Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
by Kate Pearce
I love Alpha Males (in books) and I love this cover...I lick all my print covers when I first see them, but this one I tried to lick on the computer screen. Here's quick blurb of the story:
As far as job hazards go, Douglass Fraser didn’t think crash landing on an alien planet and spending your recuperation being erotically pleasured by three gorgeous men was in the United Planetary Parcel Service’s courier handbook. There certainly wasn’t a section on what to do when a very sexy king wants you to have his baby and save his world.
Marcus Blood Axe isn’t only a descendant of ancient Viking space travelers; he’s also a ruler dealing with a shortage of fertile women, and no heir. Surely the gods are on his side when Douglass drops out of the sky and into his bed, giving him a last chance to stop his people's death spiral into extinction.
Despite the exquisite pleasures to be found in the king’s arms,Douglass wants more from Marcus than to be his brood mare. When another woman claims to be pregnant with Marcus’ child, it’s past time to get back home to her beloved son. Now the war Marcus wages is one of sensual passion designed to convince his Earth woman that she’s worth everything to him…even if it means giving up what he cherishes most.
Here's an excerpt!
A moan escaped Douglass as Marcus oiled her sex. She tried to push her hips forward to increase the pressure of his finger but her bounds held her rigidly in position. She could only take what he gave her, only receive what he wanted her to have and when he wanted her to have it. He spread her swollen pussy lips, fingering them between his thumb and forefinger. She’d almost forgotten the glass plug in her ass. He touched it now, pushing it firmly back into place.
“As you have no attendants except me, I’ll have to arouse you first.”
Douglass stared at him. “I am aroused. You know I am.”
He smiled, his finger tracing her dripping sex. “Not enough. Remember, I want you thinking about one thing and one thing only. My cock. You’re not ready for that yet. I want you to take me inside you. I want you to beg for me.”
He stood up and kissed her, his mouth unhurried, his tongue slowly lapping at hers as if he had all the time in the world. She concentrated on the textures and scent of his lips, the thrust of his tongue against her own. His fingers closed over her nipples and tugged in rhythm to his kisses, harder and harder until they stood out from her breasts.
Douglass bit her lip as he attached clamps to her extended nipples and several chains to connect them together. He returned to tantalize her mouth, still slow and careful, not giving her enough, never giving her enough. Her chained nipples grazed his muscled chest with every subtle caress. She felt every hair on his chest as it brushed her flesh, his cock slid against her stomach, wet and hot.
She groaned when he drew back and studied her. Her pussy throbbed, reacting to the hardness of the butt plug deep inside her. He circled her and drew the hair away from the back of her neck. She shuddered as he bit lightly on the curve between her neck and her shoulder.
“Are you thinking about my cock?”
She tensed as the tip of his shaft pressed against the butt plug.
“Yes, of course I am.”
He laughed, the sound caressing the back of her neck. “Not enough though. You’re still thinking too hard. I want your mind to submit to me as well as your body.”
He slid a hand around and cupped her mound. “Because you are my consort and I am your king. You owe me your obedience.”
“I’m not one of your subjects. I have a life on another planet. I have a family.”
Abruptly he removed his hand and walked around to face her. “You have a man who makes you as wet as I can? You have a man whose seed you want?”
He held out his hand palm up, showing her the thick pool of her cream. Holding her gaze he slowly bent his head and lapped it into his mouth.
“No. No one has ever made me feel like you do.” Douglass hated herself for the admission but it was the truth. Why should she pretend otherwise? Even if she never saw him again, she’d always remember how he’d driven her wild.
He held her gaze, his golden eyes steady on hers. “Then perhaps you should enjoy me then and let me take control.”
She stared right back at him. Her whole body quivering with need. With a sigh, she relaxed into the restraints, opening herself wider to him, ready to submit to his desires.
Marcus fell to his knees and rubbed his cheek against her stomach before heading down to her pussy. He breathed in and then flicked her clit with his tongue. She jumped as if he’d hit a nerve.
“Mmm…” he breathed. “Ready for a clamp I think.” She watched as he attached a thin gold loop to her clit and two clamps to her pussy lips. His fingers moved gently over her, exposing her secrets, displaying her for his sexual gratification. Douglass didn’t care. She even liked it.
He looked up at her, his gaze narrowed. “I’ve often wondered how my ancestors got through their duties when they knew that their consort would be waiting for them like this.” He caressed his shaft and balls and shuddered. “My cock ring feels too tight already. Imagine having to deal with the problems of your kingdom with a hard-on and your mind on fucking your woman.”
It's available in both e-book and trade paperback formats here
It will be in bookstores and Amazon etc very soon!
Leave a comment and win a copy to lick for yourself!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
By Janine Ashbless
Whoa!!! Check out ‘Last Man Standing’!
Six very pretty UK/US chunks ‘o’ muscle – a bodybuilder, a New-Agey fitness guru, a Harvard endurance athlete, a salsa-dancing kickboxer, a lumberjack/BMX champion and a wonderfully posh cricket player – are shipped around the world to meet various tribal peoples and compete with them in their indigenous martial arts.
It’s on BBC3 several times a week (UK) and … somewhere on the Discovery Channel (US) – because it’s EDUCATIONAL! See ripped near-naked men immerse themselves in tribal cultures, endure painful initiation rituals, work out against gloriously photographed tropical scenery and get covered in anthropologically significant dust, blood and sweat…
Cultural appropriation, international bridge-building, sadistic semi-porn or just a chance to watch glorious testosterone-heavy eye-candy? I intend to watch every single episode before I decide.
There’s an introductory video clip HERE:
Oh, and Rajko the fitness guru is also a singer songwriter
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
by Alana Noel Voth
My crush life began here. Fifth grade. I cut teeth on this one. My grandparents bought me Hey Deenie for Christmas, 1978. And all through fifth grade I wore a Shaun Cassidy tee shirt. For two days that year, I went "steady" with a boy, Wade Mitchell; he had orange hair and dark freckles and insisted on holding my hand. His hand felt sticky to me, too there, and so I gave him his chunky ring back, and he threw it against the wall.
Crush: to press or squeeze . . . to break, pound, or grind . . . temporary infatuation. According to an American Heritage Dictionary.
My crushes are like a roll of film unraveling: changing faces over time. As I change. And times change too. Always though, I remain both a feminist and anti-feminist in the arms of a rock star fantasy, because he's a simultaneous savior and a fucking mess too. Take my current rock star crush, Scott Weiland. I wouldn't trust him far as I could throw him. I hear he and his current wife have such violent fights they throw furniture around hotel rooms. He shoots heroin or did or might again. In a word, dangerous.
And in a phrase, all wrong for me.
But find me in the halls of my fantasy life blowing him, applying his eyeliner, licking the sweat off his chest when he comes off stage and behind him, the crowd screams. Take a bath, I'll drink the water that you leave. From "Still Remain" by The Stone Temple Pilots
Crush: unrequited desire. The feeling of a crush is like an alcohol buzz, an adrenaline rush; like when I curl my toes before orgasm. Hunger. Heat. Happiness. Innocence too. What I mean is, my crushes remain generally focused on someone I've never met. But I make the rules as I go along.
A crush is an image paired with my imagination. Does that make sense? And the rock star thing: Genetics with a hit of pop culture. Women in my family, a handful of self-professed suckers for rock stars. Add Teen Beat Magazine then Rolling Stone, and you got me. A man on a stage; a throng of girls at his feet; I want firsthand experience with the voodoo magic.
In 1966, the year I was born, John Lennon said The Beatles were more popular than Jesus. Americans got pissed and tossed their Beatle albums into a bonfire. Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jesus. I see a similarity. Rock stars have talent or charisma or both. They're rebellious. They're often androgenous. The infamously tortured. They rise. They fall. They die. Or they rise again from the ash. Amazing!
