The Kama Sutra—now with extra naughty bits!

by Sophie Mouette

Ladies and gentlemen, for your consideration, may we present a new anthology: The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra: The Fullest Ever Illustrated Collection of the Kama Sutra and Its Variants, edited by the illustrious Maxim Jakubowski.

There have been many published versions of the Kama Sutra. Translations. Illustrated versions, with lush pictures or cartoon how-to’s. There’s even a Complete Idiots Guide to it. It has fascinated us for centuries. So why yet another version?

Well, this one’s different. No, really, it is. Yes, there’s some history and discussion, some lovely black-and-white illustrations, all the usual. This one, though, has stories.

Contributors were challenged to pick a position and spin a tale of how that position came to be named what it was. What fun! It’s like writing a history lesson combined with a fairy tale, only with sex!

Teresa

“The Tale of the Playing Elephant” was inspired by the “herd of cows,” a three-or-moresome involving one man several women. It’s more than a position, it’s a party—and I love a party! What truly intrigued me, though, was this snippet: “It is also interesting to imitate the elephants’ water games, the behavior of the he-goat, etc. One can amuse oneself with the women by imitating the water play of the elephant and cow-elephant, the bleatings of the he-goat with the nanny goat, or the behavior of a stag…The imitation of elephants’ water play is considered as being one of the amusements of the herd of cows.” (Quoted from The Complete Kama Sutra, translated by Alain Danielou, Park Street Press, 1994)

For me, great sex can involve laughter as well as intensity. (Okay, I admit it. We sometimes quote Loony Toons at each other in bed) What’s more intense than group sex? And what’s sillier than goofy animal imitations? How brilliant that the Kama Sutra recommends the combination! But what could have led those wise ancient Indians to this conclusion? It begged a story.

In my tale, three lonely, stressed-out women meet up with a playful younger man down by the river, and one sort of fun leads to another:

The fire of Jaimala’s lust cooled a bit in the face of the more immediate need for playful revenge. Older than Vikram or not, she was not so old that she’d forgotten the cardinal rule of water-fights: Keep them going until everyone involved is wet, laughing, and gasping for breath. “Ladies,” she said, “get him!”

And they did.

At first they were just splashing.

Then Vikram dunked Jaimala.

Adarna had resolved there would be no touching, but some things were not to be borne, so the three women ganged up and dunked him.

And it was all innocent and playful, and yet it wasn’t, because every time Vikram looked at the women, his eyes were full of desire as well as mischief, and every time the women looked at him—or at each other, for that matter—it was the same. And when they touched, even in jest, they all felt the heat.

Then, somehow, they fell into to doing elephant imitations—spraying each other and trumpeting and laughing like children. “If we’re all elephants,” Vikram said between bouts of laughter, “that makes me the bull elephant and you the cows. And you know what that means.”

“You protect us fiercely from hunters and tigers?” Adarna suggested, trying desperately to lead them back to safer territory. Vikram snorted.

“In any case,” Jaimala said, drawing closer, “You’re not a calf anymore, but I’m not sure you’re the lead bull yet. One of the young ones around the fringes of the herd, perhaps, waiting his turn with the females.”

“That’s not very kind.”

“Answer me honestly,” Jaimala asked. “Do you know what to do with one woman, let alone three?”

He sputtered. Looked away and then looked back again, meeting each women’s eyes before he answered. “One woman, yes, although I’m sure I still have much to learn from the right teacher—or teachers. Three women would be a challenge, but it would be a challenge I’m willing to die trying to meet.”

Dayle (writing as Andrea Dale)

When I saw the call for submission for this anthology, I knew immediately which position I wanted to write about: the Tigress (sometimes also called the Tiger). See, Teresa and I have been working on and off on an alternate-Victorian-England/India paranormal erotica project, and the heroine of the novel is an Indian demi-goddess, being the product of a union between Budhi Pallien, goddess of the northern forests, and a human man.

What led Budhi Pallien to lie with a human? Okay, maybe he was just too delectable to pass up—that’s perfectly understandable. But why would she go so far as to bear his child? It was a story that needed to be told.

Even a goddess can lose her heart.

But first, she’ll take her pleasure….

It is one thing to be brave—it is another to be overconfident.

She was the goddess of the forest, and thus she had dominion over it. At her unspoken commands, thick vines twined their way in beneath the archways and down along the columns. They reached into the air and wrapped around Duranjaya’s wrists, drawing his arms above his head.

Anchoring him in place. Leaving him stretched and vulnerable to the deity’s whims.

He had heard of such games before, but never played them, and indeed he had only briefly considered them with the thought that the woman would be at his mercy.

Now he was helpless, and to his surprise, it was not an unwelcome sensation at all, even as he knew Budhi Pallien would not be gentle and was unlikely to be truly merciful.

She stalked him still, sizing up her prey, and yet all he could think of was that even if he died in the end, his last moments would be in ecstasy.

Her hand cupped the fullness of his sac, measuring, considering. She trailed a single nail along the underside of his cock, from base to tip.
He bit back a moan, but the twitching of his member revealed all he felt. Budhi Pallien laughed, low and sultry, almost a tiger’s rumbling purr.

“I am glad my lingam pleases you,” Duranjaya said, although the throbbing of his blood in his veins and the need for relief made it hard for him to speak. “It is but yours to use as you see fit.”

He hoped that would be soon.

She laughed again. “Foolish man,” she said. “You are mine to use as I see fit—all of you….”

The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra also contains stories by Nikki Magennis (another beloved ex-Lustie), who spins for us The “Tale of the Thunderbolt”; friend-of-Lusties Michael Crawley, who enthralls us with “The Tale of Dvitala,” and 20 other fine and inventive writers.

Enjoy!

An Interview With Mary Anne Mohanraj

Just thinking about Mary Anne Mohanraj makes me tired (in a wildly impressed way). Is there anything this woman doesn’t do? She’s a writer, editor, founder of online magazines with works in erotica, literary fiction, speculative fiction, poetry, and even recipes. She’s an academic. She’s doing all this while juggling several long-time partners, a new baby, a blog, and (from the pictures she posts) a gorgeous home where she frequently entertains, serving mouthwatering dishes to her guests. She has one of the longest continually running blogs on the ‘net. She’s an artist. She…

Oh, the hell with it! I’ll just introduce her and let you meet this amazing woman yourselves.

