One breath at a time

Take a deep breath: Gwen Masters, our erstwhile Lustie, is "a gifted mistress of erotic storytelling and the simple idea of boy meets girl becomes something extremely powerful in her skilled and capable hands" - as says the rave review for her new book in EroticaRevealed. (They say plenty more, but the short version is: you gotta read this stuff. You gotta.) One breath at a time has just been released and to celebrate Gwen is coming out to play with Lust Bites again... She'll be around to answer any questions you have and as usual, comment for a chance to win a copy of the book!

About the book

Kelley is a woman with a broken heart. She doesn't need another
complication in her life, and certainly not another man.
But when she stumbles across Tom, the things she thought she
didn't want are exactly what she needs. As they fall for each other and embark on a compelling journey through dominance and submission, both lovers strive to shake away their dark pasts.
But is blinding passion enough to keep them from being ripped apart?

Now read on...

‘Please.’
The paddle came down hard on my ass. I knew that was only the least of what I was going to get. I had seen the floggers, the Cat ‘O Nine Tails, the riding crop and the cane. The cane had given me a sharp moment of fear when it caressed my heated face, a gentle warning of what was to come.
‘Breathe deep,’ Tom had said. ‘Even breaths. Focus on the sensation. And don’t panic. Panic is the absence of trust. You know the words to stop me, and you trust me.’
‘Yes.’
Those words came back to me now, as I took slow and even breaths. I could stop him in an instant. How I trusted him so much in such a short period of time might always be a mystery, but the underlying reasons didn’t matter much. The trust did.
The tingle spread through my thighs.
‘Please.’
The paddle came down again, this time whistling through the air before it hit. I bit my lip hard to hold in a startled cry. It wasn’t hurting, not yet, but I knew it would soon enough. I wasn’t sure how much I could handle, but I had told Tom to make sure we found out.
I was shackled to that weight bench, right where I had wanted him to put me. In this physical position, there was nothing in the world I could do to prevent the blows. If I told him no, he would spank me harder. If I moved too much or tried to get away, he would spank me even harder than that. I was at his mercy, tied down with my legs spread on the lower bar and my arms on the upper bar.
‘Please.’
This time the blow came from the other side. I was startled by it, and instinctively moved away from the source. That was a mistake. The paddle whistled through the air and this time the smack was much harder. It echoed through the basement.
I gasped in surprise. Tom didn’t speak.
‘Please.’
This time he braced himself; I could see him out of the corner of my eye. Then I didn’t have to ask again, because each blow came down in rapid succession, a carefully orchestrated dance. With only a few seconds between each paddling, he worked my ass from top to bottom, grazing my thighs and my lower back with the paddle, and a few times hitting almost dead-center, making my pussy jump only inches below the punishing leather.
By the time he was finished, we were both breathing hard.
‘Please,’ I whispered.
Tom stood behind me in shocked silence. I could almost hear his mind working, weighing what to do, wondering how serious I really was, and if I was doing it for his benefit or for mine. I watched as he deliberately reached over my line of vision and picked up the Cat ‘O Nine Tails.
I opened my mouth to speak, but thought better of it. I had asked for this. And from the look on Tom’s face and the rock-hard arousal he wasn’t trying to hide, I knew he wanted it even more than I did.
So instead of doing what my fears told me to do, I did the exact opposite.
‘Please,’ I said again.
He didn’t give me an opportunity for second thoughts. The Cat ‘O Nine Tails came down on my ass, and this time I cried out. Each little leather strap stung like a bee.
‘Did you know,’ Tom asked conversationally, ‘the Cat ‘O Nine Tails was originally a form of punishment on naval vessels?’
I closed my eyes. Naval vessels were the farthest thing from my mind.
The whip came down again, harder this time.
‘A man was flogged by the quartermaster. The whole vessel voted on whether or not a man was to be flogged for some crime. It was necessary sometimes to keep honor among thieves.’
Tom hit me three times in rapid succession. I cried out with each blow. Tom yanked my head back by the hair. He whispered into my ear, even as he brought the whip down again.
‘Then they poured salt water over the wounds. Should I do that to you? Should I punish you for being such a naughty little cumslut?’
I was shaking in the restraints, frozen in place even if they hadn’t been there to hold me down. Panic tried to rise up within me and I banked it with the mantra in my head: Panic is the absence of trust. I trust him.
I slowly opened my fingers. I had dug my nails into my palms. My hands throbbed. So did my body. I was throbbing everywhere, and I could no longer find the line between pleasure and pain. They were one and the same.
‘Please,’ I murmured through the tears.
Tom didn’t make a sound, but he abruptly dropped the Cat ‘O Nine Tails. It
clattered on the floor. It looked so benign, so unlikely to inflict this
kind of pain. It looked just as benign as Tom usually did.
He stood beside me. His cock was so hard, I could see every vein throbbing with his heartbeat. His breathing was just as ragged as mine was.
‘Fuck me,’ I begged in a whisper.

---

the floggers, the Cat ‘O Nine Tails, the riding crop and the cane...

To win a copy of Gwen's masterful erotic romance, post a comment - and if you want to tell us your favourite spanking instrument, in books or real life, so much the better! Any questions, the lady (hmm) herself is waiting for you to hit her with them...

Warning: Use Caution When Swinging from Chandelier

Rough sex. Acrobatic, adventurous, heart-pounding sex. Swinging from the chandeliers and shaking the rafters sex. Is there anything better?

Few things feel sweeter than that morning after, when the muscles are sore, skin aching from love bites and overeager hands, tender parts tingly with the aftermath. The morning after a good romp, even walking through the house feels sexy, as though I can still feel him between my thighs. Looking in the mirror makes me smile – my eyes are bright with sated passion, my lips are swollen from kisses, and my neck is sometimes covered with those little bites, delicious marks of his teeth.