In high school I became obsessed with John Taylor, bass player for Duran Duran. I kept a John Taylor scrapbook and wrote John Taylor stories. He was all over my bedroom wall. In school at seventeen, I was unpopular. Graceless too. I never had boyfriends. With John Taylor though, using my imagination, I was a fashion model. Smoked cigarettes. Knew how to give a blow job too. Nothing scared me. I ruled.
Few years later, about the time I'd moved to Denver and began to earn my living as a beer poster bimbo and lingerie model, I became obsessed with Bret Michaels, lead singer for a hair band known as Poison. Skinny but ripped. Big blue eyes and pouty lips. Almost a chick with a dick.
Front-row center at the Red Rocks Ampitheater, 1991, I grabbed hold of Bret Michaels' hand as he sang, and I wouldn't let go. Time stopped, you know? I understand the crowd screamed and pressed forward so my hips ended up bruised by a metal bar, but he smiled at me, and I was there, and I wouldn't let go.
For more rock stars and rock star angst, read my story, "Rock Stars in Particular Order" here. Thanks! Oh, and if you don't mind, which rock star do you love I didn't have room to mention? Jimi Hendrix? Debbie Harry? Jim Morrison? Stevie Nicks? Boy George? Chris Cornell? Fred Durst? Marilyn Manson? Janis Joplin? Ashley Simpson (haha, just kidding.)
I know one person (Marcy Sheiner) who has a thing for Mick Jagger and even wrote a story about a fantasy encounter with the infamous Rolling Stone called "Under His Thumb," which you can find in Herotica 5. Likewise, In 2000, Michelle Tea's fantasy gang bang with Motley Crue appeared in Best American Erotica 2000.
Have you ever written and/or published a rock star fantasy? If so, do tell and then point me in the right direction, as you know I'll be front row center with ya!
Monday, June 25, 2007
When I was a little girl, I didn’t have genitalia. I had a nebulous zone referred to as ‘between your legs’. I can’t blame my parents. They were simply part of a certain generation. But really. Between your legs? It’s like describing your face as ‘above your shoulders’.
For a long time, I had no word for my ‘down theres’. I wasn’t alone. Female sexuality is such a mysterious, scary element our language has evolved with a hole in it. We even lack an anatomical word for the whole shebang. Vagina is internal, vulva is external, and no 'official' noun unites them.
In my twenties, I quietly fell in love with ‘cunt’. Feminism and Chaucer helped: feminism because it insisted women reclaim the word; Chaucer because he was merrily using it in the Middle ages where it appeared as ‘queynte’ (quaint). Now, I don’t necessarily regard my nethers as quaint (and that wasn’t what Chaucer meant anyway) but queynte’s gentle bawdiness tempered the coarseness I was more used to. And somehow, Chaucer made it sexy in a way Germaine Greer couldn’t. ‘He shall have queynte right enough at eve,’ said Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, a character who, were she alive today, would surely be a member of Lust Bites. ‘Randy little bitch’ we’d probably call her.
Chaucer’s queynte is robust, vital, ordinary and sexy, and, in some contexts, so is cunt. Generally speaking, I love a good, hard Anglo-Saxonism, and nearly all the best sex words rhyme with ‘uh’: suck, fuck, cunt, grunt, lust, love, come. But it’s impossible to escape cunt’s taboo status, and the dark thrill of that makes it even richer. It’s a forbidden word for lovers and pornographers to share, a word to whisper, gasp or snarl. Try and murmur it seductively, and it will always top you. It’s too goddamn dirty, too monosyllabic and guttural to behave nicely by candlelight.
Whenever we use cunt sexually, we’re challenging language by trying to make the word our own. Cunt resonates with secrecy, deviance and vulgarity. You might aim to make it a glorious embrace of femaleness but shivering at the edge is the shock-language of porn – slutty redhead gets her cunt fucked (yay! did our hit rate just go up?) – and of abuse – you fucking cunt! The word is riddled with conflict. And conflict is hot because that's where, as individuals, we are all undone.
Some feminists, recognising the misogyny inherent in cunt being the ultimate insult, make a case for only using it positively. I think this is misguided. So many slang words are connected with sex. Trying to exempt cunt works only to reinforce its illicit potency, and to transform female genitalia into something precious and untouchable. Too much of this, and you end up with batty (but well-intentioned) women celebrating the ‘sacred portal to the feminine temple’, describing themselves as goddesses and making yoni art to honour the 'life-giving power of the feminine'. (Heck, you all like those snatch-bags, don't you?)
I’m not exactly the most tantric chick on the block and so, while I can understand the impulse to reclaim, I reckon all this mother Earth reverence takes us back to where we started. It steeps female sexuality in mystery, distortion and confusion; it elevates us into something we are not. What's more, it is horribly biologically reductive in privileging fertility over fucking, and is about as sexy as your granny's cushions.
Cunt is cunt. I do wish people could get over it. One of my favourite dirty books is My Secret Life by ‘Walter’, a diary of a 19th century gentleman. It runs to 11 volumes and contains cunt 5357 times. (I counted.) He uses the word cunt as matter-of-factly as ‘arm’ or ‘nostril’ and repetition soon neutralises it. I find the blankness curiously sexy but that perhaps says more about me and Walt than it does about cunt.
The word didn't make it into the Oxford English Dictionary until 1972 although its first recorded use was 1230 (Gropecuntelane was a London street - huh, guess what they did there). I could risk boring you all with various etymological debates about cunt's origins (is it from High German Kunte, Latin cunnus, Sanskrit cushi?) but what I really want to say is, wow, seven and half centuries of being ignored by dictionaries; that's one helluva word. Okay, so I know Dr Johnson wasn't around in the 13thC but doesn't it make you glad we have The Urban Dictionary?
So how does this affect me as an author? Darker Than Love, my first erotic novel, is set in Victorian London and features no instances of cunt. It isn’t that cunt doesn’t appear because I wrote an historical novel. Rather, I wrote an historical novel in order to avoid using cunt. Black Lace, then relatively new on the market (1998), advised authors to ‘approach with caution’. They had a similar warning about ‘fuck’. I couldn’t conceive of writing contemporary while watching my Cs and Fs so I stepped back in time.
One year later, guidelines were practically jettisoned. I wrote Asking for Trouble faster than anything I’ve ever written and used cunt 47 times. It felt right - for me, for the characters and the story. And it's a BL bestseller.
My forthcoming book, Split*, uses the word 9 times. My publisher has its eye on the US romance market, and is returning to its softly-softly origins. No one told me to go easy on cunt but there were rumours and it seemed prudent to do so. I am, appropriately, split about the wisdom of this. On the one hand, I want more women to enjoy erotica (and to buy my hot, dirty books) and if toning down the language achieves this, perhaps it’s a decent sacrifice. Or am I selling out? Because I also want people to feel okay about cunt, and sadly, it seems I can’t have it both ways in the current climate. (And I always want it both ways.)
Perhaps cunt sounds harsher to US than to UK ears. Perhaps writing which is comfortable with cunt will always be niche.
And perhaps I’m preaching to the choir here. Because I’m sure you’ll agree, ‘slutty redhead gets her feminine temple fucked’ ain’t going to work for any reader of Lust Bites.
In researching this article, I found this, possibly one of the most disturbing videos I’ve ever seen. And I just wrote a novel set in a puppet museum. I may need therapy.
*You see how I casually linked to Split there? Truth is, that’s the first time I’ve ever done that on Lust Bites. The book only appeared on Amazon a few days ago and I am madly excited I could link. I still am!
Sunday, June 24, 2007
I have some scrawl in my notebook that says Kristina: Cunt. It's not what you think - it's just to remind me to make sure she writes a promised post about that notorious word.
And Monday is the day I can tick that item off my list, as Kristina Lloyd talks us through the ins and the outs of the dirtiest, sexiest word of all.
Wednesday is a Crush Wednesday. Alana Noel Voth is one of the many Lust Biters who crushes on rock stars. Come and join her and share your musical muse. Talking of which, Kate Pearce and I both share a dark secret. We both crushed on boy band Take That. Do they even count as rock stars?
