The Gift of Sensual Pleasure

The year's end is a time for reflection, thanksgiving and expressing appreciation to our loved ones in many ways, including gifts. What better gift that keeps on giving than a delicious book, in particular an erotica anthology, that is like a box of fine chocolates for the imagination? I say this not only because I'm an author. I've always loved giving books and loved receiving them as gifts. I also love discounts and good deals and it just so happens Cleis Press, the publisher of many of the anthologies in which my stories appear, is having a very sweet sale until the end of the year--20% off all books purchased through their website. This has been a very fruitful year of anthologies for me, and I'll be giving some of these goodies to lucky friends and relatives:

Best of Best Women's Erotica 2 (editor Violet Blue picks her favorite stories from the past five years and they are sizzling hot).

Please, Sir (delicious tales of women who find their power from submission).

Orgasmic (celebrates "The Big O" from the woman's perspective, and that means no refractory period to the endless pleasure)

Smooth (this book has one of my favorite stories of the past year, "Ivy League Associates," and plenty of other fleshly delights)

Passion (a book of erotic romance that will move your heart and leave you panting--great stuff!)

And last, but definitely not least, Best Women's Erotica 2011 (as always the year's hottest, boldest stories are collected by Violet Blue and my story "Fresh Canvas" is another all-time favorite)

All of these books make great stocking stuffers for your loved one--definitely a gift that will keep on giving for many chilly winter nights to come! Oh, and this lovely photograph comes from my fantastic photo shoot with boudoir photographer Laura Boyd. More on that adventure soon!

Celebrating "Spring" in November

A lot's been happening this month, and you'll hear all about it once I've unpacked my suitcase and settled back into my writing, but I just wanted to announce that my story "Spring Pictures" is up at Clean Sheets this week. Set in Japan, this story celebrates my fascination with erotic woodblock prints and illicit getaways to elegant Japanese inns. The print you see here, by Suzuki Harunobu, was another inspiration for the piece. So, if you're in the mood for a little time-travel combined with art appreciation, grab a cup of green tea and get between the Sheets!

Sexy, Secret Gardens

You all remember those sizzling Nancy Friday "studies" of female sexual fantasies back in the 1970's that blew the cover off of the Victorian myth that women were sexless creatures who only engaged in the marital act out of their innate maternal instinct? They certainly inspired me to get wilder in my daydreams and ultimately to write my own fantasies out for publication throughout the Anglophone world.

Thank you, Nancy!

Today at The Erotic Woman, a totally awesome erotica website, you can read my tribute to Nancy Friday fantasies which I've entitled "Secret Gardens." Some of it may be familiar from an earlier blog post on Nancy and her revolutionary books (plus the lie behind them, but all's fair in love and war!) But there's a second part to Pittsburgh housewife Jessica's fantasies that's much hotter, so click on over and vote and comment--if you can type with one hand ;-). What better way to start the weekend than with a reminder our minds our always free to weave a beautiful tapestry of desire?

Sex With Pilgrims

A happy All Hallow's Eve to you! It's been a fun fall weekend starting with a funky theatre-in-the-park experience called Persephone's Roots where we all took a trip to the underworld to learn that Persephone actually wanted to embrace her shadow side (and don't we all at times?)

Today we're carving fancy pumpkins and assembling the candy to hand out to trick-or-treaters. It's hard to believe November is right around the corner, but it must be true because the November edition of my ERWA column is already live. It's called "Sex with Pilgrims" and it's all about history, the inspiration of our forefathers and mothers, and the cycle of writing. Plus, there's a really yummy recipe for red cabbage with chestnuts braised in red wine.

The holiday season has begun, so indulge, enjoy, and embrace your shadow!

"Just Words" at Erotica for All

Just in time for Halloween, I have a special treat on offer over at Lucy Felthouse's hoppin' erotica blog, Erotica for All. No, it's not a handful of miniature Snickers' bars, it's a very spicy story called "Just Words" with plenty of verbal seduction. Sometimes words can be enough to do the trick!

Also check out my profile at Erotica for All. If you're an erotica reader, you can browse the authors' listing for pics and inside information and enjoy an orgy's worth of free reads. If you're an erotic writer, you should send you sexy profile to Lucy ASAP and join the party!

You'll never look at Hello Kitty in the same way again....

Passion in Beverly Hills

Hot sex with someone you love on a great big bed in one of the most romantic hotels on the planet--that's my recipe for passion in "Big Bed Sex," my story that appears in Rachel Kramer Bussel's latest anthology, Passion: Erotic Romance for Women.

"Big Bed Sex" is a story I knew I had to write the moment I stepped into the Beverly Hills Hotel in the fall of 2008 when I was on the L.A. leg of my national book tour for Amorous Woman. Followers of my blog might remember my non-fiction account, but believe me, the fictional version is much, much more fun to read.

And if that's not enough for you, the anthology is packed full of delicious treats for your heart and your libido from masters of sexy fiction like Emerald, Portia da Costa, Justine Elyot and Saskia Walker.

For more tantalizing teasers, check out the provocative book trailer and the Passion blog (with another steamy excerpt from my story), and, if you happen to be in Brooklyn on Thursday, November 11, please join me, Rachel, Emerald, and best-selling historical romance author Sarah MacLean at Word bookstore in Greenpoint for free cupcakes (to celebrate the day-after-Rachel's-birthday) and plenty of hot romance presented the way it's meant to be, in the lilting voices of its authors.


And now an excerpt from "Big Bed Sex":

I grabbed a pear from the fruit basket and took a bite of the yielding flesh, my gaze still fixed on the stage set before me. My sister had told me that the Beverly Hills Hotel was second only to the Chateau Marmont as a favorite assignation palace for Hollywood’s many adulterers. While the real movers and shakers would surely spring for a fourth-floor suite, a minor producer or supporting-actor-type had probably seen fit to blow a thousand on an afternoon’s delight in this romantic boudoir.

Maybe it was a trick of the dusky light, but as I continued to stare, the ivory-colored quilt seemed to swell up, up into a mound, bunched just a little higher at midpoint. With a little more squinting, the shape resolved into two bodies, male and female, hips moving rhythmically, up and down. The sound of heavy breathing filled my ears, joined by a low feminine moan and the rustle of 500-thread-count cotton sheets as the ghostly couple undulated on the broad mattress.

My cunt muscles clenched almost to the point of pain.

But it wasn’t the pleasure of the starlet and her producer that filled me with such longing. What twisted my pussy into a throbbing knot of lust was the thought of what could—and would--happen on that bed if Will were here with me.