How socially acceptable is it to be poly in the environment in which you live and work (i.e., academia)? Does it have real definition in people’s minds yet or is it still just treated as swinging?

I wish I could answer that question, but the truth is, I don’t think most academics we deal with on a daily basis realize that we’re poly. That’s mostly due to the nature of our current poly status; Kevin isn’t involved with anyone else right now, and my other sweetie, Jed, lives in California, so I only see him a few times a year. As a result, the subject just doesn’t come up very often. It feels weird, to be “passing” for monogamous—but it also feels weird to pass for straight (I’m bi), or for married (we’re not). Especially now that Kevin and I have a child, most people we meet assume that we’re straight, monogamous, and married, even though we don’t wear rings.

I’m still trying to figure out the best way to deal with that socially—it feels rude to be constantly correcting people. “So, will your husband be joining us for dinner? Does he like Chinese?” “Actually, it’s partner, not husband. We’ve chosen not to marry. And we’re not monogamous; we date other people. Sometimes boys, sometimes girls. And yes, he loves Chinese food.” See? It feels rude, not to mention awkward.

What usually happens is that eventually we get to know people better, and the poly/bi/married stuff comes up, sometimes six months or a year after we’ve first met. Academics seem usually more accepting than the general population of “alternative’” practices, and certainly there are plenty of bi and unmarried-in-long-term-relationships academics. (Maybe especially in the fields we’re in, creative writing and mathematics, ‘cause writers have license to be bohemian and artsy, and mathematicians are expected to be a bit weird.) No one’s ever given us any grief, but sometimes the poly conversation does completely derail the rest of the dinner party conversation, and it can turn into a little mini-lecture on Poly 101.

I don’t think most folks are familiar with the term “poly,” but I think they also don’t know much about “swinging,” so it’s not as if they automatically assume poly = swinging. They just want to know all the details of how we manage it, who gets jealous (or doesn’t), where does everyone sleep, etc. The usual thing.

On a similar note, how does the academic community handle your relatively “out” presence not just as a poly/queer woman, but as an erotica writer and a writer and editor of speculative fiction (which isn’t always considered “literary”)? Is there any conflict, or is your not entirely fitting the stereotypical academic profile part of the attraction?

There was a tiny issue when I was teaching in Utah—the department got a nasty letter from the parent of one of the student, “outing” me as a smut writer and demanding that they fire me. They called me in, but just to tell me about it, and to reassure me that they of course supported my academic freedom to write and say whatever I wanted. They did ask that I be sure to keep the material in the composition classes I was teaching appropriate to the course, which seems totally reasonable to me. Especially given what a religious environment Salt Lake City is (there was a notable case while I was there of a drama student who refused to perform various monologues because they involved speaking obscenities; she won that battle with the department on the grounds of religious freedom), I think my department did a great job of standing behind me.

Aside from Utah, I’ve never had any issues at all with the erotica or other sexually explicit material. Some of my students were a little shocked by some of the things I asked them to read for class, but some students are just easily shocked. They pretty much all got over it, once I explained my reasons for having them read sexually explicit material. (Again, in Utah, some of the students didn’t want to watch Pretty Woman for the Cinderella segment of the class—we found an edited version that their church permitted them to use, which seems a reasonable workaround.)

The speculative fiction is handled a little differently—it’s true that in some of my departments, some of the faculty more focused on traditional “literary fiction” had a bit of trouble with the spec fic at first. But it’s pretty easy to make the case for well-written spec fic vs. badly-written schlock, so as long as I’m focusing my courses on that end of the spectrum (LeGuin, Delany, Chabon, Link, etc.), everyone’s happy. And of course, there’s a whole branch of academic now that focuses on pop culture, and they don’t care at all about whether something’s “literary” or not. As long as it’s important in popular culture, it’s fair game. That’s not the area I focus on, but it’s becoming a pretty respectable field. If you want to write books talking about Spike vs. Angel in Buffy, that’s the place for you, and at least some academic departments will welcome you whole-heartedly.

Academic departments are also always looking for courses the students will be excited about, because that keeps your class enrollments up (which makes your department have a bit more weight in the university overall, and justifies more funding sent your way). So there’s definitely a gleam in a department head’s eye when they hear that I write about sex, or teach science fiction. :-)

How would you distinguish between literary and genre erotica, or it is fluid?

I’m not sure I know what you mean by those distinctions. When I use the term “literary,” I usually mean any work that’s striving towards artistic excellence. Well-developed characters, beautiful prose, complex structures, thematic depth—all of those can be elements of strong literary fiction. I’d apply the term “literary” as a modifier to pretty much any genre; i.e., you can have:

• • literary erotica (Anaïs Nin, The Story of O, Nicholson Baker, Pat Califia, hopefully my writing :-)
• • literary science fiction (Samuel Delany, Thomas Pynchon, Iain Banks...)
• • literary fantasy (Kelly Link, Ursula K. LeGuin, Michael Chabon...)
• • literary romance (almost anything by Jane Austen...)
• • literary westerns (Ledoyt...)
• • literary comic books (Sandman, Persepolis, Watchmen, Castle Waiting...)
• • literary mainstream (I imagine you can fill this one in)
• • literary horror (I don’t read or watch horror, because it gives me nightmares, but I hear Stephen King is a great writer...)

And with all of these genres, there’s plenty of writing that doesn’t aspire to any artistic value—it’s just mildly entertaining schlock, often churned out pretty quickly to feed the public’s hunger for more-of-the-same (and feed the writer’s pocketbook). And there’s nothing really wrong with that either—I have a weakness for books-with-dragons-in, for example, and will read almost anything with a dragon on a cover. There’s a place in life for light airplane reading (or little stroke books) too.

We often hear about writers who “move on” from erotica, or use erotica as a stepping stone to “better” things. Do you feel like this? Would you say you’ve left genre erotica behind? What about literary erotica—is that different from your literary fiction? Do you wish you could do both?

I worked primarily in erotica for about seven years, I think? I don’t think turning to mainstream immigrant fiction was a shift in literary quality—I was always trying, when I wrote erotica, to write as beautiful and artistically as I could. It’s a bit embarrassing to look at some of my early efforts, but that’s not because it’s erotica—just because I was such a beginning writer, and I knew almost nothing. I wrote erotica because I was deeply interested in sexuality and the human heart, in the interactions both between people, and between people in relationships and a wider society.