And Kate herself will be here at the end of the week for the regular last Friday of the month smuttorama. She'll be treating us to an excerpt from her futuristic bondagey Vikings-in-space e-book Planet Mail. I am really looking forward to this one. The book has the most fabulous cover I have ever seen.
To celebrate this - and just because we want to - Alison Tyler has been very nice to the people at Extreme Restraints and got Lust Biters a 15% discount on all their delightful sexy accessories. Just pop over to the site anytime between today (24th June) and the 30th and enter 'lustbites' as your coupon code. So, now, don’t say we never give you anything.
Wondering about the shipping costs of these.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
by Alison Tyler
When the effervescent Kristina Lloyd came up with the idea of a Midsummer’s Day flasher contest, I thought, "Great. We’ll get our readers to supply the smut for us! And then I’ll go through and pluck a winner from the slew of sexy selections." But, damn. I had no idea how difficult this would actually be. I’m only supposed to choose one? Who was the eejit who made up that rule? Oh, hell, it was me. Well, I definitely didn’t expect to find such bounty. So forget one, I’m picking the following four:
Profound shyness hid G’s beauty. She was the star grad student yet an idiot about love.
One day in the library our eyes met. After we fucked she asked shyly, “How can I thank you?” “Let go.”
A week later, she asked me to meet her at a hotel. I passed it daily on my way to the university.
When I arrived, she opened the curtains, stripped, and pressed her breasts against the window. I entered her. Fifty feet away, cars raced by on the freeway. Those glancing up saw everything. If only they could have heard G’s screams.
Two blocks from the pub and he can't - won't wait. Sod the bed, sod the rain. Sod it all. Sod him.
They stumble into the alley, and he devours Andrew's mouth, pulling his lover's cock from his pants. Eyes wide, Watch the lust-laid-bare by the flickering helium. Watch the rain drizzle down his face, taste the want, take the need. Amuse Bouche. Appetiser.
Andrew surges, damp, hard--harder into his squeezing fist; there's a groan, then another, rising, rising. Rhythmic. Regular. Ready. Ready. Steady. COME.
His fingers take the bounty, shared between them before the rains steals it away.
Mardi Gras. Midnight. Swarms of sweat-soaked bodies lined along the streets. I'm pushed into an alleyway, pushed against a rough, stone wall.
Two masks. He was only hazel eyes and a cleft chin. He lifted my skirt, prodded thighs apart, dug three fingers inside me, filling me up like air into newly blown glass.
"People can see us," I said through a sharp gasp.
He placed a long finger to my lips, and slid his shorts down. Japanese lanterns loomed high over our heads, and he fucked me as drunk gagglers peered into shadow and rocking light.
By Sacchi Green
We were Dharma Bums,
Hanging with Kerouac and Ginsberg,
Jailbait chicks high on the Road and the Word.
Lip service was all we paid to how they were hung,
Swallowed up, instead, in the urgent mysteries
Of each other.
We played their game of Yab Yum, silent, still,
Close, closer, never touching,
Breast not quite to breast, cunt to cunt, nipples seeking nipples,
Hunger pulsing hot and slick between damp thighs;
We pierced each other with blue-hot sparks of longing
Until need broke down the will, the game well-lost,
And bodies clutched at joy with tooth and claw.
Honorable mentions go to:
Craig, for the lovely line “Cleanliness is overrated”
Jude Mason for the memorable statement: “You got me hornier'n a three peckered toad.”
And to Jeremy, for fucking us in the blog comments. Best 115-word shag I've ever had.
Winners, please email your contact information to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.
You're a thousand minds, within a flash
Friday, June 22, 2007
By Nikki Magennis
To my mind, sex can be many things. It can be transcendental, angry, healing, tender, frightening, funny, or sad. Sex with someone you love has got to be one of the most wonderful experiences in the world.
But what about sex with someone you don’t give a damn about, beyond liking their cute smile or tightly-packed body (Or, and I do feel a little rueful about this one – their shoes)? What about sex with someone you don’t even know?
Is it reckless, dangerous, sexy, stupid or wild? Perhaps all of the above?
Can we get away with it these days without the usual labels peppering the air? Slut, slag, trollop, whore, easy. Dirty stop-out.
Ah, been there, done that. Made the T shirt.
I remember the walk of shame. Making your way home at dawn in last night’s clothes. Sleepless, bedraggled, sated. Torn tights and smudged eyeliner. So louche. So obviously recently fucked.
Sex with someone you don’t know is such an adventure – everything is possible. No ties, no promises, no safety net. No heartache, no responsibility, no jealousy. Just a brief taste of pleasure, and the comfort of strangers.
I always thought it was so simple and beautiful - two people catching each other's eye, smiling. Letting nature and the madness of summer nights take their course. With no artifice or pretence, just the song of the body and all the rich, foreign smells of a new lover. The sex tasted all the sweeter for being so inevitably brief.
I don’t go out on the hunt anymore. Once you’re happily shackled to one man there’s no need or opportunity. But in stories the writer (and reader) is free to pick up strangers, fuck them and move on to the next one with no hard feelings. Black Lace’s latest Wicked Words anthology: ‘Sex with Strangers’, released today in the US, is full of short, sweet never-to-be-repeated adventures that fuel those dangerous daydreams.
I have two stories in this book - both about women who find that fucking someone they don’t know broadens their horizons. As a little taste, here is the moment the artist in ‘Art of Fucking’ gets down and dirty with her life model.
(I think it’s fitting that they’re both nameless...)
The distance reduced to zero and his mouth was on me, wet lips covering mine in a warm shock. All of a sudden the cold tension of the studio was flooded with sensation - the quiet Northern light was eclipsed by the movement of this man against me, his hot human aliveness crashing into my world, encircling me, gripping me in those naked, marble smooth arms. Everything was dark, but dark in the way of flesh, with a heartbeat and a pulse and the vivid animal sounds filling my ears.
I didn’t pull away, and I didn’t miss the smell of love in the air. Instead, I felt the delicious surprise of an unfamiliar man kissing me, and the want and the need to feel him closer yet.
Michelangelo always said the sculpture was already in the stone, and he just had to work out how to find it. When the model kissed me, it felt like he’d found a new image of me, of what I could be. Like he’d dug out the long-forgotten, reckless girl I used to be from where she was buried deep in the cold hard rock and brought me back to life.
His prick was stiffening, pressing against my leg, while he slid his tongue into my mouth and we tasted each other.
'A mouthful of fun,' Sandy had said.
I'd never been so hungry in my life. I knelt.
The wood planks of the studio floor were hard under my knees as I took hold of the guy's hips and pulled him towards me. I buried my face in his pubic hair, letting it scratch against my mouth. His cock bobbed against my cheek and I nuzzled at it, feeling the smoothness and the heat of what I'd been longing for for months. I'd spent a half hour looking at his body, trying to recreate it on paper, but drawing his beauty was nowhere near close enough to this. Touching him, taking him in my mouth, sucking on him. Tasting the bittersweet honey of his pre-cum as his cock swelled and grew rock hard.
Fuck drawing, I thought. It doesn’t get to the heart of the matter. I realised just how flat a picture can be as his hands tangled in my hair and I pulled at his ass, sticking a fingertip into his hole and feeling the corresponding spasm in his cock. This wasn't static, everything was in motion, stimulating all my senses at once and we were sinking inside each other, intertwining, pushing and pulling at each other. He was tumbling down to kneel in front of me and his hands were burrowing into my clothes, seeking out the pockets of heat, the dark and wet spots that connected straight to my brain.
His fingers ran into my knickers, slid quickly between my thighs and into my pussy. A slight resistance, before he found the groove and the moisture of my pussy and dove into it. Two fingers, three, jammed inside me, opening me up, wriggling in there with a funny little shock before I felt the rhythm of it, the to and fro rocking that made me feel like my body was caught in a tide. Waves ebbing and flowing, he was imitating the beat of sex that would sink into me and pull me under.