We always seemed to have extra hot sex in hotel rooms, with a special hit of shacking-up naughtiness in the budget places with the lumpy mattresses, threadbare towels and shrink-wrapped plastic cups. Whenever I could, though, I booked us rooms in rustic country inns or charming bed-and-breakfasts, because over the past seven years I’d learned an interesting fact about my husband. The bigger the bed, the better the sex, as if a grander canvas inspired him to new erotic heights.

In fact, I could plot out a timeline of red-letter days in our sex life based on the size and luxury of our rent-by-the-night beds….

(...and yes, I go into graphic detail!)

No Penis Pictures, Please!

I just had to post a link to Bill Maher's column on our latest celebrity sex scandal--that is, Brett Favre's embarrassing attempts to woo a reluctant woman with photos of his private parts. Maher's observations are hilarious and true and in ways that go beyond Brett's equipment.

As much as I'd argue men and women share much more as fellow humans than a few overrated differences that have dominated the ongoing dialogue on gender, the truth is, if I were on the fence about a suitor, he'd pretty much blow it (not sure if that pun is intended or not) if he sent me a picture of his penis. Penises are like parents--you want to meet them after you decide you like the guy, and then, well, you're already disposed to like them no matter what. I can appreciate penises on an aesthetic level, say in a Robert Mapplethorpe photograph, but some random picture of some guy's ding-dong incites a sense of pathos rather than lust, with disgust a possibility if sent as an unwelcome advance. Men on the other hand, seem much more accepting of photographs of female body parts, even from strangers.

Can someone explain why this is? And thank you, Brett Favre, for bringing this issue to the nation's attention.

At any rate, I would add my voice to the chorus: gentlemen, it is unwise to send a picture of your penis to a woman who has not expressed her affection of said member in person first. I'm sure Miss Manners would agree!

A "Rare" Story at Oysters and Chocolate

(Photo by Igor Amelkovich)

Ah, the Friday of a hectic week, what better way to relax than to lie back with some oysters and chocolate and a steamy erotic tale of a group spanking? After all, the more, the merrier when it comes to blushing bottoms!

I've posted an appetizer excerpt below. To enjoy the entire feast, check out "A Rare Find" and don't forget to vote and comment if you feel so inspired. Remember, if you don't, I might just have to give you a spanking....

From "A Rare Find":

I raised my outstretched palm high over Charlotte’s ass. Four pairs of eyes followed me, then paused, as I stopped in midair. I could feel the room grow hotter, fueled by the scorching glow between their legs—their cocks twitching, cunts clenching, buttocks tingling. My own body throbbed from the thrill of it. This was better than fucking someone. It was much better, because I could fuck everyone in the room with a simple flourish of my hand.

I lowered my arm to my side.

Soft groans of disappointment filled the room.

“I can’t do this,” I announced primly. “Charlotte doesn’t deserve to be punished. She’s a good girl.”

“How many good girls beg for a spanking?” Curt shot back.

“She’s not begging,” I replied. “She hasn’t said a word.”

Charlotte took her cue. “Please…please spank me.”

I paused, as if I were struggling with my conscience. “Why? Why do you deserve a spanking?”

“I’ve…been…bad,” Charlotte gasped.

“What have you done that’s bad?”

Charlotte wiggled her buttocks in frustration. She didn’t yet realize that the answers didn’t matter.

I clicked my tongue. “You don’t have to say it. I know what you did. You let Wendy pull your shorts up so they’re rubbing against your clit. It’s turning you on, isn’t it, Charlotte?”

She whimpered assent.

I pulled back my hand and gave her a satisfying smack right on her tender crack. An electric jolt shot through my palm straight to my pussy. Charlotte cried out and arched her back. She was ready for more. So was I.

“There’s something else that’s turning you on, isn’t there? You like bending over this stool and showing off your ass to men you barely know. Are you a naughty show-off, Charlotte?”

Beside me, Curt’s breath was coming harsh and fast. It was working: I was hitting him right where it hurt.

“You don’t need to answer,” I purred. “Actions speak louder than words. But before I spank you again, you have to do something really bad. You have to play with the pretty pink nipple that’s hanging out of your shirt. Show Joel and Lawrence how you like to be touched. Hey, even your husband might learn something. Will you do that for me?”

“Y…yes,” Charlotte stuttered. Her elbow lifted as she brought her hand to her breast. My own chest tightened in anticipation. Would she really do anything I asked?

Edith Wharton's Erotica?

I came upon an interesting Internet resource for erotica writers, The "Eros Issue" of Lapham's Quarterly (that's editor Lewis Lapham of Harper's fame) with a veritable smorgasboard of erotic excerpts from ancient Rome to Edith Wharton to a scene from The Graduate. These tasty morsels prove erotic writing (and perhaps sex itself, too?) has a long history. I've been enjoying this trip back to the past, but also appreciate even more the fine work being done in our own time.

Let me know what you think!

How to Sell Your Erotica!

I'm very excited to announce an event that is happening this Friday, just days away, in San Francisco on a topic very dear to my heart--writing good erotica and getting it out to audiences hungry for smart sex. I'll be on a panel with some amazing writers and publishers, but why not let the press release do the talking? Hope to see you there, because I'm sure we'll all learn a lot!

How to Sell Your Erotica

(and More Than Double Your Income from Each Piece You Write)

Friday, October 8 2010 7:30pm – 10:00pm

Center for Sex and Culture, 1519 Mission Street @ S. Van Ness, 2nd fl.

Suggested donation: $5-$15

All proceeds go to the Center for Sex and Culture

Are you writing erotica? Do you write for yourself? Do you write for publication? Or, have dreamed of erotica, but haven't yet started?

Whatever you are writing, personal experiences, short stories, novels, you will learn about where you can sell your work and how to go about it.

