Coming Attractions

Kristina LloydIt's one of those weekends again. It seems Mat's too wet to do Coming Attractions so I'm stepping in, trying not to look too drenched myself.

Next week, Lust Bites dons a straw boater and goes to church.

Has anyone got the proper schedule? That can't be right. Oh, I see. Cheers. On Monday, Anne Tourney brings us her passion for preachers, giving new meaning to the phrase 'bible basher'. Teresa Noelle Roberts jets in on Wednesday to chat about travel and sex. And on Friday, Janine Ashbless will be offering a few words from The Divine Liturgy - no, strike that. Janine will be here with a filthy, fantastical excerpt from her reissued novel, Divine Torment, the prequel to Burning Bright.

Sounds like heaven, no? And if you want to brush up on your Old Testament and read about the Great Flood - oh, OK. It's me banging on about wet men/win a vibrator again. The giveaway's open till noon prayers on Tuesday (ie. my lunch). Add your name and you could be grinning till kingdom come. And don't forget our marvellous discount deal with Love Honey. Check out the sidebar before Friday's over.

Peace be with you.

The Case for Wet Men

Kristina Lloyd
I love wet men. I think I’m meant to write something smart here but what’s there to say except 'More! There! Oh, please, yes! Don’t stop! There!'

Let me try a few words lest I be accused of gratuitously uploading hot pics.

Water on muscle is so pretty. Droplets sliding down a hard male body are heavenly. (See Exhibit A from the Wet Files.) Skin dappled with beads of moisture makes me want to lick (Exhibit B). I love shorn heads (Exhibit C) but there’s something very suckable about soaked, shiny hair (Exhibit D).

Water splashing off strength makes me go all weak (Exhibit E). Bodies under water make me go all dreamy (Exhibit F).

NB. I’m afraid you can only work out which exhibit is which by clicking on the photos. And when you do that, the image usually gets a lot bigger. I am so sorry to have to put you through this.

I’m a very good swimmer. I swim front crawl, head in the water, goggles on. You don’t need to know that but it’s a good excuse for me to offer Exhibit G, Becks emerging from the pool, proof of the wonders of swimming.

One of my earliest boyfriends was a competitive diver. I used to watch him jumping from the high board, turning somersaults, triple pikes, and then slicing into the water, clean as a blade. In my imagination, this happened in graceful slow-motion. I have to force myself to remember that diving is fast and twisty, and that the splash, though it's slight, still comes as a violent little shock. There’s probably some innuendo lurking in that sentence but who cares. Exhibit H is our main concern here.

I love how water makes men part their lips because no one can keep their mouth shut when it’s cool, wet and fresh. You need to breathe. You need to taste. Okay, so women part their lips too, but we see this image of availability plenty, thanks. Men gaping is a rare and special treat. They're asking to be kissed, no? (Exhibits G & I.)

We’ve surely all got our No. 1 wets from film and TV: Keanu in Point Break or Colin Firth as Mr Darcy, shirt clinging to his chest. Daniel Craig emerging from the sea, à la Ursula Andress, scores highly on my wetometer. (Yes, that wetometer.) So let’s examine J, K & L, shall we?

There. I think those three soaked specimens all go to prove my lack of point. Here's another lust-addled observation: a drenched man on his hands and knees is delicious - though I'm not sure why. Maybe there's something appealingly primordial about seeing a creature crawl from the sea. Maybe it's because his wet lips, when he gazes up at me, are just where I want them to be. Maybe I don't know and I should look at some pictures a while and see if I can work it out (Exhibits M, N & O).
Nope, I still don't know the answer. But who cares when it feels so good? I also don't know why getting caught in the rain is so freakin' hot. In an early version of Split, my forthcoming novel, chapter two centered around a bondage scene. Over halfway through writing the book, I realised this was wrong and rewrote several chapters, replacing the bondage scene with a kiss in the rain. Boy, it is one helluva sexy kiss. Rain is delicious. (Exhibit P, eyes right.)