Sometimes my wrists are red from handcuffs or scarves. Every now and then I will find a rug burn on my knee. Occasionally there will be a bruise somewhere else, perhaps on my hip or the inside of my thigh, where he held onto me while he was doing something decidedly naughty. Sometimes he gets marked with scratches of possession across his back.

From time to time, a rough-and-tumble play session becomes an extreme sport. Have you ever made love in the shower and then slipped halfway through a good thrust? Or used lotion all over your lover’s skin, only to be betrayed by slippery hands that almost let you fall to the floor when you reach to hold onto the headboard? What about losing all sense of direction and coming back down to earth – literally – when you fall off the edge of the bed?

There are dozens of stories about the leg cramp that made her hop out of bed while howling at the top of her lungs, or the moment he thrust a little too hard and missed the mark. There’s prolonged sexual play with popsicles or ice cubes, when your nether regions become so numb and tingly that you really can’t feel anything down there anymore, much less enough to have any sort of orgasm until things...well, heat up again.

Sometimes it’s just the opposite, and adventures in bed become a little too hot to handle. I’ve had the unfortunate experience of leaning too close to the candles – the sudden scent of singed hair was enough to dampen the mood. We put out the fire before the curtains caught, but I’m sure other couples through the years haven’t been so lucky. Can you imagine telling the fire chief exactly how your bedroom went up in flames?

Things sometimes go to extremes. We’ve all heard the snickering stories of foreign objects someone just happened to “fall on” and get lodged in some intimate part of their body. Some of those stories actually manage to make the news on a slow day. A little more common is the horror story of the time a guy reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a bottle he thought was filled with lube. In the darkened bedroom, he didn’t notice the lube was really the Icy Hot until it was far too late...but simply writing that makes me cringe, so let’s not talk about that anymore, okay?

A good friend of mine once fooled around in a car with her husband, trying to recapture the feeling of her youth. Their playground was a secluded park while they got it on in the front seat (hey, the seats were heated! And they reclined!). One of them got too close to the gearshift, and somehow moved that stick from park to neutral. A good definition of true panic: A man with his pants down around his ankles, right on the verge of orgasm, happens to glance out the windshield and see the swiftly approaching shoreline of a massive lake.

Since my friend is alive to tell the story, her husband obviously managed to find the brake before things went over the edge, so to speak. Once the crisis was over, my friend laughed so hard, she cried. Her husband didn’t find it nearly as funny, and didn’t speak to her for a week.

My own “you can’t make this shit up” moment came when I woke up one summer morning to find that in addition to the little aches and pains of a night well spent, I also had these incredibly itchy spots all over my back and shoulders. I climbed into the shower – first thing anybody would do, right? – and it only got worse. So much worse, in fact, that when my lover called later that morning, I tried to play it cool but failed miserably.

“My back itches and I have little red dots on it and I don’t know what it is.”

I was met with the kind of silence that assured me he was trying hard not to laugh out loud.

“Go look under that magnolia tree,” he said.

I went straight of the house, across the back field and to the big tree in the corner, where we had made love the evening before. It was the most beautiful place, secluded and quiet, a soft carpet of green underneath a sweet-smelling tree. The moonlight had streamed through those leaves and turned his skin golden, almost making him glow. At the time, that was all I cared about – I hadn’t bothered to notice everything around us. What we thought was a benign place to take a tumble was filled with small, distinctive green leaves. One look in broad daylight answered all my questions. It was poison ivy.

Lesson learned: when getting frisky in the great outdoors, take a good look around you before you roll in the hay.

A tube of medication from my doctor and I was okay within a week. My lover laughed at me over that for months but he never got a single itchy spot, which serves to prove that there really is no justice in this world.

So far, I haven’t done anything even close to landing me in the Emergency Room, nor have I done anything so incredibly stupid I wouldn’t own up to it. I admit to the guilty pleasure of reading about the occasional bedroom mishap in a newspaper and snickering, all the while thinking that it couldn’t possibly happen to me, even as I know it very well could. Does anybody know of a sex toy shop that sells helmets for extreme bedroom sports?

Playful Cheers,
Gwenny

Tangled Up with Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Marilyn Jaye Lewis is an erotic force to be reckoned with. She is the founder of the Erotic Author's Association, the winner of London's 2001 Erotic Writer of the Year Award, and has seen her stories published in over fifty anthologies. That's a lot of naughty words! Her novels have met with well-deserved accolades, and now she has another hot offering...

We could tell you all about it, but we figured you might like to hear it from the erotica goddess herself. Join us as we welcome Marilyn Jaye Lewis!


First off, thanks for having me here at LustBites. It’s a real pleasure to be sitting in the same blogging seat as some really terrific writers. A few of them even left the seat warm – Yay! (Or should that be “damp”? Eeew -- that would be a little icky. Let’s stick with warm.)

Anyway, I am here today plugging my latest erotic anthology, Entangled Lives: Memoirs of 7 Top Erotica Writers that has just come out from Alyson Books.

Technically, it includes memoirs from 8 writers, but one of the men is using a pseudonym -- Adam Greenway -- and is basically a contributor to the memoirs of both Ian Philips and Greg Wharton. If you don’t read a lot of GLBT porn, Ian and Greg are the married owners of the multi-award-winning Suspect Thoughts Press in San Francisco, CA. The other contributors to Entangled Lives are: Bill Brent, founder of Black Books; Rob Stephenson (aka TruDeviant); Rachel Kramer Bussel; Amie M. Evans, and myself.

This is a GLBT collection, and pretty much a BDSM collection, as well, since all of us contributors are in the BDSM lifestyle to one degree or another, although Rob Stephenson’s memoir focuses on his early days of being gay, right before he discovers his true nature as a Top.