Around the time I turned thirty, I started being more interested in race and ethnicity, and specifically, the interactions between sexuality and ethnicity in a cultural framework. So that’s what I started writing about. But even with Bodies in Motion, my most recent and “literary” book, there’s still a strong focus on sexuality throughout the book, in almost every story. One of the stories, “Seven Cups of Water,” was first published as erotica, in Aqua Erotica, and then republished in Bodies in Motion as mainstream fiction. I didn’t change the story at all—only the marketing and audience changed.

Tell us what that transition to more literary fiction has been like. Do you feel as though you’ve carried your erotica writing experiences with you? How does it inform your present work?

For me, learning to be a better writer has been all about adding layers to my writing. At first, I focused on the sexual and romantic layers. Then I added ethnicity and race, with arranged marriage issues, interracial dating, desires to connect with one’s cultural heritage, etc. I started exploring generational issues, the way parents (and grandparents) and their grown children interact around sexual and other issues. The desire to have children of one’s own. And now, I’m starting to become more and more interested in the broader political landscape, in national identity, in war, and the way all of those issues intersect. I carry everything I’ve written about before with me—it just gets deeper and hopefully richer as I go.

Another way to think about it is that when I was writing pure erotica, it was a narrow focus (which perhaps allows for a certain depth)—as I continue as a writer, my focus has been growing broader and broader. The struggle is to try to maintain as much sharpness and depth as possible, on a wider playing field.

How does you feel that your readership perceives you having done both?

I’m not sure any writer can answer that question—you tell me! How’d I do?

Although I do admit to being a little sad that some of my erotica readers haven’t followed me to the immigrant fiction, thinking perhaps that because it has a South Asian focus that they won’t be able to relate to it. I’d like them to trust that if they liked my erotica, there’s a good chance they’ll like what I’m doing now. But I suppose that if they were mostly interested in the arousing aspect of the erotica, that it’s true they won’t find nearly as much of that focus in the mainstream fiction. It’s there, but it’s not the focus anymore.

You’ve also written a cookbook of Sri Lankan recipes. What role does food play in your fiction? Can you address food and cooking as “identity”? And how about the intersections of food, sex, and culture?

My characters tend to be a little obsessed with food, I think, maybe because I love it so. But truly, you’ll see a lot of food in most immigrant fiction, and I think understandably so. For many immigrants and their children, food is such a primary sensory connection to the homeland. The tastes (and scents) that you miss (the curry leaves that for years, my mother couldn’t buy in America, the exact blend of spices she used in her sauces, the coconut-milk hoppers that she couldn’t make, because they required a particular small hemispherical pan) become icons of home—and when you do finally taste them again, after perhaps years away, they explode on your tongue, a sensory overload that connects directly to your heart. Food is one of the primal needs—right up there with sex in its importance to our most primitive and powerful selves. What I don’t understand is how any writer can not write about food!

Let’s make a brief turn down the editing road. You were the founder of not one but two online magazines: Clean Sheets, which publishes erotic fiction and nonfiction, and Strange Horizons, which publishes speculative fiction (science fiction, fantasy, etc.). Both are highly respected and still going strong. Do you have different criteria for editing erotica than for editing speculative fiction (beyond the obvious “erotica must have erotic elements and spec fic much have spec fic elements”)?

Actually, yes. The way I usually think about it is that there are really two different types of genre definitions. Erotica and horror are what I’d call genres of mood—they aim to arouse a specific emotional/physical response in the reader. If an erotica story doesn’t arouse you, if a horror story doesn’t horrify you—it’s failed its task. Of course, not every story will work for every reader—we all have different tastes. But as a writer of erotica, my primary goal is to arouse—that comes first. It doesn’t matter how artistic and literary a story is, if it doesn’t arouse someone, it’s not really erotica.

As opposed to that, science fiction and fantasy don’t aim for any particular mood. Oh, maybe a bit of “sense of wonder,” but that doesn’t need to be the primary focus of the story, or even present in every successful speculative fiction story. Most genres aren’t genres of mood, but genres of convention—and I’d include “realistic fiction” as a genre by this definition.

Do you still read erotica (whether genre or literary) for pleasure? If so, can you name some of your favorite authors?

I named some above, although to be honest, I don’t read so much anymore. In part that’s because I’m scrambling to keep up with my other reading—I’m teaching an Asian-American literature class this spring, so I’m trying desperately to get up to speed on East Asian and SE Asian literature at the moment. And I’m working on a few books that focus on nationalism and war, so I’m reading a lot of military memoirs and history texts.

The other part, to be honest, is that since getting pregnant and having a baby, I’ve just been too damn exhausted to be very sexual lately, so the interest in reading about sex isn’t really there at the moment. (Someone asked me what my sexual orientation was recently, and I told them my sexual orientation was “tired.”) Hopefully the sex drive will come back, maybe when Kavya finally starts sleeping through the night!

You had your first child last year—congratulations! You’ve said in your blog that you had a pretty traditional upbringing. What are your thoughts on how you’re going to raise your own daughter and teach her about the world, particularly in the area of sexuality?

Heh. Well, I certainly now understand the desire to lock up your daughter until she’s 21! (Although I’m a lot less worried about sex than my parents were, and a lot more worried about drugs—they seem to have much more potential to actually ruin your life these days, and be much more pervasive in schools than they were when I was a kid.) I hope that Kevin and I will be able to be pretty open and honest with her about sex, including explaining to her why we hope she waits to have full-on sex until she’s old enough and mature enough to deal with any physical, mental, or emotional consequences. Gosh, I sound like a stuffy old parent already, don’t I? :-) She’s probably going to be sneaking out the basement window at fifteen to go meet boys, just like I did…

It’ll be interesting seeing how we handle the poly stuff with her; it’ll probably depend to some extent on what kinds of poly relationships we are or aren’t involved with as time goes on. I think the basic plan is to answer her questions as they come up. Hopefully we’ll have a good long while to think about our answers before she actually starts asking questions!

Mary Anne, thanks for spending the day with us! You’ve given us so much to think about and discuss. For anyone wanting to know more about Mary Anne, you can visit (and lose hours in the process) her her website. Meanwhile, though, let’s all go discuss in the comments!

(Note: Photos of author taken by Suzette Bross.)

