How powerful is sex? Thousands of Kenyan women are hoping it's powerful enough to end the political unrest in their country.
Kenyan women's group vows weeklong sex strike to try to force politicians to end squabbles
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Cosmo Makes us Smarter Sexers
And you thought Cosmo's Sex Surveys were only good for improving your moves in the bedroom...Turns out, they could be making you smarter about sex overall. A recent study featured in the Journal of Sex Research found that magazine use is associated with positive sexual health outcomes among young people (at least the almost 600 grad students who particpated in the study.) Magazine reading and involvement was linked to young people's sexual health knowledge, self-efficacy, intentions, and contraception use.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Color Purple: Another Adventure in Sexy Print versus Racy Cinema
I’m soon to see the Broadway production of The Color Purple, an award winning piece of literature, a wonderful movie and what I’m guessing to be an equally good theater production.
However, the relationship between the main female characters, Celie and Shug, is overtly sexual in the book and incredibly understated in the movie. I expect the play will be inspired by the book and will therefore be blatant about their relationship.
Which brings us to another round of: “Which is Sexier: Written Word or Cinematic Imagery?” Unlike the Bridges of Madison County example previously examined in this blog, I don’t have a movie to compare. Still, I believe the experiment is valid. That said, here are excerpts from Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. Let’s see how the on-stage lovers stack up.
I start to cry too. I cry and cry and cry.
Don’t cry, Celie, Shug say. Don’t cry. She start kissing the water as it come down side my face.
My mama die, I tell Shug. My sister Nettie run away. Mr. ___ come git me to take care his rotten children. He never ast me nothing bout myself. He clam on top of me and fuck and fuck, even when my head bandaged. Nobody ever love me, I say.
She say, I love you, Miss Celie. And then she haul off and kiss me on the mouth.
Um, she say, like she surprise. I kiss her back, say um, too. Us kiss and kiss till us can’t hardly kiss no more. Then us touch each other.
I don’t know nothing bout it, I say to Shug.
I don’t know much, she say.
Then I feels something real soft and wet on my breast, feel like one of my little lost babies mouth.
Way after while, I act like a little lost baby too.
....
Grady and Mr. ___ come staggering in round daybreak. Me and Shug sound asleep. Her back to me, my arms round her waist. What it like? Little like sleeping with mama, only can’t hardly remember ever sleeping with her. Little like sleeping with Nettie, only sleeping with Nettie never felt this good. It warm and cushiony, and I feel Shug’s bit tits sorta flop over my arms like suds. It feel like heaven is what it feel like, not like sleeping with Mr. ___ at all.
….
Us sleep like sisters, me and Shug. Much as I still want to be with her, much as I love to look, my titties stay soft, my little button never rise. Now I know I’m dead. But she say, Naw, just being mad, grief, wanting to kill somebody will make you feel this way. Nothing to worry about. Titties gonna perk up, button gonna rise again.
I loves to hug up, period, she say. Snuggle. Don’t need nothing else right now.
Yeah, I say. Hugging is good. All of it’s good.
However, the relationship between the main female characters, Celie and Shug, is overtly sexual in the book and incredibly understated in the movie. I expect the play will be inspired by the book and will therefore be blatant about their relationship.
Which brings us to another round of: “Which is Sexier: Written Word or Cinematic Imagery?” Unlike the Bridges of Madison County example previously examined in this blog, I don’t have a movie to compare. Still, I believe the experiment is valid. That said, here are excerpts from Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. Let’s see how the on-stage lovers stack up.
I start to cry too. I cry and cry and cry.
Don’t cry, Celie, Shug say. Don’t cry. She start kissing the water as it come down side my face.
My mama die, I tell Shug. My sister Nettie run away. Mr. ___ come git me to take care his rotten children. He never ast me nothing bout myself. He clam on top of me and fuck and fuck, even when my head bandaged. Nobody ever love me, I say.
She say, I love you, Miss Celie. And then she haul off and kiss me on the mouth.
Um, she say, like she surprise. I kiss her back, say um, too. Us kiss and kiss till us can’t hardly kiss no more. Then us touch each other.