You know, I always treat any of my books as my children; I love each and every one of them. I fret over them and lose sleep over them; I hug them and squee a bit the minute my author’s copies arrive in the mail. However, this particular book is really dear to my heart. I guess because a lot of it is so emotionally raw, and trusting, and, in parts, shocking -- and the rest of it is just plain filthy as hell.

Plus, it was really cool to have a bunch of writers that I mostly know only professionally suddenly regaling me with the most intimate, explicit details of their real sex lives -- not their fiction, for a change -- and also to have so much of what was lurking in their hearts coming out all over the page. I was honestly moved by each of these memoirs, as I hope readers will also be. After all, I think that’s what helps solidify any relationship, whether it’s between two lovers, or between the writer and reader: that exchange of trust, that vulnerability, those graphic descriptions of how a person feels while in the act of doing it... (Okay. That was a cheap shot to get those voyeurs among you to buy the book.)

As much as a collection of erotic memoirs would seem to be targeting voyeurs, there is a lot more going on in the book’s pages than just the prurient details. These are thoughtful, carefully written stories of the real lives of real people. It just so happens that they write and/or publish erotica for a living and have been doing it for a really long time. Most of it is a whole of fun, although some of it is just plain “pretty intense.”

You can check out the web site for a few brief excerpts from the book, along with the complete Introduction. You can also see photos of all of us and get our contact info.

And here is a little excerpt from Rachel Kramer Bussel’s memoir, Confessions of a Spankaholic. I hope you enjoy it!

In my early 20’s, well before I really became a spanking aficionado, I witnessed and was part of one of the hottest spankings I’ve ever seen before or since. I’d brought a beautiful, tall and thin, curly-haired girl with a mouth-watering accent -- the kind who could say any word and make it sound like a come-on -- with me to an all female play party. We’d had one date where we wound up making out on the dance floor of a local bar, and I’d hoped we’d have more dates in the future. Still I wasn’t really sure where we stood. I was willing to see where the night would take us. As we got off the elevator and entered the dungeon, with its reception desk masking the kinky accoutrements that lay within, we were greeted by women in corsets, chains, hobble skirts, leather, and uniforms.

We each saw people we wanted to talk to, so we separated to chat and explore. Another friend and I made our way into one room where there was a pulley, and she experimented with it, asking me to raise her up in the air. Then I tried it, but felt too out of control with my feet off the ground. We wound our way back to the snack room, where we proceeded to catch up, when my date came running into the room. “Tina’s going to spank me,” she said breathlessly, her face lighting up. “I wanted to let you know, in case you want to watch.”

Of course I did! Tina was a sexy butch who easily caught the attention of almost every woman she passed. I rushed back into the room I’d come from earlier to find an audience of seated kinky dykes looking on as my date clambered up onto a padded bench and spread herself out facedown. She’d pushed her jeans and panties down to her knees, her most prominent feature now bared for all to see. I approached, and was granted permission by Tina to sit and watch as my date got the spanking of a lifetime...

Damn...that makes me want to spank somebody.

But before I go, let me thank you for stopping by to chat with Marilyn. She's going to be around today to answer questions, so shoot her a comment. One lucky commenter will win a copy of Entangled Lives, and you know the drill...you can't win unless you play. Ummm...I mean, comment. You can't win unless you comment. That's what I meant to say.

Something Saucy for Saturday...

Erotika: Bedtime Stories is here! This first anthology from Sensorotika is filled with naughty tales. Four of my stories made it into this volume. Here's a teaser of a tale from one of those:



From "Passing the Time"
By Gwen Masters

She had all sorts of ideas now, and no one to share them with. She wondered again where he was, and why he hadn’t called like he said he would.

Leaning over with a sigh, Amber put the lotion on the windowsill above her bed. As she did, her gaze landed on the space beside her nightstand.

On the little red box peeking out from under the bed.

In that box resided a variety of adult toys, from vibrators to dildos to pearls to clamps. She looked at the box for a very long time. In all her concern that her boyfriend didn’t feel the way he once had, her sexual desire had taken a vacation. She had played with herself the day before and found that the resulting orgasm wasn’t worth the time. It was nothing but a thin, joyless spasm of physical release that left her feeling even worse than she had before she started.

But as Amber looked at the box, she started thinking.

First she got sad.

Then she got angry.

Then she got busy.

She yanked the box out from under the bed. Something in there rattled -- batteries, perhaps. She opened the top and looked at the first toy there, the dildo that looked quite a bit like her boyfriend’s cock. She picked it up, testing the weight of it in her hand. She looked at the phone. It sat there silently, mocking her hopes that she would hear his voice while she contemplated exactly what she was going to do with that toy.

Because she was going to do something with it, by God.

Something kinky.

Her nipples were hard and hurting already. She ran her hand along where he had been, traced the bruise his tongue and teeth had left there a week ago. She shifted in the bed, lay down on her back and let her fingers walk all over her skin. It was slick from the lotion, warm from her shower. Goosebumps rose everywhere when she thought of the kisses he had bestowed on the back of her neck, of the way he had kissed her ear and made her sigh. She touched all those places and then some.

Her legs shifted. Her knees opened. She slid one hand down between them, careful not to touch the most sensitive places. She loved the way her legs felt, delightfully smooth and silky, perfect for wrapping around a set of strong, pistoning hips. Soon she was moving a little, pushing her body up to meet her hand. She spread her fingers and slid them between her legs.

She was wet. A tiny moan escaped her.

She lifted her hand to her lips, licked first one finger, then another. She moaned again, a low and secret sound, something for herself alone.

She suddenly remembered the toy in her hand. She slid it across her thigh and let out a shuddering breath. She wanted to be filled, to be slammed hard, to be made love to. All at once.

She pushed the toy against her clit. Her moan was louder this time, and the sensation rolled through her with the force of a fast-moving wave. Had she really been that tense?