In the Future, All Women Will Be Hotter

by Dayle A. Dermatis and Teresa Noelle Roberts (aka Sophie Mouette)

Dayle: Last week we talked about how in the future, it seems, all men will be hotter—at least, according to science fiction movies and TV. But it’s not just the men…check out all those hot women in formfitting futuristic outfits, carrying ray guns they know damn well how to use! They often get to be the captains, the leaders, the rebels, the ones in charge of not only themselves and their own destinies, but of spaceships, armies, and even planets.

Science fiction has always been a place for women to shine—it’s long been a venue for writers to explore strong women, women’s equality, etc. Future women were often in jobs far beyond what a current woman could reasonably expect. Uhura in the original Star Trek series may have not had a lot to do other than say “They’re hailing us,” but she was on the bridge, and that was a big step back then (not to mention she was black—but that’s another topic of discussion entirely).

I remember being impressed by—and kind of wanting to be—Princess Leia when I saw the first Star Wars as a wee lass. She was beautiful, powerful, strong, got to wield a gun (quite capably, I might add), and she had the most wonderful ability for wit and sarcasm even in the direst of moments.

To me, that was a lot sexier than the stupid bronze bikini and being chained to a giant slug. Chains, yes. Giant slugs…ew!

Teresa: It’s not that other genres don’t have strong women who can handle themselves in a dangerous situation. But often, these characters face conflicts that grow of out being a woman in a male-dominated field. The tough women of science fiction have their own set of clichés (among other things, that they’re unusually beautiful!) but our heroines aren’t the only female officers/commanders/space pirates/rebels/whatever in their worlds—just the ones the story focuses on. It’s refreshing, and it can, in the hands of good script writers, allow them to become more complex characters.

Take one of my major SF female crushes, Commander Susan Ivanova from Babylon 5. She’s one of many female Earthforce officers, and no one on the series makes a big deal of her gender. She’s a sexual being (a bisexual being, even, although alas there aren’t any girl-kisses), and she looks good in her uniform, but that’s only part of what she is. She’s a loyal military officer who ends up rebelling against a corrupt government, a daughter with a complicated relationship with her parents, a Russian Jew with a strong ethnic identity in a future when ethnic identity is often downplayed, and a warrior capable of not just kicking butt, but delivering almost Biblical rants while she does.

Gotta give props to Babylon 5 as well for a character who breaks a lot of the science-fiction-woman cliches. Delenn, the Mimbari diplomat whose romance with a human shakes both cultures, isn’t stereotypically hot. Her bony head ridges, loose-fitting clothes, and serious, scholarly demeanor are about as far from Captain Kirk’s alien’s babes or even butt-kicking-but-conventionally-beautiful Ivanova as you can get. The viewer falls for her as gradually as her human partner does, drawn in by her character instead of her beauty…and much as I like beautiful women, that’s pretty cool.

But this was supposed to be about crushes, and I have so many of them! Firefly offers a rich field to choose from. Perky, curvy Kaylee and sultry philosopher/courtesan Inara are each appealing in their own way, and River, despite being underage, underweight, and spooky, moves like a goddess (especially in the fight scenes in Serenity).

But I harbor a weakness for Zoë. The combination of gun-blazing heroics, snarky common sense, and well-drawn relationships with her husband and her PTSD-ridden captain win me over. Okay, the bitchin’ body and tight leather clothes don’t hurt. And seductive criminal Saffron (or whatever her name really is) can dazzle me with her breasts and drug me with her lipstick anytime, thanks!

Claudia Black as Farscape’s renegade Peacekeeper Aeryn Sun is smoking. But I also liked Farscape’s roguish, gray-skinned Chiana.

Apparently I have a thing for heroic women with big guns and leather pants (or well-tailored uniforms) and an almost equal yen for bad girls, good heart optional. Which makes me wonder why I’ve been neither robbed blind nor dragged into the wrong kind of undercover operation by any of my past girlfriends.

And then there are a few crushes that my partner-in-future-lust shares with me and will cover below: Janeway and Starbuck!

Dayle: Definite agreement on Zoë; Gina Torres was gorgeous and scary on Angel, fabulous in her smaller role on Alias, and I’ve got Cleopatra 2525 in my Netflix queue even though I’m sure it will be appallingly bad. (I’ll watch appallingly bad for the right actors!)

More of my official SF women crushes:

Star Trek gave me some goods ones: Dax on Deep Space 9 (gimme that lesbian kiss, baybee!) and Janeway on Voyager (finally, a female captain! plus I’ve had a crush on Kate Mulgrew since I was a kid.) I even have a certain fondness for Counselor Troi, even if she had the worst lines on the show.

In hindsight, Maya on Space: 1999 was a crush of mine long before I understood about crushes on women.
Who doesn’t love the new Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica (not to mention President Roslin, Boomer, Number Six, Dualla, Admiral Cain, D’anna…I think I have to lie down now)? Tortured and possibly brought back from the dead, she may be the first crush I’ve ever had on a blonde woman. It must be her triceps.

::Teresa nods in agreement about President Roslin. Let’s hear it for smart, attractive, mature women!::

But speaking of both Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica, let’s talk actress Michelle Forbes. First she was the sexiest Bajoran ev-ar, then she was the sexiest dark and conflicted commander of the Pegasus. Yay!

Gwen on Torchwood. I think I love her especially much because if this were a US show, they never would have cast someone with a gap between her front teeth and thighs bigger than toothpicks—and those are two of the things that make Gwen gorgeous, along with that incredible thick, dark hair and her fantastic smile. Over on the Doctor Who side of things, I’m sorry, but Rose was just too goofy and annoying for me. But Miss Martha Jones! Smart, dedicated, loyal, quick-thinking, and a classy dresser to boot—and she helps save the world.

Any role played by Claudia Black. ::Teresa, her eyes glassy, is nodding in agreement and rummaging for her ray-gun-shaped vibrator.:: I mean, it just wasn’t worth watching Pitch Black after…oops, wait, that’s a spoiler. Ya’ll will spank me if I give away spoilers. ::pauses to consider that again::

You know, when it comes to women, I do have a type, but it’s not like my bad-boy crushes on men. No, I seem to like my womenfolk with dark hair and pale eyes and fierce intelligence and wit. I admit it: It’s more physical than anything else. I like girls, and I like hot sexy girls in leather.

What about you, faithful readers? What makes the women of the future hotter?

In the Future, All Men Will Be Hotter

Dayle: So Teresa and I were chatting one day, and we realized that most of our media crushes involved science fiction (well, for me, that’s along with musicians). The more we talked about it, the more people we came up with. Will it really be true, we wondered, that in the future all men will be hotter?

