelve the stacks of books that were lying on the floor, finally retire my Amorous Woman promo materials. And there is indeed more space in my life, although not as much as you might think given the bags of stuff tossed, donated and sold to second-hand stores ($80 for our LP’s and VHS tapes—who’d have thunk it?) That new, beautiful space is more than easier on the eye. I can breathe easier, a subtle—or not so subtle--weight is lifted.

Sifting through my stuff has brought some other benefits, too. For example, as I sorted through my cookbook collection, deciding which books to keep, I came across some recipes that leapt out grabbed me by the palate. One such recipe for Banana-Rum Ice Cream (from Bon Appetit’s Special Collector’s edition of May 1998 which also provided me with my well-loved carrot soup recipe) was waiting for ten long years for its rediscovery, which just happened to coincide with my putting away the “new” ice cream maker I’d bought six months ago and never got around to taking out of the box. Picture me standing in my slightly-less-messy kitchen, reading the simple recipe I’d marked with a post-it, glancing over at the big bunch of dark, spotted bananas on the counter, and remembering that I had my Cuisinart ice cream maker all frozen and ready to go.

What the hell, why not make Banana-Rum Ice Cream RIGHT NOW!

It’s wild, it’s impulsive, it’s not in the plan, but what the fuck?

So I dashed over to the grocery store for a small carton of organic Clover brand cream and got to work. Here’s the recipe:

Banana-Rum Ice Cream (makes 8 servings)

1 cup chilled whipping cream (would light cream work?)
3/4 cup sugar (try 2/3 cup next time)
3 Tablespoons dark rum
1 1/4 pounds small ripe bananas (about 5), peeled and chopped
(Consider adding walnuts and chocolate chips during last five minutes of freezing process or as a garnish)

Place cream, sugar and rum in blender or food processor. Add bananas and puree until smooth. Chill for a few hours. Transfer to ice cream maker and process according to manufacturer’s directions. Cover and freeze. Can be made 3 days ahead.

This is all exactly what I did.

Did I make a mistake following my impulse? Did the simplicity mean insipidness? Not at all. This ice cream was really delicious. It had none of that bite of imitation flavor some commercial banana ice creams rely on—nothing but pure, creamy, banana flavor. And with just one cup of cream, it’s not super-fatted either, although next time I might try light cream and a bit less sugar as I think it would still be good and even healthy. But Herr Doktor and I decided that a sprinkling of walnuts and chocolate chips (both very healthy) might liven up the dessert even more and sure enough that creative urge proved delightful as well.

I never thought cleaning my house would lead to this. Very cool indeed.

I also wanted to mention just quickly now (I plan to follow up with a longer post or a column later) another treasure I discovered buried in a bookshelf—Curtis White’s The Middle Mind: Why Americans Don’t Think for Themselves. The book was published in 2003, and I’m not sure when or where I bought it, but I know I’m so very glad I’m reading it now at this moment, a crossroads in my writing life. Curtis is speaking to me at a time when I so need to hear his message. The book is full of fascinating points, but I’ll summarize the most pertinent one here. Curtis maintains our national collective imagination is in poverty.

“What does this poverty mean in practical terms? Well, it’s something we experience daily. Take our entertainment. Even when it’s clever (which I acknowledge that it is at times, in the full superficiality that term implies), does it help us to understand that the present world is not the only God-given, natural and inevitable world and that it could be different? Or does it stabilize the inevitability and naturalness of the present disposition of things? On the whole, our entertainment—movies, TV, music—is a testament to our ability and willingness to endure boredom…and pay for it.”

He goes on to discuss academia, and most chillingly, the military-industrial and political systems as well, but I’ll turn the focus to what is pertinent to the erotica-writing life. While what we call “the arts” (certainly on any national level) is tied to corporate interests as his hilarious analyses of Steven Spielberg and Terry Gross reveal, the vibrant imagination he champions thinks change. A healthy imagination challenges the status quo, rather than, say cynically aims to “create” for the sake of a record-breaking advance or a fifteen-minute run of fame in the fickle media’s spotlight.

Of course, as an English literature professor, Curtis himself is heavy-handed with the criticism of what is worthy and what isn’t, an old editorial voice I must quiet in myself to do any writing at all. But the truth is, I do want to be reaching for something more in my writing at this point, and Curtis is helping me articulate that goal. The other day my sister was urging me to write “a couple of vampire bodice-rippers” “under a pseudonym if you have to” all of course with the purpose of cleverly manipulating "True Blood" mania (so many say it's the "sexiest show on TV") to make money, which is as we know the final validation of my talent.

