Look! Look, Look, Look!

This is just a prototype.
But isn't it cool?

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...

Guilty Pleasures

by Alison Tyler

My world is ripe with guilty pleasures. I have so many, I can hardly keep track…. You might think all of my guilty pleasures are sexual, but I tend not to feel guilty about what I do in bed, or against a tree, or bent over a car. Those are actual pleasures. My guilty ones are those I don’t like to admit….the ones that make my cheeks go pink… My true guilty pleasures tend to be more about sugar and shopping than shagging. And I’m ready to confess them all. Or at least the first three. Not only will I confess, I’m also going to link to excerpts from my blog that feature these guiltiest of pleasures.

Deep breath for courage, here. My name is Alison Tyler, and I buy boots…

Christ, do I buy boots… What made me think I needed turquoise. And purple. And the black ones. And three pairs of red ones. And the ones with the patches… and the zippers… Of course, boots can lead to sex. Wearing kick-ass boots definitely enhances an erotic mood.

I’d chosen a short plaid skirt, tight black t-shirt, black boots with silver buckles, fishnet stockings. Under the skirt, I had on ruby red satin panties, same color as the red in the plaid skirt. Same color as the lipstick I’d chosen, lipstick that quickly stained the rim of my tiny cup…

Read more: Constant Craving

Which leads us neatly to my second very guilty pleasure…

Lipstick… just look at it… With the money I’ve spent on tubes of merlot-colored gloss, I could have gone to Paris. Twice.

I think the prettiest I’ve ever felt has been mornings after I’ve been up all night. Makeup smeared, lipstick all but kissed off so that only a scarlet stain remains…

Read more: Punish Me with Kisses

So yes, lipstick can also lead to sex. Hmmm. And this was all supposed to be about how my guilty pleasures have nothing to do with sex. But what about my guilty pleasure number three? Tee-shirts. There’s nothing all that sexy about tees, is there?

“What am I using on you in your little fantasies?” Jack murmured next, prompting me.

“Your belt,” I said. “The one you wore today. You don’t even have the time to get something else. You come right through the door and you bend me over and I get to hear the sound of the buckle and then the sound of the belt pulling through your loops.”

I was touching myself now. This was my porn. “And you start on top of my clothes.”

“What are you wearing?”

I actually had to look down, I was in such a daze. What was I wearing? Faded 501s, black mules, vintage Rolling Stone concert t-shirt, so old there were holes throughout the near translucent fabric.

“Jeans,” I told him.

“I start on your jeans?”

”Yeah, for the first few licks, and then you reach around my waist and unbutton them, slide them down my thighs.”

“You’ve got on panties?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And I use the belt on you through your panties?”

“Yes, Jack,” I said, “but then you pull them down.”

“I don’t make you do it?”

“No, Sir. You pull them down yourself…”

Read more: Stormy Monday

Yeah, there was a t-shirt in there.
Somewhere.
I think.

Well, damn. I guess all of my guilty pleasures do involve sex in some way or another. Who would ever have thought?

Now, how about you? What pleasures make your cheeks turn pink? Share if you dare. And if you want to make one of my guilty pleasures your own, visit 80stees.com. Through Saturday June 9th, enter lustbites at your point of purchase to receive a 20% discount! You know I’m going to be buying this one…, and this one… oh, and this one…


XXX,
Alison

The Winner Takes It All

The winner takes it all…

And we’ve got winners. Oh, yes, we do!

The winner of Requiem for an Assassin is Kathy K.
The winner of Got a Minute is ADR Forget.
The winner of Words of a Feather is Kissa Starling
The winner of The Back Passage & Hot Valley is Sue A.
And the winner of Where Have all the Cowboys Gone? is caffey

Please email us at lustbitesladies at yahoo dot com with your mailing address, and we will get your books out to you quick as a wink!

Now, back to ABBA:

The winner takes it all…
The loser standing small
Beside the victory
That's her destiny

The mythe of the artiste

by Olivia Knight

If you want to be a writer, you have to learn to hang out in coffee shops, from which follows as day follows night that you'll learn to smoke, become addicted to caffeine, and then discover you need red wine to counteract the multiple café lattes that helped you over the bridge from chapter four to chapter five. Soon after, you'll acquire a small sexy hat, related to if not actually a beret, and a shabby-chic leather jacket, neither of which you'll have bought. Café managers distribute these items as assiduously as maître d's hand out ties to those messieurs who appear to have forgotten theirs. And voilá: you haunt your coffee shop table, gaunt on caffeine and nicotine, gazing pensively through paisley spirals of blue smoke, pen poised above notebook. You are a writer.