Is it the ray guns? The form-fitting futuristic material? The phallic-shaped rocket ships?

Teresa: I think it’s because so many of the hot men of science fiction are intriguing rebels—whether literally, like Han Solo or Firefly’s sexy, brown-coated buckers of authority, or the Captain-Kirk types who are willing to flout the rules to do the right thing (or to help them get into the cute green-skinned chick’s miniskirt).

Though the outfits do help.

Dayle: We also realized that while we agreed on some of our future men, we were clearly divided on many of them…which led to the realization that even in the future, we’d still fall for the same type we each do today.

Although I was young enough when the original Star Wars came out that I was all about Luke, by the time The Empire Strikes Back hit, I’d firmly landed on the side of bad boys. Oh, give me Han Solo’s cheeky grin, his never-ending supply of witty rejoinders, his questionable moral turpitude. (Teresa adds: You can’t have all of Han Solo. You must share with your sister in erotica-writing!)

I tumbled right from there into the arms of Starbuck from the original Battlestar Galactica series. (Not literally, but certainly in my adolescent fantasies, because I wrote appallingly bad Mary Sue fan fiction about him.) Was it his tight pants? The wicked twinkle in his eye? His willingness to fall into bed with just about any woman? His ever-present, phallic-shaped cigar?

Star Trek was brimming with eligible hotties, no matter which version of the show you’re talking about. Keeping in line with my preferences, let’s talk about good ol’ Trip from Enterprise. Oh, that Southern accent. Oh, that nearly naked body. Come to think of it, he and Cap’n Tightpants (okay, okay, Captain Mal Reynolds) of Firefly were cut from the same mold, weren’t they?

Then there’s the most recent incarnation of Doctor Who, played with manic cheekiness by David Tennant. He just needs someone who’ll match him wit for wit, and I’d like to think I’m up to the task. Hey, you smart, cute bad boy, come over here and gimme some. (This is where Teresa and I clearly diverge—and she’ll explain just why Christopher Eccleston dampens her panties instead.)

And what were these wicked lads doing if not preparing me for the ultimate future bad boy, Captain Jack Harkness? (S’cuse me while I fan myself.) Dimpled, nattily dressed, omnisexual and proud of it, Captain Jack fulfills just about anyone’s fantasy, doesn’t he?



Teresa: No argument on most of Dayle’s choices, especially Cap’n Tightpants and Captain Jack Harkness. [We pause while she drools quietly into her keyboard, considering some cross-over universe where they meet and pull off wild capers and then have hot man-sex.]

Then again, I’m hot for most of the men of Firefly. Brilliant, conflicted Simon, with his pretty white skin and his endearing shyness and his stubborn strength; big, dumb Jayne with his big guns, his big muscles, his big mouth, and his surprisingly big heart; and charmingly quirky Wash could have special places in my bed were they only real. (Well, maybe not Wash. Not unless Zoë wanted to play too, because otherwise she’d kill me.) Both Simon and Wash remind me of the eccentric “Is he a genius or a nutbar or both?” guys in my life, only larger than life and having a chance to show off how heroic and sexy geeks can be.

And Jayne? Well, my fantasies about him involve a ball gag, because I don’t cope well with stupid, but there’s something about the dangerous way he moves, and the way he plays with that knife of his… [Ponders whether one can be the dom while gagged.]

Babylon 5’s Captain Sheridan reminded me of my evil ex, from the red hair to the self-righteousness. But I found love among the aliens: Narn rebel leader and bad-boy mystic G’Kar. He’s slightly lizard-like, which is kinky even for me, but talk about an intriguing personality: rogue and saint, warrior and diplomat, part-time villain and part-time Christ figure. I like complicated.

And I bet he’d be fun in bed, despite the lizardy look. Or maybe because of it. Ponder the length and agility of the lizard tongue.

As for Doctor Who, I enjoy David Tennant’s Doctor. He’s adorable and funny, yet intense when he needs to be, and he looks like he belongs in a New Wave band. I can understand why Dayle’s hot for him. But he doesn’t get me in the groin.

Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor is the one who makes my panties pound. Maybe it’s the leather jacket, or the fact that he’s craggier and more worn around the edges. Or maybe it’s the darkness, the weight of time under his good humor. (Tennant’s Doctor shows that side too, but it’s harder to buy it with his boyish face.)

Or more to the erotic point: David Tennant’s Doctor would tie you and threaten you with Dire Things, and spank you a few times before you both cracked up, and you’d have a great time. Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor would tie you up and threaten you with Dire Things and you might wonder if he actually meant them, or if he’d ever untie you. And you’d have a different, scarier, and more interesting (to me) great time.

Dayle: [Who has dragged herself back from watching appropriate SF DVDs with her rocket-ship-shaped vibrator.] Come on, we know some of you are SF geeks at heart. Tell us who you want to meet in a dark spaceship corridor with an alien probe just for you…

And tune in next week when we follow up with Crush Wednesday: In the Future, All Women Will Be Hotter!

Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

Faithful readers, you all are used to seeing our Lustie names in Black Lace anthologies—indeed, those anthologies might have been what drew you to our online den of iniquity. So I feel obliged to also point you in the direction of the just-released Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7, which contains stories by an astonishing number of Lusties past and present as well as many friends of Lust Bites.

In Shanna Germain’s sizzling “Cherry Bottom,” Cate wants anal sex in a bad, bad way, but her long-time lover is nervous about the idea, afraid he might hurt her. They sign up for Miss Suzanne's anal sex class as a last resort...but can Miss Suzanne help Andrew over his fear and give Cate the sexual experience she truly desires?

Miss Suzanne and her heels again, right at our table. "Can I help, Andrew?" she asked. He must have said yes, because then her cool fingers were at my ass cheeks again, spreading them for him. My asshole puckered up against the cold. My tightening nipples crinkled the paper sheet beneath me.

Andrew's fingers left my body, came back oiled and warm.

"It's like playing pool," Miss Suzanne said, her thin fingers still in place. "It's all about speed and angles."

Andrew's finger was back against me, pressing, pressing. I fought the desire to lean back onto the tip of his finger, to force him inside me once and for all. But part of our class promise had been to let our partner do all the work, go at his own pace, let him do only what he was ready for.

He increased the pressure, opening my asshole, careful to use the flat of his fingertip. "Go," Miss Suzanne whispered, and then Andrew pushed his way inside me. Just a little, just the tip so I could barely feel it, but oh Jesus, there he was.