I don’t know nothing bout it, I say to Shug.
I don’t know much, she say.
Then I feels something real soft and wet on my breast, feel like one of my little lost babies mouth.
Way after while, I act like a little lost baby too.
....
Grady and Mr. ___ come staggering in round daybreak. Me and Shug sound asleep. Her back to me, my arms round her waist. What it like? Little like sleeping with mama, only can’t hardly remember ever sleeping with her. Little like sleeping with Nettie, only sleeping with Nettie never felt this good. It warm and cushiony, and I feel Shug’s bit tits sorta flop over my arms like suds. It feel like heaven is what it feel like, not like sleeping with Mr. ___ at all.
….
Us sleep like sisters, me and Shug. Much as I still want to be with her, much as I love to look, my titties stay soft, my little button never rise. Now I know I’m dead. But she say, Naw, just being mad, grief, wanting to kill somebody will make you feel this way. Nothing to worry about. Titties gonna perk up, button gonna rise again.
I loves to hug up, period, she say. Snuggle. Don’t need nothing else right now.
Yeah, I say. Hugging is good. All of it’s good.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Threesome Thursday
So, today is Wednesday, not Thursday, but I like the alliteration and I expect I won't get a chance to post tomorrow. That said: Cheers to Threesome Thursday.
A sexy little piece for your pleasure:
Masterpiece
An entertaining commercial by Durex:
A sexy little piece for your pleasure:
Masterpiece
An entertaining commercial by Durex:
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Psychology: An old piece about judging based on sexual preference
I wrote this a couple years ago. I always wanted to submit it somewhere, but never found the right outlet. So, here I share it. I based it upon the idea that some people are based simply on their sexuality. What a world this would be if we were all judged based on what happens behind our closed doors...
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I palmed the warm cup of bitter coffee and introduced myself to the random sample of middle-America that sat in the plastic folding chairs.
“My name is Dr. Hillary Reynolds from the Jackson Institute of Psychology and Developed Sciences and I’d like to thank you all for participating in today’s study. The first portion of this study will include a written questionnaire asking you personal questions, most of which are sexual in nature. Please be prepared to answer these fully and honestly. I must assure you, beyond the use within this study, your answers will be kept confidential. The second part of the study involves a one-on-one consultation and classification session with me. A short debriefing session will follow. Participation in this study is completely voluntary. Individuals wishing not to partake in this study may leave now. Those willing to participate should sign the consent form and wait for further instructions.” I turned on my heel and marched out of the room, disposing of the nauseating coffee in the trash bin on my way out. What a waste of meter money.
My research partner and I had designed the questionnaire to reveal an individual’s most intimate and sordid sexual experiences, expose deed-rooted perversions, desires and beliefs. How many times a day do you masturbate? Have you ever fantasized or participated in bestiality? When was the last time you had an orgasm? Even I cringed during the practice sessions upon reaching question forty-seven: Please describe in detail the shape and size of your genitalia.
I left the task of distributing the questionnaires to the psychology students who were assisting me in this session. In my opinion, they were too wet behind the ears and hadn’t worked hard enough to earn status as true researchers. I didn’t mind so much when they got the hard glares from participants who had finalized the name, age and race section of the questionnaire and entered much more personal territory.
I observed from behind a two-way mirror, ignoring the irony of my voyeurism, as the participants completed their questionnaires. After watching forty-five minutes of pencil gripping, nervous blushing and page guarding, I retired to my office and awaited my first consultation.
After what seemed like an eternity, a plump and slightly balding man shuffled through my door. He was clad in a pair of faded jean shorts that hung well below his knees, a wrinkled NASCAR T-shirt and an expression that spoke partly of boredom and mostly of impatience. He smelled of engine grease and Dial soap and his file informed me he was 38 years old and named Eddie.
Eddie plopped into the overstuffed, mahogany-colored leather chair and waited for my instructions. Considering I had many more participants to classify and my slight headache was threatening to advance into a migraine, I got to the point.
“Hello, Eddie. I see here from the questionnaire you completed today that you frequently experience moments of premature ejaculation,” I say reading from my paperwork.