Find ‘A Whole New City’ and ‘The Art of Fucking’, as well as stories by Mathilde Madden, Teresa Noelle Roberts, Olivia Knight, Sophie Mouette, Kristina Lloyd and ADR Forte in Sex With Strangers.
...Don't be a stranger! Say hello in the comments and I'll pick someone at random to win a copy of 'Sex with Strangers' signed by moi.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
by Alison Tyler
I want heavy petting at the stop light. I want a blow job between the front door and the dining room. I want there to be just enough time for the old “in and out.” And for this Midsummer’s Day contest, I want you. That is, I want you to give me your best 100-word flashers. Like “Madrid” by our own lovely Nikki Magennis:
I wore my red shoes. Your hair was gloss black and tangled, melting into the night, leaving only a glitter of teeth.
You kissed me at dawn, took me to the house where you slept. A cousin’s, you said. ‘Seventh heaven’, you said.
There were no sheets on the mattress. We fought our clothes, came out naked, fell on the floor. The silver crucifix round your neck hit me in the face as we fucked – fast, urgent, silent. Your skin was gold and slippery.
Afterwards we waltzed through empty streets. The world was asleep, and we were dreaming in colour.
And “Flashers” by Stephen D. Rogers:
In the half-light of dusk, they had the park to themselves. They wore matching raincoats and nothing else.
She stepped from behind a tree and flashed him.
He flashed her from behind a trellis.
Their bare skin glowed in short bursts, like two fireflies dancing around each other until darkness fell and the two lovers finally met and joined on a bed of soft grass.
They took turns watching the stars blink to life.
Or Sommer Marsden's "And You":
And you are right there inside me, gripping my hips. Clamping down on the flesh as if your fingers might pass right through me. And you say, "Don't move, baby."
And I don't, except for the ways you move me.
Push me here, pull me there. Keep me full. Thrust and pump.
Use me as I'm meant to be used.
Your teeth on my neck. Just as you come. It‘s my signal to let go.
And I am light and heat, brimming with you.
I chose these three because of how wildly different they are. Realistic, romantic, and raw. Look at the power of a paragraph, the seduction of a single sentence, the wonder of 100-words.
I want you.
I want you so bad, babe.
I want you.
I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad.
It’s driving me mad.
P.S. One lucky winner will receive Down & Dirty (volumes one and two) plus the thrill of seeing your words in print in FlashFucking, my new collection of ultra-short stories (pending approval of Cleis Press). Flashers don't need to be exactly 100 words—but they should not be more than 100 words, including title.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I loooooove giving away prizes! It's the perfect reason to pop open another bottle of champagne.
Remember our interview with M. Christian? He's kindly giving away a copy of The Very Bloody Marys, and Stacia, you are the lucky commenter who gets it!
So, Stacia, email us at lustbitesladies AT yahoo DOT com with your snail-mail address, and you shall have good reading in your mailbox very soon.
Gwen "Loves to Make People Happy" Masters
Posted by Gwen Masters at 7:04 PM
By Gwen Masters
I am a cardiac heart specialist.
Surprised? Wait until you hear the next part:
In my spare time, I’m a NASCAR driver.
But wait, it gets better! When I’m not burning up tires on five-hundred laps, I’m an international assassin with four different identities.
And when I’m not doing that, somehow I manage to step into my time machine and become a housewife in the 1940s, trying to keep my family together during the height of World War II.
It’s not a movie sound stage, and it’s not multiple personalities. It’s writing, and being able to become whomever I want to be in the pages of my books, in the paragraphs of my short stories. It’s living vicariously through my characters.
If there is something I have always wanted to do, but never had the chance, skills, or other necessities by which to do it, I can write about it – and through the magic of my PC, a lot of research and a little bit of luck, I’m right there.
When I was lost in the depths of Leigh, the cardiac specialist trying to save the life of the bastard who just ended their relationship, you can bet I could almost feel every tiny gasp of breath as I tried to pound life back into his cheating heart. When I was lost in Karen, the woman who entertained clients in her high-priced suite and offered them caviar and champagne after their encounter, you can bet my heart was pounding at the thought of having all four of those men in bed.
All four...at once.
Ummm...ah, give me a moment...my mind just veered off into the direction of satin sheets, strong muscles, broad shoulders, magic hands, moans of ecstasy...
Ahem. Excuse me. Where was I?
Ah, yes. Living vicariously.
That’s one of the joys of writing, one of those guilty little pleasures tucked away in the back of my mind every time I sit down at the keyboard. I might have hours stretching before me, empty time to fill with all the imaginings of my mind, and it’s all about what I want to do, what I want to feel, and what I hope to accomplish. It’s a selfish pleasure, make no doubt about it. I write for the money, honey – but most of all, I’m writing for me.
Making that perfect stranger fantasy a reality? Being the center of a BDSM party, my body bared for the lusty gaze of dozens of men and women? Riding out a hurricane? Assassinating leaders for the cold cash in my Swiss bank account? Having sex with a ghost? Not in real life. But in my pages – yes, yes, and oh, please, yes.
I’ve been a frustrated wife, lusting over the priest while I should be in Confession. I’ve been a married man having an affair with two different women. I’ve been an older woman with the lawn boy, and the younger woman with the college professor. I’m just as likely to be a junkie as a marriage counselor. I haven’t become a vampire yet, but just give me time. It all depends on the mood of the day.
Sometimes living vicariously though my characters leads to living vicariously...for real. For the cardiac specialist, I spent two days in the ER at the invitation of a good friend, who showed me what ‘controlled chaos’ really means. For the former CIA agent, I spent long days at the firing range, learning about weapons. I’ve been storm chasing in Oklahoma. I’ve been behind a bar in Atlanta, shadowing a bartender. In that particular venture, I learned what a proper Jack Daniels hangover feels like. Saying it wasn't pretty is an understatement. Hey, I never said this living vicariously thing was easy all the time, did I?
This time it’s something a bit more sedate. In a few weeks, I’m going to spend time with Iowa’s covered bridges, interview first responders, and delve into reams of psychological profiles – all research for Iowa, my latest writing venture.
And after that...well, there's a gorgeous, very experienced stripper, the one my fiancé seemed to like so much the last time we ventured into the strip club. She had many years of seeing things most of us can only imagine, and quite a life to talk about.
Besides, she gave great lapdances. A few more wouldn’t be out of the question. It's all for research purposes, you see?
Posted by Gwen Masters at 3:21 AM
Sunday, June 17, 2007
By Mathilde Madden
Well, finally, the boys have gone back to their sheds. And it's oh so quiet at last. We're just throwing away the last empty lager tins and sticky porno mags (mind you, we have to do that every Sunday morning at Lust Bites towers), and getting ready to resume normal service and bring you more of our delicious women-only radical feminist separatist shrew filth. Or something. Some of that might be a lie.
On Monday, Gwen Masters will be talking about living vicariously through characters. Like, say, writing or reading a story where a man gets eaten by a werewolf. And really enjoying the idea of being that werewolf. Perhaps.
Wednesday isn't the longest day of the year (that's Thursday) but we'll all be off doing pagan things on hillocks then, so Alison Tyler will get midsummer started early by asking you to pen us your sexiest flash fiction. Short-shorts for short nights. Sharpen those pencils.
Nikki Magennis is here on Friday. So expect more hedgehog sexing. Or something to do with Sex with Strangers. Or strange hedgehogs. Were-hedgehogs, perhaps.
Excited about this. And this.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
to announce my Not Tonight, dear, I've Got a Headache winner!
The lucky commenter drawn [by Heather Locklear apparently] is...
Hi Danette, please contact me at portiadacosta 'at' gmail 'dot' com to let me know your postal address and whether you've read any books of mine already. So I can send you something that's new to you! :)
Portia Da Costa
who loves giving out prizes!