“Slow,” she said out loud, taking a deep breath. The toy slipped against her clit, back and forth, warming even more as her wetness spread over it. Her pussy was as smooth as her legs were. The wetness flowed unchecked across her lips and down the crack of her ass. She would have to change the sheets later. She didn’t care.

Her mind slipped away to another place. There was a man hovering above her, a fantasy behind her closed eyelids. She didn’t see his face but she heard his voice in her head, the familiar smooth tone that turned her on when he said those oh-so-right things.

You want that, don’t you? You want my cock.

She slipped the toy in another inch. The walls of her pussy stretched deliciously around it. She bit her lip as her boyfriend’s voice whispered again in her head, and she imagined she could feel his strong arms on either side of her, holding his weight above her body. A drop of sweat rolled down her forehead and she imagined that it had dripped from the man in her mind.

You like that, don’t you? You can’t get enough.

The word slut crossed her mind, and as it did the man chuckled in her ear.

Slut, huh? That’s what you like to be called? Slut. You’re a good one, aren’t you?

She arched up and slid the toy home. It made her gasp, made her whimper, made her stretch. It made the man in her mind laugh out loud.

Look at you, how bad you need it. You’re a slut, you’re in heat, and you’re ready to take on the whole neighborhood. Aren’t you?

She was right on the edge. That fast, that hard, that steep was the climb. She stood it for three long strokes and with the fourth, she turned her head into the pillow to muffle the scream as she came.

Amber lay dazed. The orgasm had knocked the breath from her.

The whole neighborhood, he taunted again.

She reached blindly and found the toy box again. Without opening her eyes, she felt around until she found what she wanted. What she needed...

* * *

Ah, yes...every woman needs a toybox filled with delicious things!

One commenter on today's blog will get a copy of Erotika: Bedtime Stories, autographed by yours truly. If you can't wait that long or want a few more for your friends, here's where you can find out more.

Now go have a sexy weekend!

Cheers,
Gwen "Loves Her Toybox" Masters

Occupational Hazards

by Gwen Masters

I love being a writer – as if you hadn’t guessed. And I love writing erotica. I especially love writing the naughtiest stuff I can come up with, the fantasies that push the boundaries. As one of the sometimes amusing sidelines to the job, readers are always asking me if I think about sex all the time. If I get horny when I’m writing a short story. If my man reaps the benefits of my workday. Things like that.

Ummmm...well, in short: Yes.

But there are other considerations, too – sometimes the occupational hazards of being a writer pile up to make life even more interesting than the stuff on paper.

I cannot walk through the Williams-Sonoma store without thinking of what can do double-duty in the bedroom. That spatula would leave interesting red marks on a nice, rounded buttock – or that wire whisk! What devious things could we do with that?

The hardware store has the same kind of appeal. I love a good wrench set just as much as the next tool-head chick, but what I love most are the crazy things I think of to do with that nice drill set. Or that set of so aptly-named screwdrivers...for someone into BDSM, it's a veritable treasure trove.

If you want a good sex toy, remember those two words: Hardware Store.

I watch a television show and within minutes I’m thinking up ways to incorporate sex into the storyline. Movies? Same deal. Was the sex necessary to the plot? Yes? Then what could have made it better? What would happen if he had slept with that character instead of the other one? And by the end of the movie I’m off in my own world, making my own ending, and damned if I can tell you how almost any movie turns out. I seem to always remember the beginning and maybe the middle, but the end? No. My imagination has already taken me out of the theater and into my own little world.

My friends call with questions about sex, and I learn much more than I need to know about their sex lives, but at the same time, I relish how comfortable my occupation makes them. Have a question about sex but you don’t want to ask your gynecologist and you sure as hell don’t want to ask your marriage counselor? Ask an erotica writer!

Speaking of that: When seen through the haze of sex, words take on a whole new meaning. A perfectly innocent conversation turns naughty when it’s being heard by my not-so-virgin ears. Something like: “Victor said it was too big to fit in the trunk, so I put the top down and laid it in the front” will make me howl with devious laughter at the naughty images in my head.

A simple walk downtown turns into location ideas. Shagging on the train tracks? Why not? Strolling past the police station brings forth all sorts of steamy ideas, not the least of which involve nightsticks and handcuffs. Wandering around town square is an exercise in delight. There are secluded benches, hidden under tall trees. There are sculptures, all of which seem to lend themselves to odd positions. There is even that imposing courthouse, those long and flat steps, perfect for...well, whatever you might fancy could happen on the steps of a courthouse in the middle of the night.

And then we pass the church, and oh, Lord. Don’t let me get started.

But it’s not all about sex, all the time. The writer in me never quits, even when I’m not thinking about sex at all. For instance, I cannot read a newspaper without searching for typos. Quirky fonts? They drive me insane. I study typesets with the same intensity some study baseball scores or the stock market numbers. But when it comes to books, I’m really terrible. I can read through four hundred pages and no matter how great the story, that one typo on the second paragraph of page 169 sticks in my head like glue. Sometimes I reach for the highlighter – once an editor, always an editor – and then I chastise myself: Why can’t I just enjoy the damn book?

When browsing through a library, I make sure all the books are flush with the shelf -- until I catch myself doing it, of course. Then I shove my hands in my pockets to make myself quit, hoping the librarian didn’t see me taking over her space. I wander to the reference section and have to harness the urge to make certain it’s all in perfect alphabetical order.

Hell. That makes me sound like an obsessive-compulsive writer...

It might be childish sometimes, annoying now and then, and it’s definitely not good for Sunday brunch conversation, but it’s so deeply ingrained in me that I can’t seem to stop. The best part is that I don’t want to stop. I like seeing the world through imaginative eyes. I like shocking my friends with the latest naughty idea. I like taking a normal, everyday moment, turning it on its head, and making it as sexy as I can. Really, stop for a minute and look around...isn’t the whole world an erotic playground?