The statement hung in the air. He must have thought that when I said confidential it would be kept between him and the page. A furrow appeared in Eddie’s brow as I spoke and his nostrils flared. His entire body tensed; his sharp edges created a stark contrast against the softened corners of the leather lounger. His response reminded me of the charging bulls in Pamplona, equal amounts of rage and strength used to mask extreme panic.
Eddie still did not speak, so I continued. “For the purposes of this study, you are classified as a quick finisher. It is obvious that you posses little to no impulse control. Therefore, all of your credit cards and current and future accounts with loan offices and banks will be terminated. Although you are of legal age, you will no longer be allowed to consume alcohol or gamble.”
Breaking heavily, Eddie sat without speaking for a moment as the meaning of my words took root. “That’s what you have to tell me?” he asked, the furor in his brow traveling down the plane of his face to form a sneer.
I nodded.
Gripping the arms of the chair, Eddie launched himself upward and stood rigid before me. “Yeah right, lady,” he said. “Go to Hell.” With that, Eddie exited the room.
I turned and spoke to the video camera careening over my left shoulder used to record each session. “One classification down, fifteen more to go.”
The next participant was a woman in her early forties named Rose. From the looks of her, Rose was the reason her daughter was the top cookie seller in her Girl Scout troop, and not because they had a lot of friends.
“Hello, Rose. I see from the questionnaire you completed today that you struggle with self-esteem issues, especially regarding your weight. Because of this, you find yourself unable to participate in sexual acts comfortably and have the extreme need to fornicate with the lights off,” I summarized.
Rose shifted nervously and avoided eye contact.
“Rose, for the purposes of this study, you are classified as a worth worrier. It is obvious that your self-esteem issues have a strong impact on the decisions you make. Because of these issues, you are considered a threat to yourself. You will not return home once you leave this building. You will be escorted directly to the psychiatric ward of your local hospital where you will be prescribed anti-depressants and put on strict suicide watch.”
Rose was incredulous. “What? How can you do that? How can you make decisions for me based on one aspect of my life? Especially about part of my private life, which is none of your business?”
As Rose exited my office, I almost felt bad for her. Almost.
One by one, they entered my room and received their classification. The prostitute, the one-night-stander, the cheater, the pornography addict, the virgin, the born-again virgin, the womanizer who continually eyed my legs and the weekend semi-sadist who I informed would be forced to quit her job as a school teacher because in her private life she associated her role as authoritarian with sexual pleasure.
Their responses ranged from embarrassment, to anger, to disgust, to disbelief. The debriefing sessions that followed served to calm these heightened emotions and the participants left happily armed with the monetary compensation they were promised and the knowledge that beyond the study, I had no powers to control their lives.
The study session was coming to an end when the last participant entered my room for his individual session.
“Hello, Daniel. I see here from the questionnaire you completed today that you are a homosexual.” I said.
Daniel sat quietly.
I continued. “I must tell you, Daniel, because you do not choose to copulate with women, you will be denied the right to legally marry your partner. It goes without saying that you cannot biologically have children. Your ability to adopt children will be inhibited, if not denied. You will be ridiculed and a large number of heterosexual men and women will find you and your lifestyle to be disgusting and worthy of reproach. Although you maintain the right to freedom of religion, you will most likely not be accepted by standard religions.”
Daniel responded flatly. “I know.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I palmed the warm cup of bitter coffee and introduced myself to the random sample of middle-America that sat in the plastic folding chairs.
“My name is Dr. Hillary Reynolds from the Jackson Institute of Psychology and Developed Sciences and I’d like to thank you all for participating in today’s study. The first portion of this study will include a written questionnaire asking you personal questions, most of which are sexual in nature. Please be prepared to answer these fully and honestly. I must assure you, beyond the use within this study, your answers will be kept confidential. The second part of the study involves a one-on-one consultation and classification session with me. A short debriefing session will follow. Participation in this study is completely voluntary. Individuals wishing not to partake in this study may leave now. Those willing to participate should sign the consent form and wait for further instructions.” I turned on my heel and marched out of the room, disposing of the nauseating coffee in the trash bin on my way out. What a waste of meter money.