"More," Miss Suzanne said. Andrew pushed his finger farther into my asshole. Farther, until I was sure he had to be at the first joint. Having him in there like that made my pussy ache with that special emptiness that I loved. Andrew entered me to the knuckle. I imagined what he looked like behind me—starting to sweat beneath his glasses out of fear and excitement, his finger disappearing into my asshole.

"All the way in," Miss Suzanne said. And then he pushed and his finger was inside me, tearing through me with that certain pain that is mostly pleasure. I bit down on the pillow, but most of the moan came out anyway.

"See?" Miss Suzanne said. "She likes it. You're doing a great job."

"Jesus," Andrew whispered. "Oh fuck." Awe and arousal deepened his voice to a husky whisper. Hearing that voice—no fear in there—almost made me come.

Miss Suzanne raised her voice. "Okay, class, is everyone in? Foxes all in the holes?" I'm sure the class laughed, but I couldn't even concentrate to hear all the answers. All I could feel was Andrew's finger in my ass, the way he held it there, so still, the way it filled me and at the same time made me ache for something more, something bigger.

Sophie Mouette goes for heat and humor in “All About the Ratings.” Caroline’s top-rated cable-TV cooking show is being gazumped by Drew’s segment on man-food. When the station manager forces them to work as a team for a “Iron Chef”-type cook-off, Caroline uses every ounce of her sexuality to fluster Drew and make him look like a fool. Her plan, of course, completely backfires…in the hottest way possible.

Caroline turned to Drew and smiled. “I know we’d been talking about a…” she paused to give the words extra significance “…peach tart with whipped cream.” She winked at the audience, admitting they were in on the joke. “But it looks like we need to be flexible.” She hoped the word would call to mind her yoga poses. “Do you have any ideas about the best way to handle raspberries?”

“Delicately. Very delicately. More often than not, I like to nibble them plain.” He slurred a bit, so nibble sounded almost like nipple, but not so much so that it would get him in trouble with Lee. “But I bet we could do something with them to give the peaches a lovely rosy color.”

Then he gave her a searing smile. Her nipples felt as red and plump and tender as the berries heaped in a basket on their counter. She didn’t dare to glance down, but she suspected they were popping out through the fabric of her dress, clearly visible to anyone in the studio and probably to the TV audience.

What she wouldn’t give to have Drew’s sensuous mouth closed around one of those ripe peaks now, suckling at her, drawing out her arousal until she was dizzied and begging for more.

Breathe. Remember to breathe—and to make sure Drew, too, was distracted. “Maybe use some of them for a glaze,” she said breathily. “Nothing makes a peach look prettier than a little moist sheen. And for a topping, how about a nice, warm crème anglaise?” She let the words sink in, watched Drew’s eyes widen and darken.

She’d take his “crème anglaise” in her “peach” any day and she could tell he was thinking something similar.

The whir of a food processor brought her back to reality. The Jarvises were already at work, grinding nuts from the sound of it. (A linzertorte variation with fresh fruit? She should have been paying more attention to them, dammit!)

“Flavor it with rosewater,” Drew added. His voice sounded a little shaky. “Sounds good.”
“You start on the peaches and raspberries, Drew. I’ll get to work stirring up the crème. It takes a little time for it to…thicken.”

As she passed him, heading to the refrigerator for cream and eggs, she cupped his ass briefly under the cover of the counter, just long enough to feel it was as firm and delicious as she’d suspected.

His sigh wasn’t loud enough for the microphones to pick up, but she heard it.

He got her back, though, as he started to split the peaches. “This peach is absolutely perfect,” he sighed. “So juicy and succulent, with just the slightest hint of fuzz. I wish I could eat it right now!”

Even if she hadn’t been sensitized already, that remark, in that tone of voice, would have zinged directly between her legs and gotten her speculating. As it was, she almost spilled heavy cream onto the floor, lost in a vision of Drew’s tongue deftly playing over her slick lower lips and swirling in on the throbbing spot where she needed it most.

Is your appetite whetted yet? If so, then think about this veritable feast of authors: Alana Noel Voth, Alison Tyler, Nikki Magennis, Jeremy Edwards, Gwen Masters, Kristina Lloyd, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Donna George Story, Sage Vivant, Ashley Lister, Thomas Roche, and M. Christian—all in one anthology! (And I hope I didn't forget anybody!) Plus a host of other fabulous erotica writers who haven’t (yet) crossed our Lust Bites path.

Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7. Lust Bites says: Check it out!

Sex and Comedy

by Sophie Mouette (aka Dayle & Teresa)

“Really, sex and laughter do go very well together, and I wondered—and I still do—which is more important.” (Hermione Gingold, Canadian Actress, 1897-1987)

“Laughter is the best tension reliever and sex is second. So if you’re having funny sex you're probably in good shape.” (Mark Gorkin, “The Stress Doc,” Licensed Clinical Social Worker)
Despite these comments, some people still think that erotica and humor don’t mix well. A recent interview with Morrow/Avon editor Lucia Macro in Romance Writer’s Report sounds the death knell for romantic comedy—done to death, this editor surmises, by too many heroines who were supposed to be funny and lovable, but came off as helpless and ditzy. (Although she does say “a dose of humor” is welcome.) And can the ever-popular alpha male have a sense of humor? (One of us knows a dominant who favors Hawaiian shirts and Hello Kitty sunglasses, just to confuse his sub, but the dominant/alpha male as seen in romance novels tends to be dark and brooding and lacking in the ability to laugh, except menacingly.)

When Teresa pitched our manuscript Out of the Frying Pan—an erotic romance whose secondary characters include a cross-dressing Vin Diesel look-alike action hero—to an editor, the editor stared blankly. “It’s sexy…and romantic…and comic?” she finally said. “How would that work?” The editor was young. Perhaps she hadn’t learned that the pleasures and pitfalls of falling in lust/love can be comedy gold, at least when they’re happening to fictional characters. (We prescribe a course of classic Hepburn films, where the dialogue is sharp and snappy and the sexual tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, even if everyone keeps their clothes on.)

Dark and angsty themes are all very well, but sex and love can be pretty hilarious, too. Plus, just because the sex is serious doesn’t mean your whole life is. It’s not necessarily the sex that’s funny, but we believe a romantic comedy can be really sexy, too. And that’s often what we set out to write.