Friday, June 15, 2007
by Kristina Lloyd and Nikki Magennis
Ain’t she a doll?
Yes, you’re looking at Lust Bites Monster Woman: pieces of us as patched together by Dr Nikki Frankenstein Magennis!
Heck – and you thought this week’s debates were scary. All we need is a bolt of lightning and this honey could be walking, talking and inviting you back to her place. LBMW hasn’t yet been named. Any ideas?
LBMW, you’ll notice, is a tad underdressed so Alison Tyler and Nikki Franki have been busy sewing T-shirts to clothe the poor lovely. And they have made a Lust Bites shop! Check it out in the sidebar on the right. Scroll down a bit. And a bit more. Mmm, yes, just a touch lower, yes, yes, there, ohhhh yes! Our shop. I'm so proud. And we are open for business. You can buy knickers with our name on! And T-shirts and mugs and you can hire hot men to come visit you and tattoo I heart Lust Bites across your buttocks!
Anyway, it’s been a fun week, hasn’t it? We must do it again sometime.
Thanks to all who played Guess the Gender. Alas, no one got all 7 excerpts correct, not even The Gender Genie. Nikki and Amy S got 5, so I think Amy S gets the prize. Amy S email us at, erm, oh bollocks ... at lustbitesladies AT yahoo DOT com (Hey, don’t look at me, ladies and gents. I didn’t choose the address.)
And here are the answers with some maths I did. The correct answers with the % who guessed right is highlighted in purple. For the full excerpts, check out Write Sex Week: Day One.
1/ She said, did I want her to show me what women like. I said yes.
You said: Female 46% Male 54% Gender Genie: Female Answer: FEMALE
From: Susanna Moore, In The Cut – a book loved by many Lusties, I suspect, and I am one of them.
2/ Hot-skinned and sticky about our thighs, the poet plucked me from the rock.
You said: Female 92% Male 8% Gender Genie: Female Answer: MALE
From: Lindsay Gordon, The Bond (Nexus), aka super-stylish, kink-packed vampire porn written by our very own editor, Adam Nevill of Black Lace Towers. Yes, vampires! Missy and Hank are on the run in the US of A. The whole book is female POV and I really don't know what it means that the male editor of a women-only imprint managed to fool nearly everyone into thinking he was a female author. He probably menstruates in synch with us.
3/ "Please," she repeated in a whisper as the cold stream of lubricant drizzled into her crack.
You said: Female 31% Male 69% Gender Genie: Female Answer: MALE
From: Carl Kennedy in Best Bondage Erotica (ed. Alison Tyler)
4/ How delightfully cruel he could be. And how part of her responded
You said: Female 62% Male 38% Gender Genie: Male Answer: FEMALE
From: Cleo Cordell, The Crimson Buccaneer (not DH Lawrence as was suggested). Cleo Cordell wrote for Black Lace in the 90s. The book seems to be out of print, otherwise I'd link to it.
5/ His cock slid between her lips effortlessly. She parted for him, taking him in
You said: Female 62% Male 38% Gender Genie: "The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is unknown." Answer: FEMALE
From: Sommer Marsden in Love at First Sting (ed. Alison Tyler) – ha, yes Sommer (aka Smut Girl), you managed to baffle the Gender Genie with a 50/50 split, you crafty little hermaphrodite, you.
6/ I was hungry to get my cunt stuffed with his dick again
You said: Female 69% Male 31% Gender Genie: Female Answer: FEMALE
From: a Lust Biter who ought to wash her mouth out with soap and water. 'Cynic', whoever you are, you were spot on: taken from a girlie mag, a reader’s letter as made up by the sub editor. Gawd, sub editing a porn mag. Some people will do anything for money.
7/ He has the most tender mouth, large and pink and powerful.
You said: Female 77% Male 15% Erastes (who clearly has her own gender) 8% Gender Genie: Male Answer: MALE
From: Joseph Olshan, Night Swimmer – I adore this book. It’s one of my favourites.
Anyway, that quiz was obviously just for fun but the results do raise some interesting questions about perceived notions of linguistic expression of gender identity within a heteronormative and patriarchal ...
SHUT UP! SHUT UP, I say! My ears are bleeding! The weekend starts tomorrow! I vote we all kick off our shoes (oooh, look - Jeremy already did) and play mass-footsie.
Many, many thanks to our brave/foolish manbloggers, Felix, Huck and Jeremy, and to all who've been with us this week. It's been emotional. Now please everyone, go buy a shameless Lust Bites T-shirt, and treat yourself to extra of whatever you fancy this weekend! I think we've earned it, man, woman and Erastes alike.
PS Next week, on the eve of the shortest night of the year in the North (ie Wed 20th June), Alison Tyler will be asking for your flash fiction - saucy snips of a 100 words or so. Alison will be picking her favourites and there will be prizes! Obviously, it's only open to women ... no, no! I'm joking! Anyone can enter, even the hedgehogs! Mark it in your diaries: Midsummer Quickies on Lust Bites, and get writing.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A week full of boy blogs really wouldn't be complete without a visit from one of our favourite erotica writers,Jeremy Edwards, who has kindly offered us not only a post but a naked picture.
Really, what more could a girl ask for?
Take it away, Senor Edwards:
Being a male erotica author, there are places I'm automatically
ineligible for publication. How do I feel about that?
Pretty good, actually.
Isn't it discriminatory?
Technically, maybe. But not really, in my opinion.
Isn't it unfair?
I don't think so, all things considered.
Here's how I see it: We live in a world in which women have been
second-class citizens--or worse--through most of history, in almost
every human society. To this day, women as a group are, to one extent
or another, subordinated by patriarchal societies virtually
For example, in the U.S. (where I reside), this translates into a
continuing wage gap between men and women; persisting double standards
regarding sexual freedom; and governmental policies that willfully and
viciously restrict access to birth control and sex education (and we
all know which sex that affects most severely).
And that's the mild form of subordination. In other parts of the
world, a woman can still be sentenced to death for actual or alleged
sexual activity, by governments wedded to misogynistic ideologies.
Now, those societies are not the places where erotica is being
published, and so they are not directly related to this discussion;
but I mention the grim fact of their existence simply as part of the
big picture of women's lives in twenty-first-century human society.
Bearing all of this in mind, I think, in our world, that it's very
understandable that some women, seeking autonomy and independence and
fulfillment, will insist on certain cultural spaces to call their own.
Places where the content is not only "for women," but also by
women. Places where women, and women alone, articulate their own
needs, their own concerns, their own problems, and their own
Nikki butts in: Articulating our fantasies? This calls for more naked men!
(The other Jeremy Edwards.)
And I think it's no surprise that the broad area of sexuality--from
the erotic arts to sexual health to sexual self-discovery--is one
where it can be particularly important for women to have that room of
their own. Because we live in a world in which women's sexual needs,
in particular, have been ignored, denied, misunderstood, and even
demonized for century after century, by society after society.
On the one hand, consider the phenomenon of a dominant group shutting
out an oppressed group (e.g., White people barring African Americans
from their clubs, or heterosexual parade organizers prohibiting gay
groups from participating in their festivities). On the other hand,
picture a subordinated group restricting participation in its
activities to members of that group (e.g., a ballroom dance class for
lesbian couples only). The difference between these two types of
scenarios is, in my opinion, a critical one. The former type of
instance is an expression of bigotry, whereas the latter represents an
attempt to secure a little independence and autonomy. These two types
of "discrimination" are just not the same.
I'm not presuming to say that the strong, self-actualized women who
publish with a company like Black Lace are personally oppressed or
victimized by male-dominated society. Nor am I asserting that about
their readers. But I think there are good reasons for the fact that
some women want to read erotic books put out by an all-female team
(it's not just something created out of thin air by marketers), and
these reasons have to do with the historical and contemporary position
of women in a patriarchal world. In that context, I think that "by
and for women" enterprises represent a legitimate and healthy response
to the continuing struggle of women to claim their fulfillment and
dignity in a world that still has a long, long way to go.