My research partner and I had designed the questionnaire to reveal an individual’s most intimate and sordid sexual experiences, expose deed-rooted perversions, desires and beliefs. How many times a day do you masturbate? Have you ever fantasized or participated in bestiality? When was the last time you had an orgasm? Even I cringed during the practice sessions upon reaching question forty-seven: Please describe in detail the shape and size of your genitalia.
I left the task of distributing the questionnaires to the psychology students who were assisting me in this session. In my opinion, they were too wet behind the ears and hadn’t worked hard enough to earn status as true researchers. I didn’t mind so much when they got the hard glares from participants who had finalized the name, age and race section of the questionnaire and entered much more personal territory.
I observed from behind a two-way mirror, ignoring the irony of my voyeurism, as the participants completed their questionnaires. After watching forty-five minutes of pencil gripping, nervous blushing and page guarding, I retired to my office and awaited my first consultation.
After what seemed like an eternity, a plump and slightly balding man shuffled through my door. He was clad in a pair of faded jean shorts that hung well below his knees, a wrinkled NASCAR T-shirt and an expression that spoke partly of boredom and mostly of impatience. He smelled of engine grease and Dial soap and his file informed me he was 38 years old and named Eddie.
Eddie plopped into the overstuffed, mahogany-colored leather chair and waited for my instructions. Considering I had many more participants to classify and my slight headache was threatening to advance into a migraine, I got to the point.
“Hello, Eddie. I see here from the questionnaire you completed today that you frequently experience moments of premature ejaculation,” I say reading from my paperwork.
The statement hung in the air. He must have thought that when I said confidential it would be kept between him and the page. A furrow appeared in Eddie’s brow as I spoke and his nostrils flared. His entire body tensed; his sharp edges created a stark contrast against the softened corners of the leather lounger. His response reminded me of the charging bulls in Pamplona, equal amounts of rage and strength used to mask extreme panic.
Eddie still did not speak, so I continued. “For the purposes of this study, you are classified as a quick finisher. It is obvious that you posses little to no impulse control. Therefore, all of your credit cards and current and future accounts with loan offices and banks will be terminated. Although you are of legal age, you will no longer be allowed to consume alcohol or gamble.”
Breaking heavily, Eddie sat without speaking for a moment as the meaning of my words took root. “That’s what you have to tell me?” he asked, the furor in his brow traveling down the plane of his face to form a sneer.
I nodded.
Gripping the arms of the chair, Eddie launched himself upward and stood rigid before me. “Yeah right, lady,” he said. “Go to Hell.” With that, Eddie exited the room.
I turned and spoke to the video camera careening over my left shoulder used to record each session. “One classification down, fifteen more to go.”
The next participant was a woman in her early forties named Rose. From the looks of her, Rose was the reason her daughter was the top cookie seller in her Girl Scout troop, and not because they had a lot of friends.
“Hello, Rose. I see from the questionnaire you completed today that you struggle with self-esteem issues, especially regarding your weight. Because of this, you find yourself unable to participate in sexual acts comfortably and have the extreme need to fornicate with the lights off,” I summarized.
Rose shifted nervously and avoided eye contact.
“Rose, for the purposes of this study, you are classified as a worth worrier. It is obvious that your self-esteem issues have a strong impact on the decisions you make. Because of these issues, you are considered a threat to yourself. You will not return home once you leave this building. You will be escorted directly to the psychiatric ward of your local hospital where you will be prescribed anti-depressants and put on strict suicide watch.”
Rose was incredulous. “What? How can you do that? How can you make decisions for me based on one aspect of my life? Especially about part of my private life, which is none of your business?”
As Rose exited my office, I almost felt bad for her. Almost.
One by one, they entered my room and received their classification. The prostitute, the one-night-stander, the cheater, the pornography addict, the virgin, the born-again virgin, the womanizer who continually eyed my legs and the weekend semi-sadist who I informed would be forced to quit her job as a school teacher because in her private life she associated her role as authoritarian with sexual pleasure.