Join a panel of five editors, anthologists, and published authors who will share practical tips and personal insights. You will learn:

Where you can sell your work:

*Magazines

*Websites

*Anthologies

* Book publishers

How to:

* use the key elements that make an erotic story sell

* think sexy and cultivate your erotic imagination

* write plots and characters that turn readers on

* put the right dash of sex in a sexy story

* write convincing stories for sexual orientations and interests beyond your own

* find the best internet resources for writers of erotica

* get along with editors and publishers

* respond to fans, reviewers and criticism

* avoid the four taboo sex acts no one will publish

* boost your income on books

* double your income or more on short pieces

Panelists: Jean Marie Stine, author, former magazine editor, and publisher of ebook pioneer Sizzler Editions, which has more than 800 erotic novels and collections for available download at Amazon, Barnes& Nobel, etc., and has and recently began to publish erotica in paperback. M. Christian, writer and anthologist who has sold over 300 short stories, five novels and edited over two dozen anthologies. Gina de Vries’ writings about sex have appeared dozens of anthologies and publications, including Curve, On Our Backs, Femmethology, Tough Girls 2, Dirty Girls, and Coming & Crying. Donna George Storey is a writing and book promotion columnist and the author of two books and over a hundred stories and articles in such places as Penthouse, Best American Erotica, and Best Women’s Erotica. Blake C. Aarens is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse who writes award-winning erotic fiction. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies including Herotica 4, and has been collected in Wetting the Appetite.

Hosted by Sizzler Editions

Naked for Halloween

Yes, that's the name of my latest ERWA column, and in the spirit of writerly revelation, I thought I'd post one of my boudoir photos from a while back as illustration. I'm happy to say I'm back at work on the novel, discovering all kinds of sexy things about myself, my story, my yoga teachers.... Not to mention October is one of my favorite months with Herr Doktor's birthday opening the harvest festivities and my favorite holiday, Halloween, closing up the month with its dark magic. It's the perfect season to cook up some of my barley, butternut squash and black bean casserole, too, with, of course, a mini Snickers bar you've snitched from your kid's plastic pumpkin for dessert. (My kids don't like Snickers so I'm not being an evil mom, honest).

I'm not sure if I'll really do the naked trick-or-treating thing this year--although come on, isn't it a wonderfully symbolic act for an erotica writer?--but I've been assembling some naughty alternate costumes that should serve just as well!

What are you going to be for Halloween?

Kiss and Spank!

Today marks the official release date of Spank!, a brand-new, rosy-bottomed anthology edited by the Queen of Spankings, D.L. King. So there’s no need to wriggle and bite your fingernails as you wait for your just desserts. You can buy it on Amazon or the Logical-Lust website before you can say “Please, sir, may I have another.” The list of authors alone will make your derriere warm; each one writes erotic power-play with a masterful hand, and I’m honored to be included in the line-up.

While I have you gathered here today on this auspicious occasion (please help yourself to champagne and goat cheese tartlets) I wanted to say a few words about spanking and the background behind my story, “Anthropology.”

Like any expression of sensual pleasure, say a kiss, for example, the delights of erotic spanking come in many flavors and levels of intensity. Some make it a lifestyle, some only dabble. My story is about a woman who explores the intoxicating power play of spanking for the first time—initially as a voyeur (or should I say auditeur?) and then as a willing participant.

Since I’ve recently been on a kick of telling the “truth” about my stories, I will admit that spanking is on my menu of erotic delicacies, as you might guess from this photo of me that looks suspiciously like the cover of Spank! (although that girl and I clearly attend different convent schools). But I’m not into spankings that hurt. My particular preference lies in skirting the edge between pleasure and pain and challenging my psychological limits rather than physical ones. I was never spanked as a child, and yet like most of us in our culture, my subconscious responds erotically to the idea of being “punished” for sexual desire and daring. This is the scenario I explore in “Anthropology,” which is, of course, the study of man--and woman.

I also wanted to reveal to the curious another important inspiration for this story--the erotica writer’s salon given by the book’s esteemed editor in October 2008, which I had the pleasure to attend as well as snap a few photos of the most interesting sights. I knew one day I would have to use the very titillating material I collected at this gathering. How fitting that it made its way into this book! Names and details were changed to protect the guilty, naturally.

And now, without further ado (another glass of Veuve Cliquot?) my sampling from a very exciting anthology that goes on sale today! Buy it now or you won’t get your spanking….

An excerpt from “Anthropology” in Spank!

I was about to toss my coat on the bed with the others, but Penelope’s Chinese silk jacket wrinkled easily, and she suggested I hang mine up as well. As she reached for the door of the freestanding closet by the bed, I marveled at her anthropologist’s boldness. Opening a stranger’s closet without permission was definitely courting danger. Who knew what secrets lurked within?

But even I never expected the vision that greeted us as the door swung open.

“Wow,” Penelope breathed.

My jaw dropped.

For Natasha’s cabinet was indeed bursting with secrets. Or perhaps the better word would be “implements.” Two black leather paddles. A bouquet of riding crops. A square wooden board with a handle that looked like a pizza peel. An enema bag. Fur handcuffs. An assortment of leather straps, masks, and studded collars.

“Oh, you’ve found my toy closet,” our hostess said from the doorway.

I jumped guiltily.

In contrast, Natasha’s smile was so innocent, we might have stumbled on her childhood collection of Barbie’s.

Then I noticed Andy standing behind her, his leather jacket draped over his arm. He, too, smiled benignly at the array of sexual playthings. Cultural relativism—surely the best defense in any awkward social situation.

I’d apparently mistaken Penelope’s response for my own dismay, because she immediately launched into a nostalgic tale about the sexual predilections of a former boyfriend. He liked to give her enemas and was especially intrigued by how her abdomen got all swollen from the fluid. He’d rub his hands all over her belly, pressing lightly to make her squirm.

Afterwards, he always wanted anal sex.

Natasha nodded. “The two often go together.”

“I’ve never been spanked, though,” Penelope added.

“Would you like to be?” Natasha asked.

Penelope thought for a moment. “Why not?”

Natasha smiled. “That can be arranged.”

My own belly contracted in sympathy, fear mixed with a decidedly sexual tingle of the taboo. I was half-expecting the spanking to occur on the spot, which presented a dilemma. Should I stay and watch or run screaming back to Jane Austen?

Instead, Natasha and Penelope began to discuss their statistics class, while Andy pulled me away to meet a friend. I’d almost convinced myself the whole thing was a dream until half an hour later, when I spied Natasha leading Penelope back into the bedroom.

She closed the door behind them....

Happy Birthday, Danielle!

It's a busy morning in the kitchen today as I whip up some of my famous Mexican chocolate brownies for an annual all-day-and-night "Games Party" friends give to celebrate the coming of autumn. But I'm also virtually baking up one of my signature treats for a very special cyber-friend, Danielle De Santiago, who is celebrating his birthday today (Germany time).