If the day comes that women run the world and guys like me have no
place left to publish our smut, then I'll protest. Until then, I say
long live the cultural spaces that women have designated as their own.
May they blossom, thrive . . . and provide all of us with some damn
Jeremy Edwards is a pseudonymous sort of fellow whose efforts at
spinning libido into literature have been published various places
online, as well as in print anthologies. His greatest goal in life is
to be sexy and witty at the same moment--ideally in lighting that
flatters his profile.
A huge thanks to Jeremy for baring his um, innermost thoughts...now it's your turn! Let us know what you think about feminism, literature and Jeremy's Big Fedora...
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Posted by Nikki Magennis at 10:35 PM
As part of our week long indepth investigation (we like these things long and deep, of course) into ‘The Write Sex’, I asked writer Huck Berry to give us his point of view.
Huck is a UK writer whose work can be found at Ruthie’s Club, Clean Sheets, and The Erotic Woman online, and in ‘Erotic Tales 2’ by Justus Roux and ‘The Mammoth Book of Best Lesbian Erotica’. He describes himself as ‘the world’s youngest grumpy old man’ – in other words, the perfect candidate to give us a rant about women-only publishers and blogs.
Over to you, Huck...
Back when Lust Bites first started, I had a long argument with Nikki and others about why the internet needed another ‘women only’ outlet. We’ve kissed and made up since, metaphorically of course until I find my way to Glasgow, but the issue is still there. Just for the occasion, I’ve broken the habit of a lifetime and actually done some research.
One of the best sources of information for erotic authors is the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website. At any one time, their Calls for Submission page will have around one hundred listings, ranging from anthologies to paying websites.
Of these, around a quarter cater to gay, lesbian or bisexual interest. It’s really quite surprising that they have time to do anything other than read. Currently two publishers are looking for either ‘women of colour’ or writers with disabilities.
Around twenty will be aimed at a female audience. Now that’s fine, but how many of the remainder do you think claim to be for the benefit of a male audience? Would you be surprised if I told you none? Now two calls are from Penthouse and Hustler magazines, so I can read between the lines and guess that they are aimed at men, but not even they come right out and say it, as the female-oriented sites do.
What is more iniquitous is that of the twenty female sites, five will only accept work by female authors. Part of me wonders how they enforce this policy. Are you asked to drop your knickers before you’re published? By the way, not one listing restricts itself to male authors.
This means that a proportion of sites are closed to me as an author. Obviously that’s not a problem because, after all, there are plenty of others out there, but what rankles is the implication that my writing is in some way sub-standard.
If you think I’m being too sensitive, compare the straplines of two well-known erotica sites. Tit-elation: ‘Because even men’s erotica lacks foreplay’ and Ruthies Club: ‘Classy. Literate. Kinky. Smut.’ The former insults, albeit jokingly. Half their potential audience is lost at a stroke. The latter appeals to all, and even strokes our egos by promoting the literary aspect of the stories.
Some say that men prefer visual erotica, citing the quantity of porn magazines that are available to men. I say that’s rubbish. Have you ever browsed the female interest section at your newsagent? From that, one could conclude that women are only interested in celebrity gossip, better sex and weight loss tips. Not only do I not believe that, but I’d also guess that plenty of men are interested in these things too.
Well-written erotica should, and does, appeal to anyone who reads it.
Speaking of well-written erotica, can men’s writing appeal to women? I know that my own stories do, because I’ve had lots of feedback telling me so. In fact, I’ve probably had more positive comments from women than from men, some of which made my toes curl.
The Erotic Woman is a free site, aimed at women. They publish stories by male and female authors. They conducted a survey of their 100,000 readers, and they tell me that almost 70% are female. Their aim is to reach 80% this year. Clearly these women are not turned off by male authors.
What about the converse? Does all erotica written by women appeal to other women? Of course not. Women are just as capable as men of writing poor quality porn. You’ve only to poke around Literotica (www.literotica.com) or StoriesOnline (www.storiesonline.net) to prove that.
Most sites don’t keep membership statistics. Art, the webmaster at Erotic Stories, does, and was kind enough to supply some. I also did a little research of my own. The majority of members don’t list their sex, but of those that do, 30% are women. Most authors do, and 43% percent are female. This statistic is duplicated on the 100 top-ranked authors list, with 42 being female, implying that readers are equally happy with both sexes.
It’s wrong to making sweeping generalisations. There may be some women who only want to read stories by female authors, but I think that the majority would be happy reading any well-written erotica. And in my opinion discrimination is also wrong, no matter who is being discriminated against.
...So that’s the view from our latest manblogger. What do you think? Are we wrong to restrict Lustbites to female authors? Should publishers get over the positive discrimination kick already? Or is there still a good argument for promoting women-only imprints?
Check out Huck’s writing at his website:
And subscribe to his amusing and erudite (that right, Huck?!) blog
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
by Felix Baron (Nexus)
Lusty Ladies, on behalf of your myriad fans, I salute you! You deserve our fullest respect for the many benefits that you bestow upon this world. You start with nothing but your sweet sensuousness and well-honed skills and create publishable novels. That’s magic!
Consider, if one of your books sells 5,000 copies and it takes three hours to read, and it’s read only twice per copy, that’s a total of 30,000 hours of pleasure that you are responsible for. That’s 1,250 days, or almost three and a half years. Incredible?
It was Nexus editor, Peter Darvil-Evans, who told me, ‘We publish books for one-handed readers.’ I think it’s safe to assume that each reading of your novel brings about at least two orgasms. I’m including those resulting from the readers’ busy fingers, while reading; those that come later, from the fantasies that the book inspires, and those that are results of your work moving its readers to seek out their lovers for their mutual pleasure. (Two-for-one.) That’s about 10,000 orgasms induced by every novel you write! Most people don’t stimulate anywhere near that many in other people in an entire lifetime. That’s an achievement to be proud of!
Further, you ladies are educators. How many people, I wonder, first learned to locate and appreciate the clitoris or the G-spot from reading sexy fiction? Those revelations can be life-changing. I’ve heard of young women who suffered unslaked lust to their early twenties, or sometimes beyond, because neither they nor their partners knew which cute little pink buttons to push, to induce la petite morte. You’ve saved relationships. You’ve brought continuing joy to countless thousands. Be proud.
Your tutelage isn’t confined to anatomy. You teach tolerance and acceptance. You’ve brought masturbation out of the closet. Thanks to erotic writers, the shame that has crippled so many lives is in rapid retreat.
It isn’t just self-loving that erotica writers have rescued from ignominy. By reading erotica, people can see a pair of thighs gleaming above lacy stocking-tops through the admiring eyes of a leg-fetishist; gaze into cleavages with the glee of boob-fanatics; appreciate the allure of skinny bad-boys or beefy bears; feel the sweet bite of canes through the tingling senses of masochists and enjoy the swelling pride of dominants who are being served well. Those vicarious experiences don’t change the sexual preferences of readers but they do help them to understand tastes that some might consider deviant and unnatural.
More importantly, through erotica, fetishists of all stripes learn that they are not alone. Others appreciate the allure of toe-cleavage. Others fantasize about their public nudity being applauded by the sound of mass masturbation. Whatever your kink, if it’s safe, sane and consensual, there should be no shame in it. (Unless shame turns you on, of course.)
It was here that I read Murray Suid’s witty account of his writing a book review for his college paper, and mentioning cunnilingus. His Dean reprimanded him, not for the prurience of his content, but for perpetuating the myth that such acts were performed in real life. If the simple act of oral love can be considered mythical, isn’t even more absurd to think that people might enjoy being spanked, or buggered, or bound?
Your works, ladies, simultaneously give us permission to be honest about who we are and defy those who would blame us for not being repressed and prudish.