Their responses ranged from embarrassment, to anger, to disgust, to disbelief. The debriefing sessions that followed served to calm these heightened emotions and the participants left happily armed with the monetary compensation they were promised and the knowledge that beyond the study, I had no powers to control their lives.
The study session was coming to an end when the last participant entered my room for his individual session.
“Hello, Daniel. I see here from the questionnaire you completed today that you are a homosexual.” I said.
Daniel sat quietly.
I continued. “I must tell you, Daniel, because you do not choose to copulate with women, you will be denied the right to legally marry your partner. It goes without saying that you cannot biologically have children. Your ability to adopt children will be inhibited, if not denied. You will be ridiculed and a large number of heterosexual men and women will find you and your lifestyle to be disgusting and worthy of reproach. Although you maintain the right to freedom of religion, you will most likely not be accepted by standard religions.”
Daniel responded flatly. “I know.”
Friday, April 17, 2009
Another Hooray for Sexy, Ambiguous Language!
“So all that’s left for me to see are ‘tulips’ on the mound.” Clever.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Elements of Style? Big Johnson T-Shirts
One of my favorite things about being a writer, especially one who writes about sex, is being able to play around with language and its meaning. I'm especially moved by ambiguous language. Words and phrases that make you think naughty things, but make you wonder at the same time. One of the greatest (and tackiest) examples of this are those Big Johnson T-shirts that were popular about 15 years ago (and still are in parts of the south). Although I'm not promoting these as fashionable, I can appreciate the clever use of language.
Here are some of my favorites. I had no idea there were so many! See more here.
Here are some of my favorites. I had no idea there were so many! See more here.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Dirty Jobs? More like Dirty Minds
Ever seen the show “Dirty Jobs”? It’s the “program on the Discovery Channel in which host Mike Rowe is shown performing difficult, strange, disgusting, and/or messy occupational duties alongside the typical employees.”
I’m guessing their target audience is mostly male, but they weren’t stupid when they chose to cast a good looking host who often finds ways to get shirtless as he gets down and dirty. To this, may we say, “Thank you, Discovery talent scout.”
Discovery has gotten wise to our fantasizing ways and is providing us with some “suggestive” clips of Mike in action. Nicely edited, Discovery. Check out Mike’s O-face at second 46.
You want dirty, Mike? I’ll show you dirty…
I’m guessing their target audience is mostly male, but they weren’t stupid when they chose to cast a good looking host who often finds ways to get shirtless as he gets down and dirty. To this, may we say, “Thank you, Discovery talent scout.”
Discovery has gotten wise to our fantasizing ways and is providing us with some “suggestive” clips of Mike in action. Nicely edited, Discovery. Check out Mike’s O-face at second 46.
You want dirty, Mike? I’ll show you dirty…
Sunday, April 12, 2009
(Updated) Outrageous!! Amazon de-ranks so-called adult books
UPDATE: "This is an embarrassing and ham-fisted cataloguing error for a company that prides itself on offering complete selection," according to Amazon.com spokeswoman Patty Smith.
Amazon has started a new policy that de-ranks their books based on adult content. Regardless of a book’s popularity, if it is considered “adult” it will not show up on their best sellers list. It may also be removed from Amazon’s search results. Not only will this impact erotica anthologies (hello, the reason I even started writing!) it also impacts non-erotica books including “American Psycho” and “Running with Scissors.”
Read more via LA Times
Get active! Protest!
Amazon has started a new policy that de-ranks their books based on adult content. Regardless of a book’s popularity, if it is considered “adult” it will not show up on their best sellers list. It may also be removed from Amazon’s search results. Not only will this impact erotica anthologies (hello, the reason I even started writing!) it also impacts non-erotica books including “American Psycho” and “Running with Scissors.”
Read more via LA Times
Get active! Protest!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Sex for the Eyes: Simon Dominic w/Painterly Arts
The majority of Simon’s work is science-fiction based, not erotica, but I really like this piece. Simon Dominic/Painterly Arts
Thursday, April 9, 2009
More from the "Creative Challenge" Days: Pray in Your Darkness
Here's another something I wrote a couple years ago as a creative project with my photographer friend. The challenge: Pray in Your Darkness
I think it is interesting how fluid language is. How the same word can take on different meanings, how context is so important when forming your perception of a sentence’s meaning.