There are many other ways for a man score highly on my wetometer: he could just stand there, water gushing past his bare feet; he could frolic in the ocean waves; or he could plain and simple give another bloke head while sprawled on the shower floor, suds swilling around them.

I should probably stop there before I'm tempted to open the Wet X-rated Files. I don't want to be the one who breaks the blog again.

If you're thinking - Wow, things don't get any wetter than this! - think again. Because look! We're giving away waterproof vibes! Lust Bites has teamed up with the very nice people at Love Honey and they're offering a bunch of fab freebies. Top prize is this silver dream machine, a Jessica Rabbit Platinum Vibrator (RRP £39.99; Love Honey price £29.99). This is a serious piece of kit with ears that buzz and pulse in these totally fucking amazing - I mean, at 7 different settings. (Hey, I like to research, OK?) Also, this Jessica is silver and with Mathilde Madden's Silver Werewolf Trilogy launching in October, you know silver's the colour to be seen in ... um, you.

Love Honey are also giving away TEN runner up prizes of these nifty Waterproof G-Spot Tip Vibrators 7.5" (RRP £16.99; Love Honey price £4.99). You need to be in the UK to be eligible for these but the Jessica can go anywhere in the world. If you want to be in the running for a G-spot vibe, please add 'UK' to your comment. All 11 winners will be announced this Tuesday, 28th. As ever, you don't need to say anything smart to be in the draw. All we need is a name to call out.

We've also got a fantastic discount deal with Love Honey. From now until 31st August, get £5 off when you spend £20 or more. Go here and enter the voucher code LUSTBITES or check out our sidebar link. Love Honey are particularly cool in my book because they'll recycle your poor abused rabbit and give you a new one half price. 'Ecogasms' is the word!

Now please - coo over my dripping men, tell me you want it bad, real bad, and beg to be entered in the giveaway. Good luck!

Got Spanking?

by Alison Tyler


Excuse me if I stumble on my words. Because today's theme tends to leave me speechless. I lower my eyes. I bite my bottom lip. I forget what I'm supposed to do or say. Which makes introducing our guest blogger that much more difficult. So I'll do my best to pull myself together here, and give a hearty welcome to Rachel Kramer Bussel: Spanking Queen.

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I've tried to figure out why so many times, but all I can really tell you is that the mere prospect of being spanked makes me wet. Spanking is such a deliberate act; it doesn't "just happen." You have to figure out whether the person you're with would be into it; then someone has to bend over, get in position, get ready. When I'm about to be spanked, that's one of the hottest moments, knowing my spanker is watching me, staring at my ass, maybe touching it. And when, BOOM!, the blow comes slamming down against my skin, whether from a hand or paddle or belt, I just melt. I go limp, the pain and heat blazing through me and making me want more. More more more. More spanking…followed by sex. Because nothing's a bigger tease, if you ask me, than being spanked and spanked alone.

Pretty much every time I've been spanked, it's made me want to get fucked right afterward. Or during. I know that's not the case for everyone; there are spanking groups and clubs, and some people who simply want to spank and/or be spanked, without the sex. For me, they feed on each other; getting fucked makes me want to get spanked, which makes me want to…Spanking just sends my head spinning, and that's what I love about it. For people who love it as much as I do (and I know there are lots of you!), we just can't get enough, which is why I'm so thrilled that I've now edited two volumes of Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z (and am editing Spanked right now for Cleis, so send me your spanking smut!) What impresses me so much about spanking erotica is that even though perhaps the mechanics of it may look the same, the motivations differ. The feelings differ. The physical sensations differ. The context, environment, tone, implements, all set the tone for a spanking. I write in the intro to Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z, volume 2:

Spanking means countless things in this anthology–love, anger, sublimation, awakening, desire, fulfillment, foreplay, fun, prodding, patience, surrender, exhibitionism, demand, pride, want, lust, punishment, reward, humiliation, power, surprise, daring, learning, lessons, teasing, and goodbye. I'm thrilled by the heady mix of emotions I can feel when I take or deliver a firm spanking, and even more thrilled that these powerful, erotic stirrings, the kind that can bring tears to your eyes, a smile to your lips and a prolonged stirring to your nether parts, are so beautifully, touchingly and wonderfully represented here. These teasing troublemakers, vamps and vixens, horny housewives and husbands, mean bosses, powerful masters and mistresses, sassy spankers and adoring ass worshippers get what's coming to them and much, much more. The wilier and sneakier they are in concocting schemes to get spanked, the worse off (or, really, the better) it is when they actually get their much-needed and well-deserved smacks.

Here's a snippet from my story "Queuing Up" in Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z, volume 2. I hope you like it, and you know where to go if you want more!

That first slap always takes me by surprise, even when I'm expecting it. There is such a vast difference between my ass laid bare, exposed to the air, but relatively intact, and the heat that brews along that most sensitive of parts after he has spanked me; from eager to seething in several brutal, beautiful seconds. Craig holds his hand tight against my skin, maintaining the warmth and the pain, making it last those few precious seconds longer. I'm lying naked across his lap, and beneath his tight jeans, his cock presses up against me, hinting, surging, wanting, but my spankings aren't about his cock, as much as I might want them to be, as hot and wet as they might get me. Sometimes I wonder if they're even about me at all; Craig comes to me with a glint in his eye, a severity of purpose and steely resolve to spank me until I flip over some immutable edge that I am in constant awe at how much our urges are in sync.

I squirm beneath him, my clit alive with the sensation of pleasure and heat as I wait for more. He raises his hand and brings it down equally as hard on my other cheek, and I smile to myself, even as my pussy clenches fiercely. His spankings are like a magic key that unlocks the secret of my desire, and even when I'm not totally in the mood, when my pussy seems to be on hiatus, when I want him to fuck me but don't really need it, a few smacks from his strong hand and I'm back on the edge, back to being willing to do absolutely anything for him to fuck me. He knows this too, can sense from the way I breathe, the way I squirm and then stay absolutely still, that I am torn between wanting more spankings and wanting his cock filling me all the way up, though that choice is up to him, as always. His hand rains down, smack after concentrated smack, so perfect in their placement that I almost forget that tonight, as we often do, we have an audience, an eager female face soaking up all that we are doing, so new to her and yet, I sense, already unfurling a special signal inside her, a need that now that she's discovered it must be attended to immediately.

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To read more spanking-themed erotica, please check out Rachel's two awesome collections from Pretty Things Press. To buy "Got spanking?" paraphernalia, go here. Plus, one lucky commenter will win a copy of Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z, volume 2!
XXX,
Alison

What If...

Shakespeare wrote that the courageous die only once but cowards suffer a thousand deaths - in their imaginations, of course. Something similar could be said of writers. We might not imagine our own deaths with any great frequency but what about la p'tite morte?

If I’m asked where I get my inspiration from the question makes about as much sense to me as being asked where I get my air. It’s all around me, noticeable only when it’s absent.

For instance:
This morning’s mail brought the usual bills and flyers, plus a deckle-edged cream envelope addressed to me in what looked like real hand-writing. Felix and I have never been to a munch, which is what a kinky brunch is called in Southwestern Ontario. But surely if we received a handwritten invitation he'd be willing to don his tux and I could wear...oh any number of gauzy trifles and...I slit open the envelope to discover an offer for ten percent off a gym membership. WTF? If I want to be stretched, folded and twisted, it won’t be in the interest of exercise, in which in fact I have very little interest.

Yes, the impact of reality can be a shock, but nobody said writing erotica is easy. In this case my error led me to a story idea about a subbie who has a little too much fun at her first munch, due in large part to a misheard (dare I suggest misspoken) directive from her Dom. In a vanilla relationship, this might lead to a big fight, but in the D/s world, it can be downright dangerous.