More good news awaits: you no longer have to pay bills on time, wash your dishes, hang up your clothes, co-ordinate outfits, or remember to post anything. You can have destructive and painful relationships which are actually good for you, because they lead to fine poetry. You're always fashionable, because bohemian-chic is in every other year, and on the inbetween years you're counter-culture. The extreme of this is what Wendy Cope calls “TUMPs” – Totally Useless Male Poets, who explain beguilingly that they couldn't possibly learn to drive, because what if they had a poetic moment on the motorway? It's possibly worth noting that “beguile” comes from Middle English gilen, “to deceive”. Deceiving people into believing you're useless is a marvellous tool for escaping responsibility. At this point, I should point out the following:

• I nearly crashed my car having a poetic moment to Tannhäuser during a right-turn
• I regularly walk into lampposts, tables, chairs, and small children (they're under the sightline, so it's not really my fault), and trip over the deceptively flat ground, because I'm daydreaming
• I've never got the hang of laundry
• Interrupting my writing is punishable by death
• Yesterday I diverted the bailiffs from carrying off my books to pay for my electricity with an eleventh-hour phone call to pay my bill – I did have the money, I just hadn't got around to it.

I don't really think this is all okay, but I also feel that as I'm living four separate main lives at the moment, plus dabbling in a host of subsidiary brains, I'm actually doing pretty damn well.

Our fondest notion of writing seems to come from the sixties, which in turn nabbed it from the Romantics: writing is something that springs forth from one's soul, some unadulterated, pure, platonic essence, its only form deriving from the shape of our individuality, the way water is shaped by a colander, at which point the metaphor starts to decline. (I can't be the only person who's poured a pot of pasta into a colander, forgetting that the colander's design and purpose center around its not containing the water. I was thinking about a story at the time, is my excuse.) Being art, though, being an expression of one's being, one doesn't just think about it, one lives it. Again, I'm guilty as charged. I've built my altars and mixed my herbs, learnt to build databases, tried to prove Fermat's last theorem, taken up painting, studied AI; I've dressed as a witch, a gypsy, a peasant, and a desert queen. I cook the food my characters would eat, turn cold with fear in the scary bits, and murder my characters with tears streaming down my face and huge gulping sobs, rather like the Walrus in Alice In Wonderland whose handkerchief-covered hysteria hides how many oysters he eats.

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

So what happens when I write erotica, with this tendency to lose myself in my stories, play out my characters' selves, and experience their textual sensations in my own body? I dress up to write – not smartly, but in a child's dress-up-box way. I tried wearing a corset once, but the clasps of the garter part dig horribly into one's thighs, and anyway, none of my characters actually dress like that. As with my other writing, I have additional, complex lives to lead which include sex. I get published and try to be professional, returning contracts and proofs and queries swiftly. I write for a living, ie. all the time, and so I do still try to keep my house tidy, and accept and host houseguests, and retain friendships, and try to be pleasant to my other half not just stare through him at my interior world then get weirdly moody because it's touching depths...

Most of the time, despite the other lives, I try quite hard to be an acceptable human being. Every now and then, it can all go hang because the only important thing in my life is this incredible story I am breathing/bleeding/ writing… And during that tumultuous raging storm, on those rare occasions I am wholly consumed, I have a way to explain to people what's happening: "I'm a writer." The rest of the time, it's just an excuse. How do you combine your art and life? Does what you're writing affect your life? If you're writing and working a day job, how do you still maintain a life? Do you like the 'writer' image? Have you ever used it as an excuse? It it useful or unhelpful to you? And so on.

Coming Attractions

Oh, summer lovin' - there is just too much fun to be had this week!

On Monday Olivia Knight will be here with her tongue firmly in her cheek to explain to you - the great unwashed - why us Lust Biters are delicate precious artistes and must be handled with care. This includes indulging us with all our favourite guilty pleasures. Something Alison Tyler knows all about. She'll be here on Wednesday to begin to compose a list. (Eyes right for one of mine! Mmm, Captain Apollo!)

One thing we're bound to add to that list - based on previous form - is a healthy does of male/male erotica. So it's lucky that Gwen Masters will be interviewing M Christian on Friday - who I'm sure will bring a few baskets full with him.

And I can't leave without asking: what do you think of our new look? Snazzy, huh? It was all the work of Portia da Costa and Madelynne Ellis. Now there's another guilty pleasure of mine - having writers on the team who can also beat Blogger into submission after composing a few sensual paragraphs.

Tilly aka Mathilde Madden
Guilty as Charged

Not tonight, dear, I've got a headache...

SUITE SEVENTEEN by Portia Da Costa

As a change from all the kink, I thought I would offer something a little more tender...

Valentino, the prince of perversity, has been felled by a migraine, and Annie has put him to bed in a darkened room with an Imigran and a bit of soothing body heat...

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My dream seems to be about Dracula, only the seductive count has Valentino’s face, and I can actually see him in the mirror as he stands behind me. But as his hands come around my body to caress my breasts and his uncharacteristically warm mouth settles on my neck, I wake up.