Now write about what you see.

Better yet, go to the comments section and write about it there. That way, we can all enjoy the products of your deviant minds!

Is Four Inches Enough?

Four inches? Is that really enough to satisfy you? I've heard five is good, but for those a bit more selective, it's possible to get eight inches or even nine, if you're really so inclined...

Oh, wait...I'm talking about high heels. What did you think I was talking about?

But I'm not just talking about high heels. We're also talking about smooth flats in creamy colors. Platforms. Barely-there strappy sandals. Open-toed, no-nonsense pumps. No matter what the sexy shoe, you can bet there is a woman out there who wants it.

Me? Boots, baby. Boots.

My closet revels in boot ecstasy. I’ve got little fur-lined numbers with silver buckles. Flat-soled boots that rise only to the ankle. Regular old cowboy boots (my grandpa used to call those "shit-kickers" – hey, we lived on a farm, it was an apt phrase!). But my absolute favorite of all the favorites I could possibly have: Soft, black, thigh-high leather boots with a four-inch heel.

There’s something about those boots. Maybe it’s that tiny yet decisive click every time I put my heel down on the ground. Maybe it’s the fact that they make me almost five inches taller, which puts me at eye-level with most guys. Maybe it’s the way they cradle my ankles, or the way they make my legs feel strong, or how I have to pay attention to the way my body moves when I’m in them. Four inches of sudden height can throw you off balance, but with a ton of practice, those four inches can make you graceful.

I love leather that slips all the way up my leg, teases around my knee, and stops at an almost indiscrete place, high up on my thigh. I love the way those clicks announce my presence, like a whisper of invitation to any man who might be within earshot. I love wearing them with a longish skirt and watching others wonder – just how far up her leg do those naughty boots go?

I love the way they make my legs look miles long, make me stand up straighter, make my breasts and my ass look like they are so much more than they really are. I love the way they draw knowing glances from other women, and sometimes commiserating smiles. Work it, honey, they seem to say with that friendly wink. Work it hard.

Most of all, I love the way those boots make me feel: Slip them on, and I’m seductive hell on heels.

But that’s just the beginning. There’s so much more in my shoe closet of sinful delight. Those strappy sandals with the little gemstones in the middle...they are the perfect excuse for a good pedicure. That other pair wraps around my ankle, caressing me as I walk. Those white business pumps have a low heel but I can move at a faster pace, feeling sexy and efficient all at once.

A pair of good quality stockings feel sensual when paired with the those red heels. Wear them with a nice set of black stockings and all night long, I’m thinking about the way the fabric slips against the leather, the way it whispers on my skin. Perhaps I slip my foot out of them for a moment when I sit down, just to slip it slowly back in, to feel the curve of the shoe rise up to meet the arch of my foot. Perhaps I play with the strap, curling it around my toe, moving it around, until finally finding the proper fit and sliding it back home again.

It’s like sex with leather.

The moment when I step out of heels is a heady one, too. To free my foot from the confines of that heel, to feel the sudden drop in my height, to rest my toes on a texture so different from the shoe they were just cradled in, it’s all a bevy of sensation. My favorite private pleasure is to venture to the park, slip off my heels, and step onto crisp, green grass. Then I pick them up in my hand and let them dangle by a little strap as I take a walk. Sometimes the idea of putting them back on is as pleasurable as the walk.

Speaking of pleasure – you knew I had to get around to mentioning it, didn’t you? – there is the added bonus of knowing how crazy those heels can make a man. I wear them into the bedroom and watch him get all riled up while I’m still across the room. Want to see the biggest payoff of those stilettos? Slip your legs around him while he’s on top, press those heels ever-so-gently into his thrusting hips, and watch what happens. It’s enough to make me want to buy a dozen pair and then a dozen more.

Which brings me to the best part of all this: One pair is never enough. There are so many shoes out there, so many stores willing to let me try them on, so many I need to bring home! I can have shoes in every color, one pair to match every outfit – okay, maybe two pair per outfit. You never know what kind of mood I might be in that day, so it’s best to have a variety of choices, right?

What do you think? What’s your choice of the day?

The Many Sides of M. Christian

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...

Got a Minute?

I’m going to make this quick. I have a thing for ultra-short sex stories. There is just something so damn hot about flash fucking. I mean, flash fiction. Not only do I like writing short-shorts, I like reading them. This is why I have edited three anthologies on the theme: Down & Dirty, Down & Dirty2, and Got a Minute? And why I am currently editing a fourth. Stories in these books range from 75 words to 1,500. Max.

Doubt the power of a quickie?

Just look at what Lust Biter Shanna Germain can do with under 600 words. The piece is called Squeaky Clean. But I swear, it will make you feel dirty.

There’s something hot about washing sex toys. And it isn’t just the water. There you are, standing at the sink, running your lathered hands up and down the bumpy blue shaft of your favorite vibrator, removing any signs of last night’s play, leaving only memories. Beneath the soap and the water, the toy is almost alive, the way it shimmies and wiggles beneath the flow, a slippery fish headed upstream.

Flash back to last night: his hands, lubed, wrapped around the head, coming slowly down the shaft, preparing it for you. You can’t remember wanting anything more, anything other than the quivering false-cock inside you, your lover’s hands bringing it slowly, softly to the edge of your thigh, against your lips, forcing the tip inside as you arch your hips, moan, ask for it, please, yes, please. But he makes you wait, makes you beg before he’ll slide it in, the rubber slipping deeper and deeper, whirring its quiet circles of pleasure inside you, filling you.