Last week, while I was walking down Yonge Street, a big raindrop splattered on my forehead. Another hit my instep. I darted into the nearest entranceway just in time to avoid a major soaking. As it happened, the entrance was to my regular pharmacy – chemist, to those on the other side of the pond. But what if it’d been the doorway to a sex shop? What if, while I waited the storm out, someone, a large, distinguished gentleman with slightly sinister but handsome features, (OK, it’s Felix Baron) opened the door and hooked me inside, chiding me for being late? What if he’s planned a kinky fashion show? I find myself in leather boots with six inch heels and a transparent latex dress. Or maybe it’s an auction! Interesting, maybe, but hardly new. Unless it’s a story about the particular challenges a D/s relationship faces in its final days. How do Master and slave end an arrangement that can be more binding than marriage? She finds out her Dom (no longer Felix) is auctioning her off and is torn – on the one hand, it will free her from him which is what she secretly wants but could never arrange by herself. But is she of so little value to him that he’d really sell her to the highest bidder? And what if no one wants her? Hmmm…

Or what if there had been no handy doorway, and I’d got so drenched that my dress turned transparent and clingy, so by the time I got inside the pharmacy the a/c made my nipples hard and I sneeze and a distinguished baritone, no, make it soprano, says, ‘Bless you.’ By now I’m not exactly me, I’m Madeline Moore, author, and I’m not exactly daydreaming, I’m a writer at work. The soprano isn’t exactly the sexy cosmetics gal with the spiky blonde hair, she’s – OK she is the sexy cosmetics gal with the spiky blond hair but now we’re talking story, not idle fantasy. A Cure For the Common Cold? I like it.

Naturally books and pictures are an easy way to turn on the tap. But reruns on TV? A few weeks ago I was lucky enough to catch the CSI Las Vegas episode in which Grissom first meets Lady Heather, the professional Dominatrix. It was the fourth time I’d started to watch that episode. I still have no idea how it ends. Once those two meet, the plot goes one way but my mind has gone in another, entirely different one, and I’m a happy little mental voyeur till long past the closing credits.


Speaking of Lady Heather, in the last episode starring the fearless Domme she made a deal with an evil client that entitled him, for a six figure sum, to choke her to death. That was one story during which I definitely didn’t daydream. It was not only verrrry kinky, without any sex, but gave us a peek into the tightly-wound emotional makeup of Gil Grissom, and, as an added feature, showed the maturity of his relationship with Sara Sidle. ‘Do what you have to do,’ she said when she found out Grissom had spent the night with Lady Heather. Later, he told her, ‘I was being a friend.’ Good stuff, CSI! With prime time TV like this, who needs...but...I digress...

Just about anything can veer off, in my mind, into erotic realms. Any new place I go could be the gateway to some wild sexual adventure. Any piece of mail – any new acquaintance – or just a clear starry sky.

Weather is a particular source of inspiration for me. Snow conjures up dreams of being trapped in a log cabin with a stunning ski instructor or a devious snow bunny, or both. Cold hands on hot parts, in real life or in my imagination, are always a turn on. Hot sunshine evokes Hawaiian beaches, and hula dancers in grass skirts, and muscular bronzed lifeguards, for a start. Hot blood, temperatures rising, sweat… Rain is particularly evocative. It figures prominently in my story Hurting Hugh in editor Mitzi Szereto’s anthology Getting Even: Revenge Stories,coming in October 2007 from Serpent’s Tail Press.

‘Some things are so damn beautiful you have to be happy just to see them. Like Northern Lights. Or a train crossing in the rain, with the bright beam of the engine lighting up the rain like a spotlight, and the red lights of the crossing bars flashing and the blaring whistle of the train competing with the clanging of the crossing bells. It's surreal.’