My almond cake is the perfect way to fete Danielle, because they have so much in common. Eating this cake makes you feel sensual and sophisticated, yet there's an elegant, straight-shooting simplicity to the pleasure, too. Like Danielle, it's easy to love and you'll always look forward to the next time you can be together. The erotica world is very fortunate to be blessed with Danielle's generous spirit and inspiring appreciation of beauty and everything delicious. (My dream some day is to have a taste test of his homemade chutneys!)

So, have a very Happy Birthday, Danielle! And best wishes for a creative and fun year (and decade) ahead. Women definitely get better with age, but I hear it's true for men, too!

(If you want the recipe for Danielle's birthday cake, scroll to the bottom of this "Cooking up a Storey" column).

Can Erotica Change the World?

While I was on vacation, I had the pleasure to be guest blogger at the Romance Writers of America, New York City chapter's blog, Blogging in the Big Apple. My post, "The Erotic Revolution," is a very intimate, stripped-down-to-the-panties confession of my "mission" in my erotica writing. Grandiose and almost tongue-in-cheek as it might seem--I aim for such lofty goals as a healing of the age-old split between body and mind in Western culture--I am also very serious about the power of erotic writing to help us understand the parts of ourselves that have traditionally been deemed forbidden.

Is it possible to change the world one dirty story at a time?

I invite you all to join the cause with me to find out the answer....

E-Books and Great American Novelists

Can you believe it's September already? The kids are back in school, and now I have no excuse not to do lots and lots of writing. I'm sure I'll find plenty of excuses anyway, but one reason to get serious is so that next month I don't have to confess to the ERWA community that I've been a slacker. That's what I had to do this month in my "Cooking up a Storey" column, "Talkin' About an E-Revolution: The Death of Publishing, Great American Novelists and "My Way" Fresh Salsa." I also talk about those nasty Voices that tell you you're no good and your work will never be published. Oddly, I still hear them, even though I have been published!

And while the image of the "great American novelist" might not seem related, I believe it is, because that's exactly what the mean Voices use against me. "You'll never be the great American novelist." Perhaps this is a defensive move, but having a nodding acquaintance with the embracing and generous idea of "feminisms" versus "Feminism," I really can't support a view that chooses one or just a few "great" voices that speak for our culture. Especially when all of those voices belong to white males. White males don't speak for me. They are unable to speak for me. And I don't want anyone to speak for me anyway, so it's all okay! Publishing has its problems, current and ongoing, but since a mouthful of delicious fresh salsa can solve any problem, I'd say my column this month has a very happy ending indeed.

Hope you enjoy!

What's Your Real Net Worth?

You'll never believe this. I'm actually doing a blog post that does not involve some sort of promotional push for a book I'm in. Yep, this is just a "sit around on a Sunday and contemplate the writing life" kind of post. It's a nice change.

My motivation for this musing is a blog post, "How Writers Really Make Money," that a writer friend forwarded to me. It's from the blog of Tim Ferriss, the author of The 4 Hour Workweek. Ferriss' book is a NYT bestseller because, as far as I can tell, it taps into the fantasies of working men (and maybe some women, too) to have more while working less. Very American. As another type of writer who deals in fantasies, I certainly respect his ability to please his audience.

Business-oriented though it is, I found this post to be very educational for a number of reasons. Ferriss discusses making the choice between self-publishing and trying to score a spot with one of the Big Six publishers. While self-publishing may be the better choice if you have an audience in place and money is the main object, the advantage of the latter, he says, is that you get access to the big media and can make better connections. Good common sense, that, but what really made me like Ferriss was a comment he made in the Youtube video about "net worth," which he defines as what you have left if you take away every penny you own. That is, your real worth is your experiences, knowledge, wisdom, friendships, all the things money can't really buy (although it can help you along for sure).

He also talks about e-books and suggests that the headlines announcing the death of print are overblown, but that in the genre market, e-books seem to be gaining fast on print. That includes erotica, folks, and as Herr Doktor observed, it certainly makes sense that downloading a dirty book on your Kindle is a lot more discreet than carrying around a copy of Amorous Woman with that "Adults Only" label on it!

Often the hard truth about publishing is pretty depressing, but Ferriss' post did not depress me at all. It gave me a clear sense of what "success" in publishing really involves--catering to readers' desires--and reminded me that I personally write to enrich my life in other ways than cold hard cash.

Always good to be reminded of the the message! Thanks for listening.

Fast Girls Who Wax Eloquent

Late summer is the height of the harvest when the summer crops like nectarines, green beans and melons are still sweet, and the fall vegetables such as grapes, tomatoes, peppers and even early apples are piled high in the greengrocer's to tempt our palates. This golden abundance is one of life's pleasures, and I'm happy to say my harvest of erotica anthologies this season is equally delicious. Today I'm going to give you a sneak peek of one of my sentimental favorite stories--no doubt because it's about another randy academic--that appears in Rachel Kramer Bussel's marvelous Fast Girls anthology. The quality of stories in this book is extremely high, not a bad apple in the basket--and you know how picky I am about my fruit! Rachel has made a sexy book trailer for Fast Girls, which you can see here, and you can also follow the blog tour which makes a stop at Emerald's Green Light District on August 30. That's where you'll find me come the end of the month with a juicy peach in one hand, a sweet tomato in the other.

And now an excerpt from "Waxing Eloquent":

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. I wasn’t planning to fuck anyone during the two weeks I was house sitting at my brother’s condo in Manhattan Beach. And the only hair removal on the schedule was to figure out how to yank my bearded—and very married—boyfriend out of my life for good.

Unfortunately, the plan started going wrong about an hour after my brother and his fiancée left to catch their flight to Barcelona. I was surfing on my laptop in Mike’s airy kitchen when an email from my advisor, Professor Connors, popped up in my in-box.

He wanted to know if I’d arrived safely. This was a perfectly collegial question, except that he tacked on a little P.S. asking me what I was wearing. Was it that filmy dress that showed off my sweet little raspberry nipples?

I was just about to type back: Don’t forget I’m in L.A so I’m wearing a string bikini. My thong’s pressing up into my tender slit like a man’s finger, and I’m so worked up, I’m juicing all over my brother’s chair….

Fortunately, at the last minute I had the good sense to shut down the computer instead, but I was still trembling like a junkie. It was so fucked up, and yet I couldn’t resist him. Carl Connors had taken an interest in my intellectual development from the day I started grad school last fall. The bond was purely platonic. Except when we “lost our heads.”

We lost our heads in the grove behind the library--and I lost my panties somewhere in the leaves when he took me up against a tree after an evening lecture on “The Fluidity of Gender in Internet Chat Rooms.”