I don’t know how long we’ve been in bed, but somewhere along the line, we’ve both turned over and now Valentino has me cradled spoon-style against him. Just as Drac was doing, he’s kissing my neck and fondling my breasts though my bra, but the phenomenal erection that’s prodding my bottom is very much from the land of the hot-blooded living.

When I open my eyes, I discover light in the room. It’s muted and smoky somehow, but the fact that it’s there at all is significant.

‘Is your head feeling better now?’ I back up my question with a little wriggle that indicates I’m well aware of his improved condition in other areas.

‘Much better now, thanks to you.’ He mouths my neck hungrily, and as I feel the touch of his tongue, he pushes my bra aside and begins to play with a nipple. After a bit of shimmying around, he shifts our position slightly and slides his other hand into my knickers and searches through my pubic hair to find my clitoris.

Oh bliss! This is my reward for my kindly nursemaid act. I sigh and wriggle again as he fondles me, strumming my nipple gently and touching my sex with a slow, comfortable yet infinitely delicious precision. No pleasure-pain games now, just glorious, mind-melting sensations and a sweet generosity of touch. I hook my feet around his ankles and arch like a bow, as a soft glimmering climax gently blooms. I clasp my hands over his as I hit the peak.

‘There… are you feeling better now?’ he purrs as I come back down to earth.

‘Considerably… but I think there’s still a small matter to deal with before we have a conversation.’

‘Small?’ His voice is full of mock outrage as he grinds his erection into the groove between my buttocks, the rolling pressure exciting me all over again. I’m not quite sure if I want to go down that route right now, but I probably wouldn’t take much persuading…

‘Well, a big one then… I was only speaking figuratively.’

Valentino chuckles, gives my erogenous zones one last affectionate squeeze, and then rolls away from me, presumably for one of the condoms he keeps stashed in his bedroom drawer.

I roll too, squirming out of my bra, knickers and my trouser socks as I go.

The lamp is draped in a dark, silky scarf, which explains the subdued lighting. But even with its glow tamped down I can see that Valentino appears 100% better. His handsome face has lost that pinched look, and his skin shines again with the soft, honeyed glow of relaxed health. It’s disgustingly easy how a young fit man recovers.

‘Let me,’ I insist as he turns back to me, foil packet in hand.

Valentino throws back the quilt to give me room, and I find my fingers shaking in anticipation as I roll the rubber down over his marvellous penis. He’s beautiful, sumptuous, utter temptation – and for a moment I toy with the idea of scooting down the bed and taking him in my mouth. But my sex flutters and clenches imperiously, demanding attention.

Mindful of my lover’s preferences, I roll over ready to offer him access from the rear.

‘No, amore mio, not this time…’ His hand on my shoulder is unequivocal, and strong. He puts me on my back and looms over me, his eyes huge and dark in the soft light, ‘Face to face now, Annie. I want to see your eyes and your beautiful face as you climax.’

Emotion surges through me like a sea fret driven by a great and significant change. I sense we’re at the beginning of a very special journey, and maddeningly, my eyes fill with tears at the importance of it.

Valentino says nothing, but his own eyes gleam revealingly, and he gently blots away the moisture with his fingertips.

And then begins to kiss me as he moves between my thighs.

He pushes in firmly, adjusting with his hips as he goes, and my body yields as if accepting an old friend. Odd, how sweet and familiar this moment is, despite the fact that we’ve only ever fucked three times before, and one of them was last night, and perversely different. The action is slow and easy, and he rocks his pelvis with fluid, undulating swing. I imagine us dancing, which is an odd fantasy to indulge at a moment like this, yet strangely it seems full of erotic power. Valentino moves with such grace that he must be a demon on the dance floor.

Arching his spine, Valentino pulls back from our kiss and looks down into my eyes just as he said he would. His black hair swings around our faces, and in the dark, metallic depths of his gaze there seems to process a series of questions and also their answers.

He and I are different, in so many ways, but we have the power to resolve every issue that stands between us. Knowledge passes through us, and as one we smile… then kiss again.

But stately, leisurely fucking can’t last forever, much as part of me would love it to. Seductive friction soon begins to up the ante.

Valentino fucks like a fury, his penis pounding me and impacting on a million singing nerve-ends. I feel orgasm speeding towards me like a fireball, and determined to snare it for me he reaches between our bodies and strokes my clitoris to bring me home.

I shout something. I think it’s ‘I love you’, but I can’t be certain of the exact words. His hips moving like a jackhammer, Valentino cries out too, and I’ve a suspicion he’s said more or less the same. I don’t speak Italian, but who needs to when the heart translates the meaning.

SUITE SEVENTEEN is published on 7th June in the UK and on 7th August in the US.

amazon.co.uk :: amazon.com :: another excerpt

Images courtesy of The Velocity of Vincent

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Hope you enjoyed that!

Please leave a comment... everyone who does will go into a draw for a prize of a couple of books from my backlist. I'll announce the winner in a week or two here on the blog.

Happy Reading

Portia Da Costa
Hopeless Romantic...