And later:

‘But it was the rain that really tipped the balance. I knew he probably couldn't tell who was behind the wheel, not with his poor night vision and all that rain streaming down the windshield. Plus, I knew the rain would wash away the gore so I wouldn't have to get my hands dirty hurting Hugh.’ (I love that last line.)

I’ve never, in real life, been ravished at midnight in torrential rain, but in my mind I’ve sucked enough rushing streams of rainwater off naked skin to fill a swimming pool.

When I find myself grocery shopping, after the initial shock wears off, not only are there all those people I don't know to fantasize about, strangers who could be incredibly depraved under their mundane facades, but there’s a ton of femme fruit, like melons and peaches, and all those phallic vegetables like cucumbers and parsnips. This sort of musing led to my first published piece, a little story called Breakfast With Tiffany that was included in a 'confessions of everyday women' type tome so I'll say no more lest the ruse be uncovered.

Here's how it works: I take everyday life and put it through a mental process I call The Eroticizer. This mini-distillery vapourizes the mundane, exhaling it in a misty cloud while isolating the sex-essence into a liquid pool of gold at the bottom of a Pyrex beaker. I mix this extract with other essential elements, like description and characterization and verisimilitude, and the result is released into the world like a new perfume, eau de erotica, or Essence of Madeline. My erotic fiction.

It has been said that to the pure, all things are pure. Likewise, to the prurient, all things are prurient.

Comment on today's blog and win a copy of Wild Card, by Madeline Moore.

Coming Attractions

Mathilde Madden
Remember when I used to have half an idea what the coming weeks posts were about rather than just making cheap innuendo. Yeah, me neither.

So here's my vague grasp on what's happening next week. First on Monday Madeline Moore is going to explain how she puts things through an eroticiser ('cept she'll Z spell it 'cause she's from over there), on Wednesday Alison Tyler is talking about spanking and on Friday Kristina Lloyd is parading some wet men. She's (understandably) giving away sex toys too.

Now, I know what you're gonna say: Mat, that sounds like every damn week on Lust Bites.

Well yeah. But is that such a bad thing?

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Breaking News: Mina Murray wins four Jeremy Edwards's. And here's a second call for Petricke who won second prize in Kristina Lloyd's Love on Dark Side/Man Tits comp. Email lustbitesladies {at} yahoo {dot} com to arrange your booty calls.

Spouse-Sharing, Knicker-Wetting, Flying Fucks, and Other Scenes of Amorous Tenderness

by Jeremy Edwards"How do I love you?" a composite character from my stories could hypothetically (and rhetorically) ask another composite character.

I love you letting me talk obsessively about your ass, though the subject bores you: "That's why it's my job, and not yours, to appreciate this ass we speak of." [Any Day of the Week at Oysters and Chocolate & Sex and Satisfaction]

I love you inviting me to masturbate with you, despite the fact that we can never be a couple: "Oh, but it is a compliment . . . . You obviously have no idea how much I love masturbating alone in my bedroom." [If We Were at Clean Sheets]

I love you dressing up as your three best friends, one after the other, because you know I fantasize about fucking each of them: “Last I knew, this was a monogamous relationship.” I looked around from left to right, as though expecting extraneous women to emerge from the pantry or laundry chute. [Any Friend of Hers at The Erotic Woman]

I love you deliberately, sensuously pissing your panties for me: Ah, to hold her hand across the table and watch her features relax as she gave in to her wetness. [Slightly Ajar in F is for Fetish]

Am I a "romantic"? I think I am – though Hallmark hasn't approached me just yet in re. of their Valentine's Day line. (Hmph. I thought "To my lover/Golly gee/It turns me on/To watch you pee" was rather inspired. But I guess "golly gee" is a bit outdated.)