We lost our heads on the way back from a conference in San Jose after he confessed he’d never fucked a woman in the ass. We both agreed it was a necessity for his career that he grease up his cock with Vaseline from Seven-Eleven and shoot his load in my backdoor in a cheap motel room that very afternoon.

That doesn’t even include the day asked me to stop by his office to show off the sex toys he collected from the woman-friendly vibrator store on San Pablo. It seemed like research at the time, to let him bend me over his desk, a pink butt plug in one hole, a purple dildo in the other, while he buzzed my clit to multiple orgasms with a battery-powered silver egg. But, to be honest, afterwards I felt a little used and empty.

Part of the reason I’d jumped at my brother’s offer, even though I hate the L.A. beach scene, was to find my head and glue it on good.

Of course, Carl and I had decided that the cyber-sex part didn’t really count as cheating on his wife. Our habit of exchanging sexually explicit messages was merely an extension of our common fascination with the construction of gender and eroticism in the Internet age. But here, under the relentless L.A. sun, it was painfully obvious that all my professor and I were doing was preparing for second careers as porn writers.

This vacation was definitely time for a fresh start. From now on, I’d only share my body—and my words—with a lover who could be open and honest with me and himself. I decided I should mark the occasion with a proper ritual, something very L.A. Maybe a spa purification treatment involving avocado pulp?

Suddenly an earthy female laugh roused me from my saintly musings. I glanced across the courtyard that separated Mike’s house from its neighbor to see a tall, good-looking couple in beach wear groping each other outside their patio door. Actually, the slinky red-haired woman in the thong bikini was doing the grabbing. Muscle Boy was mostly trying, unsuccessfully, to fend her off.

“Come on, Cody, let me suck it here.”

“Cool it, Jess, we’ll be inside in a minute.”

“You might be saying ‘no’ up there, but down here you’re saying ‘yes, yes, yes’!” She giggled again and I wondered if she was drunk or high.

He finally got the door unlocked and she pushed him inside, still laughing. The guy shot a quick look across the courtyard. I almost ducked, but he didn’t seem to see me, because his expression was blank as he slid the glass door closed and let the redhead back him up against the wall that separated the living room from the galley kitchen.

It occurred to me that I’d merely switched perversions, from Internet sex addict to salacious voyeur, but I couldn’t stop staring. The woman fell to her knees and yanked the man’s swim trunks down to reveal a rather impressive baton that seemed to wave hello to its kneeling admirer. She grabbed his erection in one hand and leaned forward, her tongue extended like a brat on the playground. The guy looked down at her, his face shadowed, unreadable. She gave the head of his cock a few quick licks, then immediately gobbled him up in her mouth as if she were starving. Given her 100% fat-free figure, she probably was. That’s when his head lolled back and I could see his handsome face. But the expression was strange, less ecstasy than a grimace of resignation.

It was the saddest blowjob I’d ever seen.

I slipped out of my chair and crept up the stairs to the bedroom, aroused and disturbed at the same time. I remembered Mike had mentioned his new neighbor: a struggling actor who finally scored a supporting role in a popular series. The show was called “Family Secrets,” a comedy about a gay man and his whacky family. The neighbor played the straight brother who was always falling into bed with a new woman to prove his heterosexuality. Apparently this Cody Cheyenne was now much in demand, and Mike guessed he’d be moving up the coast to a better place soon.

If the scene outside the window was any indication, the poor guy was getting sucked dry both on the job and off.

I flopped down on the bed, still reeling from the X-rated reality TV show I’d just witnessed. Maybe this was the L.A. ritual I’d wanted, my own wake-up call to renounce pathetic, meaningless sex?

So then why was I all tingly down there, my mouth and fingers itching to make that pretty boy sing a different tune? Without really thinking, I slipped my hand between my legs and imagined I was on my knees sucking his strawberry Popsicle cock, raking his muscled belly with my fingertips. All the while he moaned and babbled I was the best cocksucker ever, a veritable goddess of fellatio. Sure, I felt a little guilty diddling myself to thoughts of my brother’s neighbor, but Professor Carl was always saying that celebrity fantasies were a safe way to work out our complex sexual desires. Millions of young women masturbated while dreaming about Cody Cheyenne. One more couldn’t hurt anybody.

To read on and learn about Brazilian waxes (based on real experience--ouch!), fast L.A. sex and how to seduce a T.V. star with tricks of the tongue, get your own copy of Fast Girls. Believe me, you're in for a very speedy ride!

Names and Nudity

Hey, it's Sunday, my first back at home in a while, and what should greet me upon my return but a witty new post at F-Stop by Lucy Felthouse on the exposure erotica writers face when they use their own names, along with musings on the questions we're all asked about the work we do.

The most popular--"Do you write from experience?" Lucy has her illuminating answer, and I know it's different for each writer, but it being Sunday and all, I thought I'd share mine over coffee and my neighbor's delicious homemade banana bread. (Here, have another slice, it's good isn't it?)

And my answer is... yes, yes, YES!

I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Now I haven't done absolutely everything I've written about in terms of the actual partners, settings, and details, but I guarantee you the spirit and sensibility of my stories all come from something very real that I've experienced, felt, fantasized, lived and above all care about. I believe I owe that to my readers. Perhaps it does limit me to write about things that did happen and that could happen to an ordinary jill or joe, especially in a genre that is very much about breaking boundaries, but "realistic sex" is, perhaps not surprisingly, a fairly unpopulated corner of the erotica genre. But I've always preferred open spaces to crowds....

That said, I also agree with Lucy that our imaginations are the key to writing a good story, whether it's transforming material from real life into a narrative or shaping fantasy into a compelling realistic scene. What is sex without imagination after all?

Thanks to Lucy for another thought-provoking F-Stop post (and be sure to check out the link to her full list of annoying questions!)

Legacy of a Catholic Girlhood

My grandmother used to have religious pictures like this all over her house, and I'll admit I found them both soothing and strange, as if the past and my future in heaven (or so I hoped) existed in cartoon-like color. My Catholic upbringing lingers on in my memory in other ways as well, some that definitely inform my writing today! If you're curious just how that might be, check out my guest post over at the ever-provocative blog Oh Get a Grip!, entitled "A Dash of Delicious Sin: The Legacy of a Catholic Girlhood."

Now you don't have to have been raised Catholic to enjoy dashes of delicious sin, other religions qualify, too, so head on over to the Grip and vanquish your guilt the gourmet way!