I reject every single element of her argument, and I could go on and on as to why. But the main reason I will never do this is because writing about vampires for these reasons will, appropriately, suck all the life out of my soul. Maybe I could do a ghost story, because I’ve always loved them, but that is a key difference—and lucky you, if you love vampires and this is your moment in the sun, so to speak.

Curtis helped me see the important quality every piece of creative work that I admire possesses. Whether novel, an essay, an erotic tale, an episode of "Mad Men," the experience of interacting with these creations sparks my curiosity, gets my mind leaping, opens up new space, makes me feel alive. And when I’m writing a story that makes me feel this way, my passion almost always conveys itself to my readers (or so it seems). Writing this way takes a lot of work, a lot of clearing out, and a great deal of courage. It may never tickle the fancy of an agent or the wallet of a publisher. It may never fit into a profitable niche. But it will make me—and hopefully my readers--see the world with new eyes and yes, feel more alive.

And that, my friends, is the best revenge against the corporate vampires that would suck the life out of our souls. So keep writing with all the passion in your hearts. We will change the world one dirty story at a time!

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!)

Watch Me Take it All Off at the Erotic Woman!

Hey, not only is it Friday, but it's a very special Friday today because I have a new story up at The Erotic Woman--one of my very favorite erotica salons! It's called "All Eyes Upon Her" and includes some of my favorite steamy themes: the sexy superstar of the mid-twentieth century, Sally Rand; handsome historians in tuxedos; long, slow seductions and quick, wet finales.

It's always an especially delicious pleasure to appear at The Erotic Woman, not only because they publish all of my favorite writers such as Heidi Champa, Susan DiPlacido, Jeremy Edwards, Emerald, and Craig Sorensen, but they are a class act all the way. And the comments left so far have left me breathless with delight. So, if you're in the mood for the sweet ache of the tease, check out my story--and do leave a comment if you're so inspired.

(This story originally appeared in print only as part of the erotica-for-charity anthology, Ultimate Burlesque, which is full of many other sinuously sexy tales).

Mmmm...Mexican Chocolate Brownies

I've been away from my computer for a few days--busy with soccer games, fall parties and our local street fair, as well as a trip into San Francisco yesterday. We had our first rain of the fall season, and fall is seeping into my skin and my sensibility in other ways, too.

The party we went to is an Annual "Games Party" open house where the guests hang out from mid-afternoon until after midnight playing various board games, video games, card games and so forth, while we all catch up on the past year. I used to have to chase my babies around, now they join in the games with the adults and often win! For many years now, I've brought the same thing to the potluck by popular request--Mexican Chocolate Brownies. (Thank you, Herr Doktor, for the food porn photo).

These treats are very rich, yet I'd say they fall on the cake end of the brownie scale. Rather like Kinsey has the sexual preference scale, there's also an official cakey versus fudgy brownie measurement...okay, I just made it up...but if 0 is basically unbaked batter and 10 is "could be pound cake," these brownies are about a bi-textural 6. I know fudgy brownies are cooler in culinary circles these days, a cookie version of flourless chocolate torte, but I have a secret fondness for the cakey kind mom used to make, and in fact I probably bake these a bit too long. Some day I'll have the courage to take them out of the oven when the toothpick is still slick with melted batter just to see if they're better fudgy. But they're pretty irresistible just the way I made them on Saturday.

Imagine you're holding in your fingers a tall, dense square of buttery chocolate confection, fragrant with teasing hints of almond extract and cinnamon. You'll be tempted to bite off the topping. I rarely resist the urge, but sometimes I open my mouth wide to taste the mixture of chocolate and topping. In any case these are best eaten slowly, as befits the first ritual food of autumn. Soon I'll be making the butternut squash-barley-black bean casserole, the chestnut risotto, pumpkin muffins, pancakes and pudding, then cranberry-Grand Marnier sauce for Thanksgiving. But it all starts with a slow, finger-licking affair with a couple of these little beauties.

Fearless home chef Susan DiPlacido, famous for her feasts that draw standing ovations, and I were talking about our mutual love of brownies and as usual Susan's humor and passion on the topic inspired me to surprising creative acts. I realized I love blondies, too, and concocted--in my mind, not yet on the plate--a new ice cream sundae which I'll call the "24th Street Sundae" in honor of the San Francisco street that runs from affluent Noe Valley to the Mission. This grand dessert would consist of a square of my signature Mexican chocolate brownie beside a rich blondie. Each would be twinned with a small scoop of homemade Mexican vanilla bean ice cream. The scoop beside the brownie would be drizzled in a golden praline sauce, the scoop beside the blondie would be adorned with cinnamon-spiked chocolate sauce. Softly whipped fresh cream optional.