During college, I was in a brief, ambiguous relationship with a woman who was sort of breaking up with her boyfriend – or maybe not so much. (You get the idea, probably a lot faster than I did.) One evening, I showed a lack of interest in something she said along the lines of long-stemmed roses. "Don't you have a romantic bone in your body?" she asked. Leaving aside the question of which bone, when properly stimulated, might be the romantic one, I protested that my university punk-rock ethos was romantic – by which I basically meant idealistic, with extra hormones. She seemed impressed by this (but, then again, the boyfriend was out of town).

Now I'm going to step back even further and, since you insist, tell you the details of my first wet dream. It simulated a chaste encounter with a sexy high school teacher, who was based loosely on a real-life sexy Latin teacher. (Yes, I had the good fortune to learn early on that the world was replete with counterexamples to debunk every unjust stereotype. As an adult, I would be cavorting with librarians long before it became fashionable.) In the dream, the teacher was giving us a tour of "ROMA ANTIQVA". (She wasn't shouting, she was merely conforming to ancient Roman typography.) Just before debuting my virginal seed, I noted that the above phrase sounded sort of like "romantic-a" – decades before Ellora's Cave had their own wet dream and trademarked the term. Other writers may boast of their masturbatory proclivities for wordplay, but I may be the only one who doesn't mean it metaphorically.

And if only I'd thought to mention this piece of personal history when my bones were accused of being 100% unromantic: "It just so happens you're looking at a guy who's had wet dreams over the word 'romantic.'"

I continue to invoke a broad personal definition of what's romantic. As a reader and writer, I find there's a special kind of erotic electricity to be enjoyed in romantic synergy that crystallizes around the mundane, the absurd, the incongruous, the funny, the awkward, the silly, the strangely compulsive, or (last but not least) the ass-in-your-face raunchy.

My enthusiasm for the offbeat romantic doesn't mean that I think modern or even postmodern life has rendered rose-giving and other traditionally "romantic" experiences obsolete (except, perhaps, those that depend on modes of transportation that are no longer extant; it really is hard these days to make love, in either the archaic or contemporary sense of the term, atop a penny-farthing bicycle, and don't think I haven't tried). Nor do I assume that the offbeat romantic is a modern invention. I don't know my Sappho or my Catullus, and it's been a long time since I dipped into your Flaubert or the neighbor's Stendhal . . . but, surely, the entire history of good literature must be full of unique, unpredictable, and surprising romantic images.

However, I'm not here to speculate about the classics; I'm here to excerpt some hot contemporary erotica. So let's all open our textbooks to a scene from Stan Kent's My Finest Hour, one that makes my toes curl with joy. At this point, the narrator has been watching his wife fuck another guy for page after luxurious page:

They're on the shower floor. He's eating Lizzie. With their splayed bodies blocking the drain the water builds up in the shower, but they don't mind. They're like some primeval amphibious creatures writhing in a stream, struggling for the land so they can multiply or die. He has his hands on Lizzie's hips, and he's working her on his face, and she's pressing down on his back with her legs and they're squirming around. Lizzie wedges herself in the corner and sits up facing me. This is the first real eye contact we've enjoyed since she began fucking the sharply-dressed man, and she smiles and blows me a kiss.

Sigh.

Our Kristina Lloyd's Nothing But This is a bizarre, mysterious, enchanted tale of refined sensuality and transcendent eroticism – and, dare I suggest it, of love. My favorite moment in the story is one in which the romantic connection between the characters reveals itself through mutual knowledge and understanding, cutting through the haze of unreality and disorientation that KL has masterfully created:

"Hey, brother," calls Uncle, addressing Tom, "does she like it in her ass? Huh? A big prick in her tiny little asshole?"

Tom's too zonked to reply immediately. He just sprawls there, half-dead, before his head rolls sideways, eyes still closed. When he finally speaks, it sounds as if it's costing him an enormous effort. "Probably," he croaks.

Like Kent, KL evokes an erotically convincing emotional connection between lovers at the very moment that one of them is physically rather connected to someone else.