Madeline Moore and I write movie scripts. Over recent months, we have been adapting some of the scripts we’ve written and not sold, into novels.
(Adam was kind enough to publish the first such adaptation as my erotic novel, Dominant.) The process of turning scripts into novels has brought home to us an important advantage that the written word has over tales told in moving pictures.
In a movie, you might watch a 17th Century Parisian seamstress find solace with her last candle. (Warming her hands at its flame. What did you think I meant?) In a novel, however, you can be that seamstress.
Only the written word can take people inside characters. The difference between watching a movie and reading a book is the same as the difference between sympathy and empathy. In an erotic movie, you can see and hear a character express joy at buggering or being buggered; dominating or submitting; sucking or being sucked. In an erotic book, you can share the characters’ glee from the inside. That way, you can truly understand not only the physical sensations, but the emotional ones. It might seem contradictory, but there is more realism in what you read than in what you watch.
All of the foregoing, ladies, was foreplay. It’s a preamble to the meat of my essay, which is that I am delighted that Black Lace is both for and by women. Most of the opinions I’ve expressed so far pertain to all writers of erotica, male or female. There is, however, an important difference, to the readers, if they know beyond any shred of doubt that the authors are of the fair sex.
I have written erotica under feminine pen-names. I suspect that my readers have often twigged my ruse. So, when I write of female characters who yearn to be sodomised or who can’t get enough of any of the depraved acts I have described, a reader might think, ‘Of course he writes like that. He’s a man. Real women don’t…’
It’s sad, but many men and even a few women, believe that women feign sensuality for duplicitous reasons – to trick men into marriage or to get pregnant or simply for pay. Yes, a woman’s sensuality can be quite different from a man’s, but it can be just as intense, or even more so.
Men doubting this has ruined many relationships. Women denying this has excused psychological frigidity. An incredible number of women consider the female orgasm to be a myth – and I’m not talking about ejaculation.
But, when a writer who is ‘certified female’ invites readers of both sexes into her mind and extols the pleasures of fellatio or cunninlingus or buggery, and describes in fervent detail the ecstatic glee of a fine climax, no one can deny the truth of what she writes. Women readers can learn that such joy is within their reach. Men readers can learn to become better and more trusting lovers.
Ladies of Lust, you are strippers all, baring your innermost selves, and whatever your motivations, you are simultaneously incredibly exciting and powerfully therapeutic.
Felix Baron writes in a number of genres, under various names, and teaches a Course in Writing Erotica for http://www.qualityofcourse.comHis latest novel for Nexus, Sweet As Sin, will be released in October, 2007 and is available for pre-order now at Amazon.com.
Monday, June 11, 2007
About ten years ago when I was an apprentice pornographer, I kept hearing that erotic fiction was perfectly in tune with female sexuality. Men, they said, were happy with a jazz mag and a quick hand shandy. Women preferred narrative. We wanted escapism, sensuality, emotional complexity and actual characters.
Either I’m hanging out with a better class of smutter or times have changed. (Actually, I think those two things are inseparable.) Today, mainstream culture is more sexually aware; women are producing and consuming porn and erotica as never before; many sweeping generalisations have been swept up and flung in a cell along with Mel Gibson DVDs and remaindered piles of Men are from Mars, Women are Heinous.
The binaries are blurring. ‘He wants/She wants’ is so passé. Or is it? Maybe what I’m trying to say is: I’m so glad I’m not the only woman who adores the psycho romance of Wuthering Heights and also gets off on pics of men in the buff and who will use any cheap excuse to post a photo of some half-naked brute on Lust Bites.*
Ahem. This week, we’re asking if gender matters. Are there differences in the way men and women write about sex? Do male and female readers want different things? If so, what? Why? Could a man write an erotic romance with a hero women will fall half in love with? Should Black Lace, an imprint publishing women only, open its doors to the hairier sex? Should Lust Bites let the lads in? Can men write convincing female orgasms? Can women write believable male/male fiction? Can straight men do lesbians (hey, quit sniggering at the back) or should erotica writers stick to what they know best?
Anyway, we’re kicking off with a guessing game. Below are seven sizzling snippets. Can you guess if the author is male or female? I’ll reveal the answers on Friday, and one correct guesser wins a copy of Alison Tyler’s Tiffany Twisted, a fabulously funny sexy book in which Tiffany and her boyfriend Kurt find themselves trapped in each other’s bodies. Also on Friday, we'll be unveiling the magnificent 'Lust Bites Monster Woman'! LBMW is a body parts collage brought to you by our barely-draped selves and the creative genius that is Nikki Magennis. You've been warned!
* Half-naked brute is Brandon Mills, pic by Joe Oppedisano. Brandon is 6’2”. Whimpers.
*QUIZ TIME: Male or female? Hold on tight: these extracts are HOT!*
She said, did I want her to show me what women like. I said yes. It was hard to get my hand inside of her. She had a meaty, fat pussy. You had to go all the way down to the bottom of her snatch to get your finger in. It was so strange once you got your finger in, it was like sticking your finger in the ocean. If she was sitting on me, I used to think she pissed on me. Hot liquid on my balls. I swear she used to piss on me. She told me to hold women when they come, to hold them in your arms. She taught me how to unhook a bra with one hand. She said it would come in handy someday. She asked me if I’d ever kissed a woman down there, and I said no. I may have lied.
Hot-skinned and sticky about our thighs, the poet plucked me from the rock. Casually, with two unlit cigarettes drooping from his mouth, he took me down to the cold lagoon. I could have fainted with happiness when the cold water rose between my buttocks and lapped over my stomach. When all of me was under the water, except for my head, I nuzzled under Walt’s jaw with appreciative lips.
"Please," she repeated in a whisper as the cold stream of lubricant drizzled into her crack. She moaned as I opened her up with my fingers, and by the time I slid my shaft into her I knew Michelle had a well-trained ass. She pushed up against me, her fingers still parting her cheeks wide for me, giving me unchecked access to her tight asshole. I reached under her and pushed the dildo more firmly into her cunt, using my hand to grind the harness against her clit. Michelle's mouth opened wide and she went to scream as she pulsed toward her orgasm, but no sound came out at first. Then a strangled moan of pleasure exploded from her as I felt her asshole clenching rhythmically in orgasmic spasms around my cock. I pumped into her faster, knowing I would come any second. Just as she finished her climax, I exploded into her, filling the realtor's asshole with my come.
How delightfully cruel he could be. And how part of her responded to the darkness of his passion. The willing submission flooded her body as the desire seemed to centre within her, unfurling like a moist red flower whose petals pulsed and swelled.
His cock slid between her lips effortlessly. She parted for him, taking him in, like his wife never had before. Like no one ever had before. She had been waiting for this and he could tell. The feel of him, the taste of him on her lips was something she had considered many times before. The truth of this set West free. He pushed beyond the barrier or her teeth, felt her soft tongue on his erection, fucked her mouth. He was free. Lulled by the feel of the hot suede of her mouth rushing to encompass him as he gently pushed the rocker back and forth, back and forth. A metronome of pleasure. The universe boiled down to one bright point in his mind – her mouth on him.
I was hungry to get my cunt stuffed with his dick again so I broke off and told him to doggy-fuck me. He got behind me as I kneeled on all fours and he drove his fat cock nuts-deep into my saturated cunt. He started powering away and I came with a yell and a creamy squirt.
He has the most tender mouth, large and pink and powerful. His kisses set off these detonations inside you and amazingly he can easily take your cock all the way down to its root and slap it back and forth with the inside of his mouth. He loves it when you lean against a tree and screw his face and sometimes as you’re getting there you can feel the mosquitoes biting your shoulders and your stomach and it makes it more intense when you finally come. When he’s about to come, his eyes actually film over. And then you both lie there, staring up at the strange-looking trees in the Asian forest. As the daylight bleeds away, you watch how he vanishes next to you, this lovely black man, he just disappears into the darkness.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
By Mathilde Madden
...I know what boys like… I know what guys want.