Sound good? Maybe I should try this at my next dinner party? In the meantime, if you're a brownie fan, definitely try this south of the border version. But don't take it to a potluck, because you might find yourself baking them year after year....


Mexican Chocolate Brownies

Makes 48 small, rich brownies
Prep and cook time, 75 minutes

3/4 cup butter
8 oz. unsweetened chocolate finely chopped (about 2 cups, higher quality preferred)
1 1/2 cups firmly packed brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
5 large eggs at room temperature
1 Tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons vanilla (“Mexican” style preferred)
1 1/2 teaspoons almond extract
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
Mexican chocolate streusel (recipe follows)

In a large bowl set over a pan of barely simmering water, stir butter and unsweetened chocolate until melted and smooth. Remove from heat and whisk in brown sugar and granulated sugar. Add eggs one at a time, whisking well after each addition. Whisk in vanilla and almond extract. Stir in flour, cinnamon, baking powder and salt until well blended. (Do not beat with a mixer, it toughens the texture).

Spread batter level in a buttered and floured 9” x 13” baking pan. Squeeze handfuls of Mexican chocolate streusel until it sticks together, then crumble into chunks evenly over the surface of the batter. Press lightly into batter.

Bake brownies in a 325 degree oven until a wooden skewer inserted in the center comes out with moist crumbs attached, 30-35 minutes (my oven takes up to 45 minutes). Let cool in pan on a rack for at least 20 minutes, then cut into 48 squares. If making up to one day ahead cool completely then wrap uncut brownies airtight.

Mexican Chocolate Streusel Topping:

Chop two 2 oz. tablets of sweet Mexican chocolate with cinnamon (like Ibarra or Nestle) by hand into medium-fine pieces. In a medium bowl, mix 10 Tablespoons (1/2 cup plus 2 Tablespoons) all purpose flour and 5 Tablespoons firmly packed brown sugar until well blended. Add 6 Tablespoons butter and rub in with your fingers until mixture forms coarse crumbs, then mix in chopped chocolate. Or mix flour and sugar in food processor, add butter and pulse, then pour into bowl with chocolate and squeeze with hands until clumps form.

This recipe was adapted from Sunset Magazine 9/04--I cut down the chocolate from 9 oz. and added more streusel from the original. And I bake it longer. Cause I'm chicken!

Cosmic Joke?

The kids are back in school and I've been on a housecleaning rampage. My messy house finally got to be too much. Perhaps it's because we'll be celebrating our nineteenth year here on September 14, but suddenly it's all too clear that the things we haven't used in many years, but thought we might someday, were just taking up space. Once I got started, I was addicted. Addicted to lightening my load. Addicted to making each surface look different, less cluttered.

It's resulted in a decluttering of my imagination, too. Hopefully this will translate to lots of room to write new fiction.

In the meantime I'm still looking at each thing we own with new eyes--rediscovering some lost friends with excitement, tossing others in bags to throw away or donate. Our garbage can is suddenly bursting each week.

This morning, it was filled so high, the cover didn't quite close. I always feel guilty and anxious when that happens. Which is odd because the City of Berkeley trash collectors have never refused to take away the contents of an over-full can. This only happened once when I lived in Manhattan. I was punished by those guys for being greedy with the cans. They didn't take the trash for the whole building as revenge. So I'm always expecting the lid to fall.

Today I was out trying to sell some used books and when I returned the trash collectors had clearly come to our block based on the once neatly aligned containers of my neighbors standing at odd angles, some lids left open. I looked hopefully for evidence mine had been emptied, too.

But my trash can was gone.

Gone.

Nowhere to be seen.

For the past few days I'd been thinking I couldn't wait until Thursday (today) when I could begin the sorting and discarding process in a new part of the house, gallons of new garbage space waiting to accept my offerings to the cause of a fresh, renewed, empty (in the good Buddhist sense) life. And now I can't--at least for a while. The City tells me sometimes people steal larger cans so they can throw away more without officially paying for the can. But that's sort of creepy, too. Was someone watching and noticed I was gone?

The nice lady claimed they'd deliver a new can this week. Until then, I'll have to sort and clean my life in other ways.

Was this a who-gives-a-fuck? blog post or what? Thanks for listening!