Anyone for Alison Tyler? As if I need to ask! Other People's Panties, for instance, is a showroom showpiece of kinky romanticism. The structure of the brief story is such that to excerpt it might risk spoiling it – so I'll just link and insist that you scroll down and read it. Now.

Personally, I can't think of anything more romantic than what happens in the AT story you just read. And yet, I'm told, Hallmark still hasn't made an offer on this one.
In Christopher Hart's Drift, two jaded characters are whisked away from a glitteringly sordid reality by an impossible, inexplicable, externalized romantic force that is literally beyond their control:

Her feet too were dangling free in the air, and kicked lightly against mine. We were six inches off the grass, a foot, two feet and rising. We were also drifting dangerously towards the house.

"Um . . . " she said, cautious, English. "Is this . . . ?"

I was cool about it. "Gravity seems to have failed us." I didn't feel cool about it all. This was supposed to be a hollow seduction, nothing more.

Perhaps this externalization is an example of an antiromantic's romanticism that is quintessentially postmodern. Whatever it is, I find the description of the cynical couple's absurd ascent into a magical mingling to be – well – truly uplifting.

Now I look forward to hearing about your favorite offbeat romantic moments. And shameless plugs are encouraged!

***Kristina says: Add a comment and you could win this sexy little quartet of books featuring Jeremy's work and some of his hot picks: A is for Amour, F is for Fetish and Caught Looking, all from Alison and Cleis Press, plus Quickies 3 from Black Lace which includes my enchanted tale of – ahem – my story, Nothing But This, reprinted from Sex and Shopping.

An Interview with Jolie du Pré

by Dayle A. Dermatis
Jolie du Pré is a multipublished author of literary erotica, as well as the editor of the recent Iridescence: Sensuous Shades of Lesbian Erotica and founder of GLBT Promo, a promotional group for GLBT erotica and erotic romance. We’re thrilled to have her with us today!

How did you get started writing erotica?

My husband was the culprit. First I wrote young adult fiction, well enough to win a contest sponsored by a Canadian newspaper. But I didn't enjoy reading young adult novels. My husband could sense that YA fiction, coupled with my interest in writing, were not a good match. He was the one who suggested erotica, and I have never looked back.

As a bisexual woman, what was factored into your decision to focus on f/f erotica? Would you consider writing f/m erotica, and if not, is that a decision based on personal preference, branding, political issues…?

Good questions! I started writing erotica about six years ago. I wrote everything from M/F to M/M to F/F. Yet even though I'm a bisexual woman, F/F captured my heart. Women have always been important to me and I've had a number of female lovers in my open and honest marriage. But making money in F/F can be harder than trying to do it with M/F or M/M. I've decided, after careful consideration, that I need to return to a bit of M/F in order to increase what I earn. For me that means that sometimes my characters will be bisexual rather than lesbian.

Every writer has a unique voice. But is there such a thing as a “bisexual” versus “lesbian” versus “straight person stretching her writing copes” sensibility in lesbian fiction?

This is an interesting question. Last May I sat on an erotica panel at the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival. I like to look at women, and I made a statement that if you are a straight woman who does not like to look at women, please don't write lesbian erotica. What I mean is, you need to have a genuine interest in women in order to pull it off. If you are a straight woman, or even a bisexual woman, who prefers men, you may not be able to hide your preference when writing lesbian erotica.

We had a discussion previously here on Lust Bites about f/f stories not getting the same attention as m/m stories in the world of erotic romance today. Do you think that’s true? Any comments?

Yes, it's true. The majority of people who read erotic romance are heterosexual women. These women are interested in M/F and M/M, not F/F. That's why, from now on, my erotic romance e-books will include M/F sex along with F/F. Those who write M/F and M/M erotic romance e-books are pulling in the most money. I'm ready for some of that money. However, the stories I write for literary erotic print anthologies will continue to be F/F. I've never had a problem there.