Your hands are rougher with the toy now, stronger as you stroke the rubber, every last inch, making sure you don’t miss a spot. The rubber is firm beneath your fingertips, and you close your eyes while you wash, imagining your hand around your lover’s shaft in the shower, water raining on you both. Your hands soaped and slippery, sliding up and back down to circle the tip until he thrusts his hips against your curled fist.

You turn the vibrator on and it buzzes alive beneath your fingers, nosing in and out of your palm, searching for its flower, a scent of nectar. You set the toy against the inside of your arm—wet and humming—and it makes your hips tingle and ache so that you press them against the edge of the sink.

You remember the mornings when he takes you before he showers. You, standing in front of the mirror, nearly swooning as he nibbles your neck before he bends you over the sink. He is quick and a little rough—the way you like it in the mornings—and your whole body seems to lift when he enters you, as though some invisible force is holding you along. He pinches your nipples until you look up at your reflection and the sight is enough to make you come.

The toy is clean now, but you can’t help soaping it up one last time, just to hear the motor rumble as your palm runs up and down its length. After a few minutes, you reluctantly rinse the toy and turn off the water.

It’s almost five and your lover will be home soon. You have a sudden image of meeting him at the door, toy in hand. No, you imagine draping your body across the couch, feet up along the arm rest, vibrator sliding its way between your thighs.

Or, you imagine him coming home, calling out “I’m in here!” when he opens the door. He will come to the bathroom, find you elbow-deep in hot, soapy water, washing the blue vibrator that you used together last night. He will watch you run your hands along its thick shaft, and imagine it is his own cock, stiffening beneath your fingers. Then, he will join you, pressing himself to your back, sinking his hands deep into the liquid next to yours.

You like this idea best, and you stand, poised at the sink, the vibrator in your hand, waiting for him to enter.

For more short (but not necessarily sweet) stories, please check out Got a Minute?—which also features three stories by Teresa Noelle Roberts, two more by Shanna Germain, one killer one by Dayle, and a delicous piece by Gwen.

XXX,
Alison (100 words or less) Tyler

P.S. What can you do in 100 words or less? Show us! Post your super-short fiction in the comments. One lucky commenter will win a copy of Got a Minute? (But you don't need to post your porn in order to enter.)
P.P.S. I've posted a 100-word piece of my own, here.

Who Needs Perfection?

By Gwen Masters
Last week I picked up a new novel by an author I had never heard of before. I got to page eighteen before I had to put it down and walk away. It wasn’t that the writing was bad, or that the plot wasn’t any good – it was the lead character. She annoyed the hell out of me.

The perfect protagonist is the one thing that will make me throw a book across the room in a fit of fury. Impossibly perfect bodies, stunning success without working for it, dialogue that I have to look up in a dictionary – these are not the things of real life. I love to lose myself in a fantasy from time to time, but even fantasy goes only so far before common sense takes over.

I admit: I’ve been guilty of writing the perfect protagonist. It was something I did back when I was just dipping my toes into the publishing pool, and my lovely editors forgave me the indiscretion. As time goes on (and as I trade the fairy tale youth for a bit of experience), I tend to write things a more realistically, and I want to read something more realistic, too. I want to read about the woman who might drink too much at the company party, who curses like a sailor when she gets pissed, who walks out of the house with no makeup. I want to read about a real woman, not a Barbie doll!

My all-time favorite flawed heroine is Orleanna Price from Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. She’s the wife of a fire-and-brimstone preacher, a mother to five children, and trying hard to survive as a missionary in the deepest reaches of the Congo in the 1960s. She struggles with her faith, with her marriage, and with motherhood. She struggles to make peace with the village women even while she tries to make peace within herself. She bends until she breaks, and when she does finally fall to pieces, only then do we see what she’s really made of.

One of my favorite characters to write was Kelley, the woman in One Breath at a Time, my upcoming Black Lace novel. Kelley went through a breakup that left her devastated – she was cheated on, lied to, hurt immeasurably. She’s working through the pain of the betrayal and trying to get on with her new life. On her best days, she’s just like you and me. On her worst days, she has moments when one breath at a time seems to be all she can manage. But she keeps on keepin’ on, because you know, that’s what we do.

Dayle A. Dermatis has a unique take on the topic: “Are there perfect heroines? Because if there are, what's the point in writing about them? Where's the internal conflict, and thus the book? Aren't ALL main characters, by necessity, flawed?”

That’s a good point – and that’s why it drives me insane to pick up a best-selling novel whose heroine is a dainty wallflower. Dayle is right: What’s the point? The good stuff comes from the hard knocks, not from easy street.

Nikki Magennis is loving Carmen Martin Gaite’s heroine in Living’s the Strange Thing. Check out the blurb and tell me this woman isn't fantastic:

'Office file clerk Águeda Soler, 35 years old, lost her mother 2 months ago. During her husband's absence she visits her grandfather and, when the old man confuses her with her dead mother, she doesn't contradict him, and submerges herself into a delirium of emotions.'

In Nikki’s words: “It's so subtle you can feel the characters fingertips.”

Portia Da Costa had a great protagonist in mind: “Clarice Starling. She's stubborn, opinionated, and sometimes tactless. She's fighting a constant battle to stop the ghosts of her past muddying her clarity of purpose, but she's intelligent, loyal and intuitive, and she's not afraid to admire the unthinkable.”

Portia has also written a flawed heroine or two in her time. Her favorite? “Maria Lewis from Entertaining Mr Stone. Don't really know why except that it was just so easy to be her for a while. Her flaws are my flaws...which are legion.”

Madeline Moore (sometimes Madeline de Chambrey) says: My favourite heroine I've written was in a short story for the Thunder's Mouth Press anthology Amazons: Sexy Tales of Strong Women (edited by Sage Vivant and M. Christian). She is the main character in the eponymous story, 'The Bearded Lady."