In this experiment (As you Pray in your Darkness), most of the words in this short sentence can be interpreted so differently, which is what made it so challenging for me to organize my thoughts. Pray or prey (depending on whether the sentence is spoken or written),“in” meaning location versus meaning direction, darkness as an emotional state versus a physical absence of light, and “your” referring to one person or more than one.
As you Pray in your Darkness
Your memory serves you well.
You remember when you and he signed the lease to that simple, two-story house on the corner of Johnson Street and Copper Penny Avenue and it became yours.
Nothing fancy. The graying shudders were slightly crooked; the guest bathroom was painted an odd shade of purplish pink that was slightly reminiscent of the cotton candy you threw up after riding the tilt-a-whirl on your first date together. The floorboard closest to his side of your king-sized bed creaked when he got up in the middle of the night to pee, and the driveway sloped so that the bottom of his front bumper would scrape against its edge every time he backed his car out, no matter how slowly he went.
Yes, a bit run down or “charming” as you optimistically referred to it, but you mostly didn’t mind its faults. It was yours.
It was yours the day you got your first promotion at work. It was yours that time you made love on the kitchen counter when he left that sucking mark on the rise of your left breast, another on your neck that you had to cover up with makeup in order to hide it from co-workers the next day.
The walls of your house stood sturdy when he came back home drunk after fighting earlier with each other about finances and you threw the pot lid at his head, missing by a long shot. It was your place to retire to after a long day at work and it became your “home” with the birth your first child together.
Yes, it was yours.
Interesting, that word “yours.” With an “s” on the end, “your” is irrevocably plural. But add in marriage, coupledom, and language is suddenly bent. Maybe because when you’re married, it is expected that two become one.
So when friends would ask, how are your kids, you respond because they were referring to the children you and he together brought into creation.
Or when they would ask, “What are your plans for the holiday?” they immediately expected you to explain how you would be spending part of the time with your family in Florida, the rest of the time with his family in Ohio.
Your is something different now. Sure, the word is still the same but the meaning is not. Now when they say, “How is your cat,” they specifically mean the one that keeps you, and only you awake at night. Or, “How is your job?,” expecting you to say that it is okay and to complain about some tiresome boss when you really feel like saying that the expected monotony of the day is the only thing that keeps you from giving up every morning. When you really feel like admitting that it is the only thing worth living your life for now that he’s gone.
You ask God for strength, but he seems to have stopped listening. Maybe he is tired of your pleading. Maybe he knows you really want him to turn back time and to take away what he allowed to happen. You want him to give your life back. You want it all to be a bad dream from which to awake. You pray to God that it never happened. That you never got that call from the hospital saying there had been an accident. That that driver never would have fallen asleep at the wheel and he never would have slammed his truck into the driver’s side of your husband’s car. You never would have been haunted by the sound of a flat line and you never would have become a widow at age 36.
He would still be here and this would be your bed. This night you would be together and you would lie beneath him as he presses into you, so warm, so familiar, so good.
But this is now only your bed in this darkened room and God stopped listening long ago.
You snuggle in tight beneath the wrinkled sheet and you pretend that the pillow curled up next to you is his body and for one second you believe it. Then cold reality hits you like a backhanded slap and you remember that this is your life. You wish it weren’t, as you pray in your darkness until the peaking sliver of daybreak.
I think it is interesting how fluid language is. How the same word can take on different meanings, how context is so important when forming your perception of a sentence’s meaning.
In this experiment (As you Pray in your Darkness), most of the words in this short sentence can be interpreted so differently, which is what made it so challenging for me to organize my thoughts. Pray or prey (depending on whether the sentence is spoken or written),“in” meaning location versus meaning direction, darkness as an emotional state versus a physical absence of light, and “your” referring to one person or more than one.
As you Pray in your Darkness
Your memory serves you well.