The big news in your life right now is that you your new anthology, Iridescence: Sensuous Shades of Lesbian Erotica, came out recently. Tell us about the experience of being an editor, especially compared to being a prolific writer.

The theme of Iridescence, lesbian stories about women of color (Asian, Latina, Indian, African American and more), was born out of my frustration with the lack of characters of color in erotica. I consider Iridescence to be more than just an erotica collection. It's a unique contribution which made my experience as editor very special. Reading the submissions and choosing the stories was a joy. Plus, I enjoyed having the opportunity to treat authors the way that I like to be treated, because as an author I am disgusted with the behavior of some of the editors and publishers out there. It's not that I enjoy editing more than writing, because they both give me pleasure in different ways.

Trying to write a really good erotic story with fresh descriptions and valid plot is harder than most people think. Got any tips?

Fresh descriptions and a valid plot require an open and interesting mind. One of the best ways to get that is to read a variety of literature. That would be my first tip. My second tip is to respect your style, and what makes it unique, and work at strengthening that style. I can't become a better writer if I'm busy trying to write like someone else.

You’re primarily a writer of short stories, although when I poked around the web about you, I saw that you’re working on novels as well. Do you find one medium easier or harder? Any other notable differences you’ve discovered?

Actually, I've started one novel. A novel is difficult for me to write because in order to write a novel you have to be able to plot. If you've only written short stories, it can get tough. My novel is on hold because I keep leaving it for other writing projects, but I'll finish it eventually.

And just for fun: Coffee or tea? Cats or dogs? Werewolves or vampires? Mac or PC?

Coffee! My husband and I are serious coffee drinkers. We prefer to buy the coffee beans and grind them ourselves for our cups. Cats! They're low maintenance. Vampires! I've never been intrigued by werewolves. Mac! I'm a PC user, but if I could afford a good Mac, I'd probably use one.

Here’s an delicious taste of Jolie’s writing, from her story “Monisha” in Iridescence: Sensuous Shades of Lesbian Erotica

Sitting on my sofa I look out the window and watch the snow flakes fall from a white sky. It’s cold outside, yet thanks to my landlord my place stays at one temperature - hot. Sweat beads on my chest as I open a window in search of relief.

It will be Christmas soon. My family stopped speaking to me ever since I came out, so I don’t have a lot of presents to buy. I want to go outside into the cold air, get a latte and read the paper, listen to corny holiday tunes, and get the hell out of my apartment.

I walk into a coffee shop. A jazzy instrumental comes out of the speakers to the tune of Silent Night. She’s behind the counter. Tawny skin and a face full of freckles. Brown dredlocks. Large breasts. Big hips.

She turns around and bends over to get some cups. I stare at her full behind and I imagine us naked: she on her stomach, my dark chocolate hands on her caramel ass.

“Happy Holidays,” she says. She’s standing up now, facing me and smiling.

“Happy Holidays. What’s your name?” Flirting has become my hobby ever since I went on unemployment.

“Monisha. Yours?”

“Gladys.”

“Do you come in here much, because I’ve never seen you before?”

“No, but I will now.”

She blushes. I’ve taken a lot more chances these days, hitting on pretty girls who work behind counters whether they’re straight or not. If I bomb, I just get what I need and leave.

But when Monisha hands me my latte she looks me in the eyes.

I grab a paper and sit down. Every so often I stop reading and look at her face.

She catches my gaze and smiles. I smile too.

"I'll be back tomorrow," I say to her as I leave.

END

Everyone is welcome to attend a reading of Iridescence: Sensuous Shades of Lesbian Erotica at Bluestockings
172 Allen Street between Stanton and Rivington
New York, NY
212 - 777- 6028
Saturday, August 25, 2007
7:00 p.m.
Jolie du Pré, Tawanna Sullivan, Shanel Odum, Sofia Quintero, Rachel Kramer Bussel