In the case of our story “Behind the Masque,” (in Sex with Strangers) there’s sly humor in the voice of the narrator, a jewel thief with attitude:

I glanced down at my enticingly displayed décolletage. I could talk the talk, but the girls helped, too.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been pulled over for speeding, only to drive away without a ticket. I can convince the proprietor of a swanky shop that I really did buy this item, but I lost the receipt, and I honestly do deserve a refund. I can charm the fur off a mountain lion, as they say.

And when she gets down and dirty with a security guard she needs to distract, the heat gets serious, but she keeps the attitude:

He was leaning over me to kiss and lick and suckle, though, so I was humping empty air.

Until he stood and my mound connected with the impressive swelling in his uniform pants.

Oh! Well, then.

‘What have we here?’ I murmured. Unable to keep my hands off something like that—a hard cock is almost as enticing as a hot rock, and certainly more fun to play with—I pressed my palm against the bulge.

His hips jerked, and I felt his prick throb even through my gloves. My mouth watered.

Well, what better way to keep a man distracted? With a rustle of silk and brocade, I sank to my knees.

[…]From Joe’s reactions, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t have noticed a parade of elephants galumphing down the hall.

Sometimes, though, it’s not just the tone or the voice. Sometimes ridiculous things really do happen when you’re making love—as our two heroines in “Busted” (in Caught Looking) discover:

I couldn’t form a coherent answer. She buried two fingers in my folds, pressed them up into me. I clamped down on them, desperate for release. The combination of thrusting fingers and the thumb she had pressed against my clit and her mouth clamped on my aching nipple was overwhelming. So many sensations, driving me further to the edge.

I crashed over into orgasm, grinding myself against her hand. I clutched the headrest with one hand and pounded against the car’s ceiling with the other. “Fuck, yes!”

And that’s when a bright light shone in the window and a strident male voice said, “All right, kids, let’s break it up in there.”

It was the voice rather than the light that caught my attention, largely because my bare ass was facing the window, giving the officer a fine view. I pulled my bra up, and tumbled sideways into the driver’s seat, my feet still tangled in my jeans. The action revealed Elle’s breasts in all their glory. She yanked the edges of the cardigan together, but not before the cop outside got a nice eyeful.

Shit. Cop

I’d been caught making out in a car before. Even caught by a cop. But never with a cop herself. Never when one of my partner’s co-workers, essentially, was watching.

Crap.

I reached behind my seat and flailed around for my shirt.

“Jesus, MacIntyre.” Elle’s voice sounded annoyed rather than embarrassed. She rolled down the window a little farther and glared up at him. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

And sometimes, the funny things lead to more hotness:

The way I was squirming wasn’t just from embarrassment. Some little part of me was turned on, not so much by what actually happened as by images running through my head.

(Caught Looking is an voyeur/exhibitionist anthology. Extrapolate from here, or better yet, buy the book and read the whole sexy story.)

Our novel Cat Scratch Fever takes place at a wild cat sanctuary that’s being vandalized. One of the volunteers, a former juvenile delinquent trying to go straight, discovers quite by accident that a sewer pipe has broken.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Across the green, his single utterance was loud and clear.

“Shit!”

“Language, Lance,” Felicia called.

“Crap!”

“We’ve talked about appropriate language—” Felicia tried again, amazed at his sudden descent into crudeness after weeks of him being successfully polite. Cleaning up his language, both grammar and colourful euphemisms, was part of the deal if he was to stay as a volunteer, and he’d been working hard at it.

He had dropped the bucket and rake, and now gestured helplessly, pointing at the ground. “Well, what do you want me to call it?!”

And that’s when the slight breeze shifted towards her. Felicia felt the bile rise in her throat.

But earlier in the book, another character had had the opportunity to see a different side of our bad boy, proving he could be just as hot as he was humorous.

She’d heard that tongue piercings made a huge difference for oral sex—and, from other people, that they didn’t. Melissa was enough of a scientist at heart that she tried to maintain a certain objectivity and figure out the truth. She could definitely feel the stud, a hard ball slipping over her slippery flesh, tantalizing the nerve endings in a slightly different way from the tongue itself.

But it’s hard to stay objective for long when a gorgeous boy is licking your clit—with or without a pierced tongue—and pushing two fingers inside you. Maybe it was the piercing, the rush from the “porn-star moment,” the fulfilment of her long-time yearning for a down-and-dirty session with a bad boy. Or maybe Lance just liked eating pussy and did it well.

All she could say for sure is that she was rapidly losing her mind.

At the end of Cat Scratch Fever we had an erotic clinch in a walk-in freezer that paused (frustratingly so for the characters in the clinch) for a humorous moment. They’re interrupted by Valerie, a wacky and kinky board member who calls out to them, although they don’t respond in the hopes that she’ll go away…

(Warning: Contains spoilers. A name has been disguised to protect the guilty.)

“Well,” called Valerie, “I was just coming to say goodnight.” Something in the tone of her voice suggested that she knew perfectly well what Felicia was up to in the fridge.

Gabe was inside her to the hilt; she was stretched around him. She felt his hand worm its way around her and between her thighs to stroke her wet clit.

Staying quiet was getting harder by the second.

She fluttered and clenched around him, and felt his hips jerk in response. Well, if he was going to torture her, she was going to torture him back. Now a little roll while she tightened some more.

She bit her own lip. That had been a mistake, at least from a keeping-quiet point of view.

“Oh, and I wanted to let you in on a little secret,” Valerie continued, “just between us girls, because I know how angry you are at [the villain]. I suggested to the police that [he] would probably need a thorough going-over, just in case he’s hiding anything. Can you imagine how surprised they’ll be when they find the butt plug that’s stuffed in him? Ta ta, dear!”

The woman’s delighted laugh, which didn’t sound the least bit demented under the circumstances, faded as she left the café.

Felicia was so stunned by the revelation that for a moment, her mind went blank. Then Gabe started moving again, thrusting into her and manipulating her clit at the same time. Felicia clutched the shelf so hard that she thought she might yank the bolts out of the wall.

“God, yes!” Gabe gasped, suddenly moving faster. The blood buzzed in Felicia’s ears as she responded, clamping down around him and shuddering through another orgasm along with him.

Only then, spiralling down from her climax, did she start to giggle. Gabe leaned against her, and she felt his chest rock with his own laughter.