You remember when you and he signed the lease to that simple, two-story house on the corner of Johnson Street and Copper Penny Avenue and it became yours.
Nothing fancy. The graying shudders were slightly crooked; the guest bathroom was painted an odd shade of purplish pink that was slightly reminiscent of the cotton candy you threw up after riding the tilt-a-whirl on your first date together. The floorboard closest to his side of your king-sized bed creaked when he got up in the middle of the night to pee, and the driveway sloped so that the bottom of his front bumper would scrape against its edge every time he backed his car out, no matter how slowly he went.
Yes, a bit run down or “charming” as you optimistically referred to it, but you mostly didn’t mind its faults. It was yours.
It was yours the day you got your first promotion at work. It was yours that time you made love on the kitchen counter when he left that sucking mark on the rise of your left breast, another on your neck that you had to cover up with makeup in order to hide it from co-workers the next day.
The walls of your house stood sturdy when he came back home drunk after fighting earlier with each other about finances and you threw the pot lid at his head, missing by a long shot. It was your place to retire to after a long day at work and it became your “home” with the birth your first child together.
Yes, it was yours.
Interesting, that word “yours.” With an “s” on the end, “your” is irrevocably plural. But add in marriage, coupledom, and language is suddenly bent. Maybe because when you’re married, it is expected that two become one.
So when friends would ask, how are your kids, you respond because they were referring to the children you and he together brought into creation.
Or when they would ask, “What are your plans for the holiday?” they immediately expected you to explain how you would be spending part of the time with your family in Florida, the rest of the time with his family in Ohio.
Your is something different now. Sure, the word is still the same but the meaning is not. Now when they say, “How is your cat,” they specifically mean the one that keeps you, and only you awake at night. Or, “How is your job?,” expecting you to say that it is okay and to complain about some tiresome boss when you really feel like saying that the expected monotony of the day is the only thing that keeps you from giving up every morning. When you really feel like admitting that it is the only thing worth living your life for now that he’s gone.
You ask God for strength, but he seems to have stopped listening. Maybe he is tired of your pleading. Maybe he knows you really want him to turn back time and to take away what he allowed to happen. You want him to give your life back. You want it all to be a bad dream from which to awake. You pray to God that it never happened. That you never got that call from the hospital saying there had been an accident. That that driver never would have fallen asleep at the wheel and he never would have slammed his truck into the driver’s side of your husband’s car. You never would have been haunted by the sound of a flat line and you never would have become a widow at age 36.
He would still be here and this would be your bed. This night you would be together and you would lie beneath him as he presses into you, so warm, so familiar, so good.
But this is now only your bed in this darkened room and God stopped listening long ago.
You snuggle in tight beneath the wrinkled sheet and you pretend that the pillow curled up next to you is his body and for one second you believe it. Then cold reality hits you like a backhanded slap and you remember that this is your life. You wish it weren’t, as you pray in your darkness until the peaking sliver of daybreak.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
I love a man with a big…hairdo
The next piece of erotica I write is going to feature a man with a big, floppy head of hair like Grayden Carter has. According to actor Rupert Everett (who is surprisingly candid), the bigger the hair, the more impressive the trouser snake.
Grayden Carter image courtesy of New York Magazine
Monday, April 6, 2009
Erotica? Porn? What's the Difference?
Is there a difference between erotica and porn? I definately think so, but maybe I'm biased. Here's opinion from more than 60 other people.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Public Wants Sex Ed!
Let's Talk About Sex
Congress loves abstinence-only programs so much it has thrown big bucks at them. The public? It's got better ideas.
Congress loves abstinence-only programs so much it has thrown big bucks at them. The public? It's got better ideas.
Friday, April 3, 2009
"Masturbate Your Mind"
A T-shirt that promotes erotica…Too bad this shirt is made for a man. Although it comes in white, pomegranate, dijon, cinder and galaxy blue. I don’t know any self-respecting (straight) man who would wear a pomegranate-colored T-shirt.