Summer Fireworks at F-Stop

F-Stop is back with one of the most provocative pieces yet, by that timelessly prolific author with thousands of titles to his name, Anonymous. I found this essay especially touching because it deals with the intimate relationship between a writer and his/her material with great honesty. "Erotica is not just about sex, it's about feelings," Anon writes, "Wonderful feelings, terrible feelings, important feelings." How often have I been asked to describe the difference between erotica and porn and wished I had such a succinct reply. Because the feelings surrounding the physical act are what make sex worth writing about. The courage to take on the terrible as well as the wonderful makes erotica worth reading. And most of all, these feelings are profoundly important, although society seems determined to undermine the power of human sexuality by demeaning it in every way it can. Today's essay is sure to elicit complex feelings. The attendant photographs are guaranteed to do the same.

Be there or be square, baby.

It's Good to Be Bad!

In my feverish summer imagination, July has always been a woman, with flowing, flag-colored skirts offering me juicy peaches and melons. August? A fiery male, half-dressed in an imperial toga, face as sun-baked as the Tuscan hills. He offers iced tea and a thick-fingered, ready hand to smear my back with sunscreen, but he also waves around "back to school sale" flyers, when I'd really rather not think about that quite so early. Even though back to school for me now means more writing time.

Writing time, yeah, my novel, yeah, well I have made some progress on that, thanks to my ongoing exercise in public accountability, otherwise known as my column at ERWA, "Cooking up a Storey." This month's offering, Doing Wrong to Get it Right: Feisty Characters,
Dramatic Discoveries, and Outlaw Ice Cream Sandwiches, is all about the surprises I'm encountering on my second trip down the perilous path of novel writing, in particular, some lawless, kinky characters who are already doing things that make me blush. Seems I'm always hanging out with perverts these days, but I love you all. Honest.

And if you're brave enough to make it through a tumble between the sheets with my shameless characters, you'll be rewarded with a recipe for "Outlaw" Ice Cream Sandwiches. These aren't your packaged, processed, bland-vanilla-ice cream-like substance-pressed-between-two-tasteless-brown wafers. I'm talking tender homemade chocolate chip cookies getting cozy with a slab of cookie dough ice cream or whatever fancy, decadent flavor turns you on. But there is a danger, so beware--family and friend might never settle for store-bought ones again!

Also up at ERWA this month, a review by the ever-witty Ashley Lister of Rachel Kramer Bussel's Fast Girls, which includes my story "Waxing Eloquent." Come to think of it, Brazilian waxes--the featured sexual fetish of my story--are a perfect theme for bikini season. I'll be posting an excerpt from my story during the official blog tour, but you can get a sneak preview right now. Trust me, it's hotter than sizzling summer sunshine.

John Updike Made Me Do It

I'm thrilled to announce that my story, "John Updike Made Me Do It," is now available in its full natural splendor at Clean Sheets as of today!

This story is a favorite of mine, originally written for a themed anthology on polyamory, Swing!, edited by Jolie du Pre. (Check out that steamy book for an entire feast of polyamorously perverse short stories). When the call for the book went out, I knew I wanted to work with Jolie, but my real-life experiences with swinging were minimal to say the least. Fantasy, of course, is a different matter, and I immediately thought of John Updike and his tales of suburban sexual adventure as the perfect inspiration. Under John Updike's influence, I cooked up a story involving hot tubs, Tahoe and three married couples in a free-wheeling vacation frame of mind, not unlike the swapping game in Rabbit is Rich.

A few months after I wrote this story, in January 2009, John Updike passed away. I was glad then and still am, that I could acknowledge his influence on my work--as both a dutiful daughter and a rebellious one.

I suppose you really can say John Updike made me do this. Funny how life works that way....

Sex as Performance not Commodity

Summer has always meant lazing around with a good book on a long, hot afternoon, and this year I've discovered a fascinating and inspiring book called Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power & A World Without Rape (thanks to a recommendation from Emerald).

Last night I read an essay by Thomas Macaulay Millar called "Toward a Performance Model of Sex," which opens with a provocative description of a musician named Sally, a "music slut" who plays with two bands and will even jam with people she's just met. Scandalous! Millar immediately points out how absurd the paragraph is unless we immediately convert it to a metaphor for sex. I certainly agree.

Then he goes on to describe our society's "commodity model" of sex as "a substance that can be given, bought, sold or stolen, that has a value and a supply-and-demand curve." Women have it and men try to get it. I can't really cover all the thought-provoking points Millar makes about the abstinence movement, consent as positive affirmation rather than the absence of "no" and so forth. As the mother of a budding musician, I'll just jump right ahead to his refreshing alternative metaphor of sex as a performance and partnered sex as a musical collaboration. Makes sense to me.

In the commodity model, every time a woman has sex, she loses something of value. Sex earlier in her history is worth more than later in her life with virginity being the most precious prize. Compare this to a musican's performance. Would you buy a CD of a beginner's first halting scales? Her performance would be of value only after she'd practiced a lot, with different partners who were better than she was, after she'd gotten in touch with her own musical sensibility. She would "reach the height of her powers in the prime of her life, as an experienced musician, confident in her style and conversant in her material."

This description made me laugh, but it's also true--and it's true for writers as well as sexual partners. As a woman of a certain age, I certainly appreciate this view. For indeed, although the Baby Boomers are slowly pushing the boundary of the sexy woman into higher age brackets, our society's default model of sex is a twenty-two-year-old in a bikini. Lovely as she might be, I'd bet that any real woman with a few more years/decades on her would attest that the subjective experience of sex for women only gets richer with experience and a surer sense of one's preferences and power. And the more nuanced our experience of sex, the more we can convey that complexity in our fiction.

I'm looking forward to more from Yes Means Yes, lounging on the porch with an iced tea in hand. Hope your summer reading is equally empowering and inspiring!

Alison's Wonderland and Magic in My Hands

The fireworks aren't over, folks, because today I'm being interviewed over at Alison Tyler's blog about my story in her hot new erotica anthology, Alison's Wonderland. My story, "Managers and Mermen," is inspired by "The Little Mermaid" of course, and it's guaranteed to have you craving sushi. Having read many of the delicious stories which provocatively rewrite classic tales from "Snow White" to "The Three Bill Goats Gruff," I can assure you this is a fairy tale book that will definitely keep you up past your bedtime!

So check out my tell-all interview, learn all about my "accessories" drawer, and leave a comment if you are so inspired.

Here's an excerpt from "Managers and Mermen":

“Pretty girl, do you want to go for a ride?”