In the real world, guys with a sense of humor have a better chance of getting hooked up—so why shouldn’t our heroines appreciate a man’s rapier wit as much as his killer abs and ginormous erection? (After all, under normal circumstances, you can check out the wit sooner than the…other important attributes.) And besides, science is on our side!

“[N]ew research suggests, humor talent does offer a possible advantage in the contest to proliferate offspring…. At least that’s the implication of a study of college students at McMaster University in Canada. Psychologists Eric Bressler and Sigal Balshine presented the students with photos of comparably attractive members of the opposite sex, accompanied by autobiographical statements supposedly authored by the people pictured. On average, women rated the ‘funny’ men as more romantically desirable than the plain talkers.” (science writer Tom Siegfried)

Then again, maybe we should let someone who's both funny and sexy have the last word, not a bunch of scientists. And so we turn to cartoon bombshell Jessica Rabbit, heroine of the hilarious (although admittedly not very erotic) movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit? When the unnaturally curvy redhead is asked why she loves her husband—a manic animated rabbit in the vein of Bugs Bunny—she replies, simply, “He makes me laugh.”

Tattoo You

by Dayle A. Dermatis (aka Andrea Dale, 1/2 of Sophie Mouette, and 1/2 of Sarah Dale)

I have a friend (let’s call him Dave, since that’s not even remotely his name), who has the most glorious tattoo across the whole of his back.

Now, Dave’s pretty hot anyway, but that tattoo… I want to lick every last inch of it. Trace every intertwined line with my tongue. At least once.

So I keep writing about it. In a recent story, I wrote this:

Ink as black as his hair curved and swooped across the muscles of his back. It was Celtic—not the newfangled tribal kind, but the real knotwork-from-early-manuscripts kind—and it depicted a raven flying over the ocean, with the sun blazing overhead.

Right then and there, I had the overwhelming compulsion to lick his tattoo. Trace every spiral and intricate knot and line with my tongue.

I wanted it so badly, I trembled, deep inside.

Then there’s A Little Night Music, my rock star fantasy. Rock stars have gooooood tattoos. Nate’s a rock god, and Hannah’s wanted him since she was in her teens:

Hannah looked up. She grinned wickedly when she saw he was watching. Nate held his breath when she leaned over, waiting, but instead of his aching cock, she touched her lips to the smooth skin of his hip. Her tongue swirled over the tattoo there, a winged guitar wrapped in a banner bearing the words “Rock & Roll Forever.”

I’m picky about tattoos, though, both for myself and on other people. For one thing, I think blue-black tattoos—the generic line color—are the most attractive. I’ve seen a few nice color ones, but most of the times the colors just seem…off. Worse, they fade into a muddy sort of blob. Crisp blue-black lines…that’s what gets me off.

The tattoo has to be an original piece. Good lord, if you’re permanently marking your body, give it more thought than getting #5 on the wall that a gazillion other people will be sporting. It’s one thing to have this year’s handbag or copy Posh Spice’s haircut, but that tattoo’s gonna be a part of you forever.

Where the tattoo is can enhance its sexiness. For myself, my tattoos have to be where I can see them, because I like to look at them. One on my back would have me spinning around like a dog chasing its tail. I also make sure I don’t get one in an area that will sag significantly…


Recently, in the locker room at the gym I saw a woman with a pair of eyes on her lower back. I have a question for the guys: Sexy or not? Does it depend on whether you’re an exhibitionist? Because I imagine you’d feel like you were being watched…

But perhaps most importantly, I want to know why you got that particular tattoo. The story, that’s what’s sexy for me. Why that design, why that moment in your life, why that part of your body?

In this excerpt, the narrator is a professional photographer:

I kicked off my Birkenstocks and dropped trou before Tad knew what hit him. I posed face-down on the fountain, my red satin panties (now very damp) and red top (now hiked up a bit) revealing the tattoo at the base of my spine.

Tad forgot he was taking pictures. He stepped closer, his eyes scanning the old English lettering:

That is the best part of beauty, which a picture cannot express.

“Francis Bacon,” I said, arching my neck to watch him. “Are you taking pictures or not?”

(“Flash,” as-yet unsold story)

The tattoo fits perfectly for her and her passion for her career. (I was inspired by a writer who has “In the beginning, there was the word” on her lower back, which also makes complete sense.)

Nate in A Little Night Music has the surname Fox, which was also the name of his band in the early days.

The curtain between the two lounges parted and Nate entered. His sleeveless t-shirt boasted a wraparound picture of a Magritte painting. Hannah tried not to drool over how the form-fitting shirt displayed his hard biceps. The fox-head tattoo on his upper right arm made her want to fall at his feet and beg to be his biker babe.

And that was just for starters.

I imagine it less as a cartoon fox and something sleek and stylized and a little dangerous, like Nate himself.

In fact, tattoos show up in a fair number of my stories. I didn’t realize it until I did some checking for this article.

She has tattoos on each of her jutting hipbones: a triskele on the left, a spiral on the right. At the small of her back, right before the swell of her cheeks, is a Goddess symbol, a full circle bordered by two crescent moons. I might see that later, but for now, I trace the two on her hips with my fingertips before parting her reddened lips and feasting.

(“The Witch of Venice,” to appear in Screaming Orgasms and Sex on the Beach)

With regards to this snippet from the Sophie Mouette story “All About the Ratings” (Sex in the Kitchen), Teresa and I can’t remember which one of us wrote it. The narrator and Drew are enemies forced to work together on a cooking show, and the narrator’s plan is to trip Drew up by getting him all hot and bothered.

She always kept her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in the kitchen. Usually she wore it in a ponytail, but today she’d gone for an updo, sophisticated, but with soft curls falling artfully out.

The viewers wouldn’t see that it revealed the dragonflies tattooed on the back of her neck. At first glance, the tattoo was innocuous enough, pretty, delicate insects in shades of blue and green.

On second glance, you realized they were mating.

The audience couldn’t see them…but Drew would.

Hell, even getting a tattoo is sexy. It’s dark and exciting, and still holds a certain illicit thrill. The buzz of the needle and whatever music is playing takes over. I like to get my tattoos without conversation, alone with my thoughts. Someone’s permanently branding my skin with a mark of my choosing; it’s a spiritual act for me, emotional and personal. Someday I’m going to have to write about that…

So what about you? Do tattoos turn you on? Are you picky about what they look like, where they are, and their underlying meaning?

I’ll show you my tattoo if you’ll show me yours…