Why is she Madeline’s favorite? “After she has a mastectomy and chemotherapy she loses her hair, which means she loses not only a breast, but worse, her beard! So, whereas once she was 'more than a woman, now that her beard was gone...she was less than the most ordinary woman on earth.'”

Alana Noel Voth has a whole list! "Julia from George Orwell's 1984; Holly Golightly from Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's; Brett Ashley from Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises; Laura Brown from The Hours by Michael Cunningham; and Marguerette Duras as herself in The Lover. I love a writer brave enough to allow the rest of us to view her flaws in such a lush, erotic memoir. Seriously, Duras has inspired me beyond words and made me feel brave enough to explore my own flaws in writing."

Deanna Ashford picked a true classic. “It must be Scarlett O'Hara for me. I first read Gone with the Wind when I was about 13 and I enjoyed it so much I read it from start to finish in one weekend. I admire Scarlett's strength and determinationin the face of adversity and he desire to rebuild her beloved Tara. However, I also wanted to slap her most of the time because she was selfish, emotionally stupid and callously used people to achieve her own ends. When she did eventually marry the one man who was right for her, her own foolishness destroyed her one last chance of true happiness.”

Kate Pearce chimed in, “Ooh I was going to suggest Scarlet O'Hara too for exactly the same reasons! My other fav is Anita Blake, the heroine of Laurell K Hamilton's series. She starts off as a prudish, narrow minded Catholic and ends up...how many men does she have in her bed now? I haven't counted for a while.”

Doesn’t that just make you want to ply Miss Anita with enough alcohol to make her spill the details?

Finally, Olivia Knight has her favorites, too. “I'm such an A.S. Byatt whore. Frederica, from the quartet - The Virgin In The Garden, Still Life, Babel Tower, and A Whistling Woman. She's opinionated, ambitious, and unrelentingly clever - she never lets up into the sweet womanliness which is so often touted as a much higher virtue. I like heroines who aren't always nice, because nice holds women back left, right and centre.”

Olivia sums it up perfectly: "Anyone who doesn't explicitly and routinely match all their clothes and wear dainty little designer shoes has my vote!”

So forget the surgery-enhanced knockouts, the brilliant rocket scientists, the impossibly perfect lasses who never chip a nail. Who are your favorite flawed heroines?

A Group Retreat with the Sensational Susie Bright

by Alison Tyler

We, at LustBites, are all atwitter. Today, we’re featuring an interview with editrix extraordinaire Susie Bright! Ms. Bright is the cofounder and editor of the first women's sex magazine, On Our Backs, the founder of the first women's erotica book series, "Herotica," and the editor of the excellent "Best American Erotica" series, which she began in 1993. BAE 2007 is the 15th collection in the series. Basically, Susie rocks!

Susie, you are an inspiration. One who's made such an impact to all of us: readers and writers alike. We’re truly excited you’re here.

Lust Bites: One lustbiter recalls picking up a Best American antho, "And it was like I'd been given treasure. All the erotica I was reading tended to be very romantic, health spa-ish, full of adverbs.

Susie Bright: LOL! who of you said that? Please tell me! I have never heard the "health-spa-ish" appellation before, that is too perfect. And just ask me about the Adverb Diet!

LB: And suddenly here was good stylish writing with contemporary characters I could relate to, wit, intelligence, relevance ... oh, I was so happy it existed."

SB: I must quote this. You must reveal.

LB: It was Kristina Lloyd who said that. (You don't mind that I've outed you, Kristina, do you?) Another Lustbiter remembers reading a quote from you. It was so powerful, she posted it on the wall: "Close your eyes for a moment, and remember the last time you had an orgasm. At the moment of climax, how many of you were thinking about a lovely walk on the beach, or a bouquet of balloons?" God, that was freeing.

SB: Yes, I remember writing it, and it liberated me to just blurt it out. I was taking a chance, but it really does seem to speak for the multitudes! Who among you had this memory?

LB: Um, that was me. It's still one of my favorite quotes! You know, we wish we could sit around a roaring fire with you, drinking bubbly and painting our nails while we slip sultry questions into the conversation.

SB: Well, why not? Why do we never have a group retreat, get-together, something?

LB: As we're an international crew, that's not going to happen unless one of us rakes in the lottery. So instead, we've managed to come up with a variety of questions. Pick and choose your favorites, or go off on another tangent altogether. (We'd all love to hear more about the delicious Best American Erotica 2007 which features one of our crew, the ever so talented Shanna Germain.)

SB: I have an interview with Shanna on my blog...

LB: What do you think of the romance genre's trend toward erotic romance?

SB: I wrote a piece answering this very question, which I'm really proud of.

LB: What do you look for in an erotic story? What do you hate to see?

SB: The erotic story has a built-in expectation: Person A Meets Person B (Maybe a C and D, etc) and They Get It On, After a Brief Conflict.

That expectation is deadly. Predictability is the torture of literature. So, a great erotic story for me is one that makes me completely forget that I think I know what's going to happen, that makes me really wonder how the conflict will be overcome, that captures me with suspense of some kind. That makes me innocent.

Well, you hit on my "hates" in your comments above. Mushy, cornball, bigoted crap-cakes. With lots of adverb frosting.

LB: What shocks you? Has this changed over the years?

SB: Not really. My sensitivities are pretty consistent. Cruelty and callousness, the real kind, not the erotic variety, are what push my buttons. But I will publish these very things, these kind of characterizations, if they're not gratuitous, because of course, if it REALLY shocks you then it means the author knows what they're doing, with their craft and imagination. In other words, to take an example from mainstream literature, of course "Hannibal Lecter" frightened me. He's supposed to. The Marquis de Sade IS shocking, he'd better be. An erotic story can have shocking, anti-erotic content and still be wildly successful as writing and as erotica, if it finds its own divine conclusion.