Her liquid warble makes it sound like an invitation, but the glint in her green eyes tells me it’s really an order.

There will be consequences if I don’t obey.

And so I straddle her tail--at the widest part, where a human girl’s hips would be--and squeeze my thighs around her. It’s not so different from riding bareback, except her scales aren’t warm like horseflesh. They’re cool and slippery and they tickle my tender parts through the crotch of my swimsuit. I wriggle a bit, trying to get comfortable, but it only makes the tingling sensation more intense.

“Hold on tight,” she warns and immediately shoots off through the water. My upper body rocks like a broncobuster’s as we speed through the swaying seaweed. I have to grip her with all my might just to stay on. My legs are aching and I can feel the powerful muscles of her tail rippling between my thighs. Soon her once cool skin is plumped and warm, pulsing faintly. Or is it just me?

She swoops into a grotto and rears up to a stop. I fall forward and clutch her shoulders, panting. My veins sing with adrenaline.

In one swift movement, she twists around to face me. The slick twirl of her tail between my legs sends electric jolts through my body.

“Keep those pretty legs squeezed tight,” she says, her eyes boring into me. “You don’t want our ride to end yet, do you?”

I shake my head. What else can I do? She has me trapped in her lair, under her spell. I watch, enchanted, as she hooks her fingers under the kelp straps of her seashell bra and rips them away to expose her full breasts. Her skin is creamy, like a human girl’s, but the nipples are strange—a luminous jade green.

“Kiss them,” she commands, lifting her breasts in offering. Again, I have no choice. This is her realm, her laws.

I bend forward and take one shimmering nipple between my lips. The salty tang of nori fills my mouth. Suddenly I’m ravenously hungry. I tug on her, harder, as if I can satisfy the growing ache in my belly that way.

“That’s lovely, keep up the good work,” she sighs, but then her voice takes on a sterner tone.

“Except it’s not really work for you, is it? I can feel what’s going on down there. Your secret muscles are all fluttery and you’re wet inside, too. You like playing with another girl’s breasts, don’t you?”

Still suckling, I nod. I must always agree, always do her bidding. But it’s the truth, too. I do like it.

“You are a naughty girl, but you’re making me all fluttery, too.”

Indeed her tail is gyrating gently, pressing up against my clit, then circling away. I can tell from the way her eyes glow that she’s enjoying it.

What comes next takes me completely by surprise....

Voices in My Head

Yes, I know, I used this photo in my last post, but I have a good reason for the repetition. The latest edition of ERWA's newsletter, which includes my column, Disorderly Departures: Discovery Drafts, Summertime Salad, and the Wisdom of “The Voice,” features none other than a recipe for my very July-friendly Grilled Ratatouille Salad. I also 'fess up about those funny voices I hear in my head and how they help and hinder my writing process. The really good news is that I've actually started writing scenes of my next novel, after talking about it for years, so I feel as if I've made a big step in the past few months. Novels are such a different challenge from a short story. In the shorter form, my Inner Editor gets to join in the fun from the start, but with a novel she definitely gets in the way of progress, at least in the Discovery Draft. And while you're over at ERWA hearing voices, check out the wonderfully inspiring interview with Emerald, one of my favorite erotica writers with a very lovely voice indeed.

Happy Fourth to you!

Grilled Ratatouille Salad

I wanted to share a recipe I prepared yesterday for a summer picnic dinner party, as a few people asked me how you make "grilled" ratatouille. It's really tasty and has earned its place our favorite summer company dish. Don't be too worried about over-grilling. Deeply browned veggies make for a very rich, smoky flavor. This pairs well with a hearty red country French wine like Clos La Coutale Cahors. Bon Appetit!

Grilled Ratatouille Salad
Adapted from Vegetarian Celebrations by Nava Atlas
(6 to 8 servings)

1 medium eggplant (about 1 pound)
2 medium onions
1 medium or 2 small zucchini (1/2 pound total)
1 large red pepper
Olive Oil-Lemon Marinade (see below)
1 large ripe tomato, diced
1/4 cup chopped black olives
2 Tablespoons chopped fresh basil
2 Tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
About 2 Tablespoons olive oil
1 Tablespoon wine vinegar
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1/4 lb. crumbly goat cheese such as Bucheron

Cut the eggplant into 1/2-inch slices. Salt the slices and place in a colander for 30 minutes, then rinse and drain. Peel the onions and cut in half; pierce with a skewer or toothpicks if they’re falling apart. Steam or microwave until just tender. Cut the zucchini in half lengthwise.

Prepare grill. Brush the vegetables lightly with Olive Oil-Lemon Marinade. Grill the eggplant on both sides until nicely browned and quite tender, about 15 minutes total. Grill the onions and zucchini on both sides until marked with brown and tender, about 10 to 15 minutes total. Place the bell pepper directly on the grill and turn frequently, allowing all sides to get charred. Remove and place in a paper bag to steam.

When all the vegetables are cool enough to handle, chop into fairly large chunks and combine in a serving bowl. Slip the skin off the pepper, then remove the core and seeds. Cut into small squares. Stir in the tomato, olives, and herbs. Add just enough olive oil to make the salad glisten. Add the vinegar and toss well. Season to taste with salt and pepper. If desired, sprinkle the top with crumbled goat cheese. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Olive Oil-Lemon Marinade

1/3 cup of olive oil
Juice of 1/2 lemon
1 teaspoon dried lemon thyme or regular thyme or better still some chopped fresh
Freshly ground pepper to taste

Combine the ingredients in a small container. When brushing on the vegetables, swirl the mixture around with the brush often to keep the oil and lemon combined.

Conversing with Your Hips

Life slows down in the summer, but this month has been pretty hot on the short story front. Some new ones written, some finished ones accepted for publication, and the sweetest treat of all, a few old favorites released to a wider audience online. Today my story "Yes, Master" appears at The Erotic Woman, a fantastic erotica site that frequently publishes all my favorite writers like Craig Sorensen, Emerald, Heidi Champa, Jeremy Edwards, Susan DiPlacido, and more, baby.

"Yes, Master" originally appeared in print in Pleasure Bound, edited by Alison Tyler, and I spoke a bit about the allure of genie power when the story made its debut. Today I wanted to share an excerpt that contains my secret favorite part of the story. I always have a special little sensitive spot in each story that is not the most sexually explicit area (usually), but that nonetheless expresses a truth about my experience. In this story, the truth has to do with missionary position sex, more specifically, how I came to appreciate the potential of this symbolically fraught variation of amour.