Actually I have no idea. So we've invited some onto Lust Bites to tell us. Yes. Men! Sex! Men writing about sex! Sex! Men! And Lust Bites presents: Write Sex Week. Five days of men! And sex! And men!
And who's best at writing boy does girl? Or girl does girl. Or boy does boy. Or girl does werewolf? Who writes the best sex? Ladies or gentlemen? Sheaths or swords? Cups or staffs? Tunnels or trains? Us or them? Or is it a tie? And – in that case - who gets tied?
So brace yourselves for great globs of jizz to start flying as we get all FHM on your asses and ask some men to talk to us about sex. SEX! Oh, and writing.
Men! Sex! Writing! Men! Biceps!
And, I'll just be hiding here under the table until they've gone.
Friday, June 8, 2007
M. Christian is a chameleon. Just when you think you are familiar with his writing, well –- you would be wrong. Today you might read one of his lesbian stories, then tomorrow pick up another anthology and find man-on-man action. Or you might find something straight-up heterosexual, without a single kink in sight. M. Christian writes everything under the sun, so you never quite know what you’re going to get, but you know it’s going to be interesting. And hot. Deliciously, delightfully, steaming HOT.
He’s with us today on Lust Bites, and we’re all wild to find out about the guy behind the stories. Pull up a chair, have a glass of wine, and settle in for some Q & A with one of the best kick-ass writers out there.
You like science fiction, so let’s go into the time machine: Think back to the very first erotic story you published. What was the story about?
Now you've made me feel old! Let's see, that was when Hoover was president and the tubes the internets travel through were really tiny...and made of brass...
Okay, okay...first story I sold was called "Intercore" which was in FutureSex. It was also picked up for Best American Erotica in 1994. It was a pretty simple little thing, a "cyber" story about a narrator going to take a girl masturbating in an alley -- because that's the only safe sex left. What's funny is that I hadn't written it for publication. Back then I used to flirt with women online...or at least I think they were women...anyway, I did it as something to send to girls. That's not to say I hadn't tried to sell my stuff before, it was just that silly little thing was the first. I had about ten years of failure coming before it.
You are amazingly prolific – most full-time writers don’t get as much done as you do! How do you keep up the pace? Do you have a set schedule for writing?
Nope, I don't really keep a schedule or such. I am pretty good at knowing what has to happen though so even though I don't have a regular routine I keep a mental calendar of my commitments so when something’s due I do it. I've never been a believer in a 'muse' or silly stuff like that so I don't wait for inspiration. I just sit down and try and make it happen. Like I said, writing is a skill that gets easier -- and frequently enjoyable -- the more you do it. I love to do a lot of things...naked things...but writing luckily has become a very close second. The one thing I've never been able to do, though, is write for pure pleasure. I need the 'focus' of a project. At first that was short stories for anthologies, and now its novels. I just can't work on something unless it has the possibility of finding a home somewhere. Creativity-wise that's probably not very good for me; I hope that someday I can get beyond it.
Of course being with the fantastic Sage Vivant doesn’t hurt, in regards to keeping my sanity writing-wise. I was extremely fortunate to meet her and doubly lucky to be able to be involved with her: she’s smart, extremely talented, disciplined, as well as drop-dead gorgeous. I do think finding the right person to be with can help a writer immensely –- and I’m grateful to have found my perfect partner.
Somehow, you find time to read, too. Who are some of your favorite authors? Is there anyone whose books you snatch off the shelves as soon as they are released?
I like a really wide range of writers: Steinbeck, Kipling (for the pretentious 'literary' names) and so forth. But mostly I like -- and reread -- lots of classic SF authors and current comic books: Alan Moore, Adam Warren, Phil Dick, Alfred Bester, Sturgeon, Grant Morrison, etc. I try to find new writers to enjoy but so far I haven't found anyone who completely blows me away. What some people think is weird is that I don't read erotica at all -- unless I'm editing an anthology of course. All in all, I like surrealism, humor, character-focused SF, interesting concepts, and vibrant writing. If you know anyone like that please let me know.
Of course you write about sex, but you write about so much more -- your stories convey a huge range of human emotion and experience. What theme do you find emerging most often in your writing? Is it intentional, or do the stories just lead you in that direction?
I always put a lot of myself into whatever I'm doing. I like to say that I don't really know what gay sex feels like and am unequipped (literally) to know what lesbian sex is like but I do know what excitement, disappointment, shyness, bliss, thrill feels like so I add what I know to the story to make the situation and the characters as 'real' as possible. So far I've been lucky, but I'm always a bit worried that someone will slap me down for getting it 'wrong.' Respecting whom I'm writing about is very important to me. I like to think I treat my characters like how I'd like to have my sexual orientation and preference written about.
I’m definitely an ‘intentional’ writer: I always know where a story or book is going before I start it (in fact I can’t write unless I do know that), so the real question is that do I always put in my stuff, consciously or unconsciously. I really like to play with identity, the various ‘selves’ we are or become depending on the situation (Painted Doll has a lot of that). I also like to tinker with expectations – that’s why I did those movie parody stories, because everyone knows the flicks in question it gives me a lot of ways to change or twist the outcome, make them very different.
Have you ever written a story that seemed too emotional -- cut too close to the heart of your own life, perhaps -- to share with your readers?
Not really -- at least not specifically writing a story where I felt that exposing it would be too...tenderizing for me. I've gotten criticism from some writers for not being 'honest' when I write about sex, that I hide my own preferences and experiences and never break that wall. That's more than likely a bit true, especially since I really like to tell stories and not 'confession' type things, but I also think it's not true because writing for me is more important than...well, a lot of things. So while I may not be talking about what makes Mr. Happy stand up and salute the process of writing alone is wonderfully thrilling and stimulating – as well as making me feel very vulnerable. As I like to say: writing is my real orientation, and like anyone’s orientation there’s more than a little nervousness around acceptance.
Here I go, venturing into waters all authors fear to tread: What's the difference between erotica and porn? What's your view?
I don't really have a view about that, because I don't think there is -- or should be -- a difference. Depending on how I'm feeling, or who I'm talking to, I've been a pornographer or an erotica writer. It bothers me a bit when people work to create a boundary when one really exists: we write about sex, and that's all that matters. Sometimes the language is coarse and the details explicit, sometimes the language is soft and the details are fuzzy, but to the people who'd burn us at the stake -- or just ban our books -- we're all the same. It's about damned time we started to hang together so we won't hang apart. Sure, I don't like being lumped together with books with titles like Tranny Truckstop Sluts but that author and I have something very much in common: freedom of expression. If something is nasty it has the same rights and deserves as much respect as something sweet. We're talking about art, after all, and the only certain thing about art is that there's nothing certain about it.
Staying on my soapbox, I think it's incredibly important not to draw lines. 9 out of 10 times those who'd ban or burn us will use our own arrogant 'standards' against us: we say there's a difference between us and pornographers, they say there's the same kind of difference between us and 'decency' or 'family values.' The line could be subject matter, language, focus, intent...it doesn't matter. Once we agree to a line it'll be used to isolate and demean.
Okay, Plug Time! What's coming up for you?
Well, let's see: The Very Bloody Marys just came out from Haworth/Southern Tier. The Painted Doll should be out in November from Orion in the UK. What's weird is that there's another "M.Christian" out there, and he supposedly has a book coming out from Alyson Books in 2008. Something called Me2. I just hope people don't confuse me for him. I mean, come on, would I ever write a strange, weird, scary book about identity, existence, and duplication? Get real!
Aside from this stuff people should check out my site at www.mchristian.com for writing news and www.meinekleinefabrik.blogspot.com for fun and weird stuff.
And speaking of The Very Bloody Marys, M. Christian is graciously offering a copy of the book to one lucky commenter on today’s blog! We'll choose a comment at random and if your name is chosen, you're the winner. You can’t win unless you play...