On a more political note, what really shocks me is the tenacity of Anglo-American puritanism. I am so fucking sick of it, and it never lets up, never stops ruining people's lives, never lets go of its hold on democracy.

LB: Who or what are your heroes/inspirations?

SB: I'm one of those people who just goes wild over a new bud opening, a new person I just met on the bus, an intact sea urchin shell on the beach... I don’t meant to sound like a ditzy ingenue, but I would be crushed if I didn’t find something new that's beautiful or intriguing or contemplative to get into, day to day. I'm impulsive that way.

LB: Has there ever been a story that you wished you'd written yourself?

SB: That is the essence of BAE... I wish I wrote virtually all of those stories! That's exactly my criteria!

LB: Have you ever considered starting your own Susie Bright imprint or publishing empire?

SB: Yes, certainly. Stay tuned...

LB: What is your feeling about ebooks? Do you think people will ever make the full transition to online reading, leaving paper books behind?

SB: I have. I mean, I'm bi-readable now. I enjoy ebooks all the time, because I read on my computer ALL THE TIME. But I love my books, always will. It's like loving movies and loving books and loving music.

Thank you for your time, Susie. We can't wait to see what you have waiting for us in the wings...

***
Be sure to check out the BAE editions featuring Lustbiters -

Alana Noel in BAE 2005

Gwen Masters in BAE 2006

Shanna Germain in BAE 2007

And visit Susie's journal for more.

XXX,
Alison

The Crazy Things We Do For Love

I’ve done some crazy things for love.

A few years ago, a boyfriend and I were suffering from a long period of time apart. We hadn’t seen each other in almost six weeks, and we both lamented every lonely moment of it when we slept alone in our respective beds. Then, an unexpected treasure: He somehow found three days free in an otherwise packed schedule. He would meet me at the airport. Could I get there?

Never mind that he was thousands of miles away. I was in Music City, USA. He was in Sydney, Australia. But what does a little distance matter when you’re in love?

Could I get there, he asked? Of course I could get there! When?

Next week?

Ooooookay...and oooooh, boy.

It would mean juggling deadlines, rearranging a solid week of plans, and getting out of a friend’s wedding. I would have to work hard and heavy to finish all my writing obligations early.

No matter.

A flight from Nashville, Tennessee to Sydney, Australia can take – depending on the airlines, layovers and the Gods of Accurate Departure Times – twenty hours or so. That’s almost an entire day and night of airtime, most of it over ocean so impossibly vast that looking down on it boggles the mind. The flight crosses the International Date Line, so that when you arrive you have either lost a day or gained one, depending upon whether you are going or coming. Touching down with a whole day missing – or magically restored – is enough to make one believe in time travel.

Did I do the sane thing and consider all the options? Did I use common sense? Did I slow down long enough to think about the fact that he would be returning to the US in four weeks anyway?

Think? Slow down? Are you kidding?

The next several days found me sacrificing sleep to a point of absurdity. Finishing deadlines to free my schedule. Apologies to friends. Boarding the very annoyed dog. Twenty-four hours on a plane (the Gods of Accurate Departure Times were apparently on vacation). Hellacious turbulence and more than a few prayers.

Finally, touchdown – and there he was, waiting for me at the gate.

The closest we came to leaving the hotel was making love on the balcony. We survived on nothing but wine and a fruit basket. We devoured each other instead, loving with a vigor that left us with sore muscles, bruises and not a single wink of uninterrupted sleep. We made up for every day of those six weeks apart. It was glorious.

We had a grand total of fifty hours together before the plane took me away again.

I left Sydney at a wonderful eighty-five degrees. I returned to Nashville to find four inches of snow and temperatures just slightly above freezing. I came home with a cold from breathing recycled cabin air, a cramp in my leg from sitting for so long, a bank account much diminished thanks to last-minute airfare, and a complete uncertainty of what day it really was.

Why did I do it? I loved him, that’s why!

Love brings out the irrational part of us faster than anything else ever could. We start to see the possible in the impossible. We become willing to fly across the world at a moment’s notice. We play the same songs over and over, just because it was the one that played on our first date. We send love letters like we were back in elementary school, smile like a goofball and drive our friends mad with constant descriptions of that one little tiny thing our beloved did or said. We become obsessed with that soul-searing, heart-lifting, sweetest lightness that only love can bring.

Flying to Australia is not the only crazy thing I’ve done for love. I’ve made shorter trips, crossing a country for the sake of stolen moments with a lover. For sweethearts I have written songs, poems, stories, even whole novels. I’ve spent more money than I could afford on tokens of affection. I once wrote a message of adoration for a man – in ten-foot-tall letters on a public billboard.

It wasn’t the first time, really. When I was in first grade I wrote “I Love Adam” on the class blackboard in the biggest letters I could manage. He responded by kissing me on the school bus. All was beautiful in our young love until our parents were called by the headmaster. Oops!

Maybe I got into a bit of trouble for those stunts – but were they worth it, you ask?

You bet your fluttering heart they were, my friend.

How could doing something crazy for love not be worthwhile? The best moments are spontaneous, from the heart with no-holds-barred. Even if the relationship doesn’t work out in the long run (alas, Mr. Australia didn't), letting yourself turn into a love-stricken fool is always memorable.

Perhaps the most crazy-wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me when it comes to love is the most simple: Giving the gift of himself. Shortly after I met the love of my life, there came a night when he dropped everything, moved his very busy schedule around, hopped in his car and headed my way. He showed up on my doorstep during the wee hours of the morning, unannounced and unexpected. Why? I was lonely. He thought I might want a hug.

I got my hug, and he got me. I’m going to marry him. I figure we’re both crazy enough to keep each other happy for the rest of our lives.

That’s my story...what’s yours? What’s the craziest thing you ever did for love – or the craziest thing your love ever did for you?