Hmm, maybe this is too much information, but back in my dewy youth, woman-on-top sex was an immediate favorite with me because I could control things: the angle, the pace, well, everything. When I was on the bottom, the parts didn't naturally fit together as well and so I came to think of it as a "for him" part of the experience. I didn't even really try to make it work for me. But then, one day--or was it a night?--during a slow, leisurely, summer-style encounter, I started working it from the bottom the way I liked it. My partner (you can probably guess who that is, but I'm trying to be discreet here) responded in kind and it became a kind of conversation, just as I describe below. When you talk and listen with sensitivity--with ears, lips, and other parts of the body, too--you can learn some very interesting things.

So here's my secret favorite part of the story--but please don't tell anyone! And you can check out the rest of the conversation at The Erotic Woman (vote and comment, if you're so inspired!)

An Excerpt from "Yes, Master":

It might look like I fucked Tony Rossi from Product Development on our first date, but it was more complicated than that. We’d been having lunch together for months and flirted pretty heavily through several happy hours when he finally asked me out on an “official” date to see a play in late October. We had such a good time we ended the evening naked in his bed—no surprise for two people who’ve been attracted to each other for some time. Except for one thing.

After we were both hot and ready, Tony rolled on top of me, and I thought, okay, I’ll endure this for a while and then show him how I can actually get off. But as he started moving this way and that, it actually started to feel…good. Very good. It’s as if we were having this little conversation with our hips. He’d ask a question, slowly, teasingly. I’d reply with all the right answers, and damn if it wasn’t feeling better and better as our lower regions discovered all sorts of things about each other. Until, surprise of all surprises, I was coming, just from old-fashioned missionary-style fucking alone.

I had to see if it was a one-time fluke, so after a reasonable breather, I pulled Tony on top of me again.

Ten condoms and a half-dozen positions later, it was Sunday afternoon and we still hadn’t gotten out of bed except to make some coffee and pay the pizza delivery guy. Tony seemed as enchanted as I was.

Unfortunately, reality intervened and he told me he had an early flight on Monday and would be in Pasadena all week on business. However he was anxious to know if I was free the following Saturday.

“Sorry, I’m going to Dana’s Halloween party. You know Dana in Marketing, right?” Smitten as I was, I had a strict policy not to stiff my women friends for any guy.

“I was invited, but I was going to blow it off.” He smiled. “Do you have your costume yet?"

“I’m going as Jeannie, you know, from that old TV show.” I sat up, folded my arms and did my best imitation of a Jeannie nod. “Yes, Master, you called?” I gave Tony a look that promised everything. “Sure you can’t make it?”

His eyes twinkled. “I’ll be there.”

18 and Naked

Today at F-Stop, Kirsty Logan takes on the writer's--no, really our human--urge for attention, the desire to be seen and appreciated. At 18, Kirsty posed nude for a series of amateur photographers. At 26, she looks back on those days, her motivations and her decision to reveal the fact that because of these images floating around in the ether, an educated, articulate writer is literally "naked on the Internet." It's thought-provoking, poignantly familiar, and ultimately inspiring--the perfect read for a Sunday morning. I highly recommend her very moving essay at The Rumpus as well, the perfect companion piece (and a big splash of cold water if you've ever romanticized the job of artist's model). Oh, and great tattoos--wings to fly!

The Chemistry of Collaboration

Bare naked fiction and nonfiction writing, editing a hot anthology, making a sexy book trailer, posing for a luscious boudoir session--today at F-stop we'll get a peek at the secrets of all of these creative endeavors as noted writer, editor and blogger Rachel Kramer Bussel stops by for a revealing interview. I know I keep saying this, but those gorgeous boudoir photos make me want to hop the next Jet Blue flight to New York for a session with Laura Boyd. Or maybe I just need a new black satin corset for my collection? Too bad my birthday is six months away.... But don't take my word for it, head on over to F-Stop on this soft summer Sunday and give your eyes a treat!

The "Red Dress" Anniversary

Herr Doktor and I celebrated our twenty-third wedding anniversary on Sunday, and while our wedding was truly a fantastically fun weekend-long party, so many years later we had a very fine time just hanging out and going out to dinner. We went to a place called Bay Wolf (yep, a cute literary pun), one of the earliest temples to California cuisine that is still going strong.

Since this blog is about food, too, it's time for some menu porn. I started with roasted beet salad with feta and almonds and Herr Doktor had the fresh pea soup with mint, both quite toothsome. We both chose the same main course--gnocchi with mushrooms, peas and tarragon--and that was even better, especially with a nice glass of Gigondas. I'm always surprised how meaty and complex a sauteed mushroom can be, the essence of the fifth important taste "umami" (a Japanese word meaning delicious, but the scientific sense of the word is a kind of protein-rich full-bodied flavor). The gnocchi were almost fluffy and the sauce--well, you just wanted to mop it up with your baguette, it was that good. Just when I was expecting it couldn't get any better, out came the dessert course and this, naturally, deserves its very own paragraph.


Being a chocolate lover, Herr Doktor could not resist the chocolate souffle cake, while I gave in to the seductive call of the sticky toffee pudding with caramel ice cream. Can you say decadent? As good as they sounded on paper, the reality induced soft, restrained moans of delight. The chocolate cake looked like one of those flourless torte things that are so ubiquitous as to be passe, but the texture was truly heavenly in its lightness and the flavor so rich and well, chocolaty. I would have been jealous, but my sticky toffee pudding (doesn't that just sound kinda kinky?) was so amazingly complex and transcendental. The presentation was imposing--a small dome-shaped cake with caramel sauce and a scoop of golden ice cream--and I momentarily regretted my decision because it looked like such a heavy dessert. But one bit of the cake and I was in heaven. The texture was airy, not steamed-pudding dense as I expected, and the flavors blossomed into a symphony of brown sugar, butter and subtle spice. So, like our marriage, the meal just got better and better.


One question remains, however. (And yes, as you see in this photo, my house is a total mess!) If the first anniversary is paper, the twenty-fifth silver and the fiftieth gold, what is the twenty-third anniversary? Officially probably something like "teak ware" for traditionalists or "software updates" for the modern crowd, but since I got to wear my new red dress again, I'm calling it the "Red Dress" anniversary, a bit of a pun, too, in that after such a long stretch there may be a bit of redressing to be done in any couple's relationship, but the result, so silky, smooth and sweet, makes it all worthwhile.

Hope you all had a relaxing "door into summer" holiday!