Here’s what the shirt says:
Before You Grab Yourself, Grab Some Erotic Fiction
In today's fast paced, high-speed internet access world, we rarely allow ourselves the luxury of actually thinking while spanking it. Has masturbation in the new millennium been reduced to click click, tug tug? Don't you remember a time when you could sit down with a saucy novella behind a locked door and give your imagination and genitalia the attention they deserve? Dirty books are still out there. Give one a chance. Masturbate your mind.
Buy it
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Which is Sexier? Written Word or Cinematic Imagery?
Each time a movies based on a book is released, an age-old debate begins. Does the movie do the book justice? Does the cinematic imagery bring the characters to life or will the book eternally outshine the theater production? I happen to believe it depends on which order you experience the story in. Those who read the book before seeing the movie tend to favor the page. Those who fell in love with the movie are often disappointed by the book.
The art of seduction is difficult to capture, in either medium. My favorite book/movie comparison is The Bridges of Madison County. I, for one, loved the movie. I was seduced by its sexy subtleties. The book on the other hand, fell flat. (Although there are some beautiful phrases along the way.) In my opinion, the book was poorly organized and so obviously written by a man. Not everyone can write dual gendered.
But, perhaps I’m only proving my theory since I saw the movie first.
You be the judge. I’m including some excerpts from the book. Watch the movie (specifically the kitchen dance scene) and read these lines (or even better, the entire book). Which moves you more? I’d be interested to know.
The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller
He noticed all of her. He could have walked out on this earlier, could still walk. Rationality shrieked at him. “Let it go, Kincaid, get back on the road. Shoot the bridges, go to India. Stop in Bangkok on the way and look up the silk merchant’s daughter who knows every ecstatic secret the old ways can teach. Swim naked with her at dawn in jungle pools and listen to her scream as you turn her inside out at twilight. Let go of this” – the voice was hissing now- “it’s outrunning you.”
But the slow street tango had begun. Somewhere it played; he could hear it, an old accordion. It was far back, or far ahead, he couldn’t be sure. Yet it moved toward him steadily. And the sound of it blurred his criteria and funneled down his alternatives toward unity. Inexorably, it did that, until there was nowhere left to go, except toward Francesca Johnson.
“We could dance, if you like. The music’s pretty good for it,” he said in that serious, shy way of his. Then he quickly tacked on his caveat: “I’m not much of a dancer, but if you’d like to, I can probably handle it in a kitchen.”
Jack scratched at the porch door, wanting in. He could stay out.
Francesca blushed only a little. “Okay. But I don’t dance much, either…anymore. I did as a young girl in Italy, but now it’s just pretty much on New Year’s Eve, and then only a little bit.”
He smiled and put his beer on the counter. She rose, and they moved toward each other. “It’s your Tuesday night dance party from WGN, Chicago,” said the smooth baritone. “We’ll be back after these messages.”
They both laughed. Telephones and commercials. Something there was that kept inserting reality between them. They knew it without saying it.
……………………………………
The music started again. Fortunately for both of them, it was a slow rendition of “Autumn Leaves.”
She felt awkward. So did he. But he took her hand, put an arm around her wais, she moved into him, and the awkwardness vanished. Somehow it worked in an easy kind of way. He moved his arm farther around her waist and pulled her closer.
She could smell him, clean and soaped and warm. A good, fundamental smell of a civilized man who seemed, in some part of himself, aboriginal.
“Nice perfume,” he said, bringing their hands in to lie upon his chest, near his shoulder.”
“Thank you.”
They danced, slowly. Not moving very fast in any direction. She could feel his legs against hers, their stomachs touching occasionally.
The song ended, but he held on to her, hummed the melody that had just played, and they stayed as they were until the next song began. He automatically led her into it, and the dance went on, while locusts complained about the coming of September.
She could feel the muscles of his shoulder through the light cotton shirt. He was real, more real than anything she’d ever known. He bent slightly to put his cheek against hers.
………………………………….
She finally pulled back from him, from where thy stood in the kitchen, and took his hand, leading him toward the stairs, up the stairs, past Carolyn’s room, past Michael’s room, and into her room, turning on a small reading lamp by the bed…She remembered the dream-like sequence of clothes coming off and the two of them naked in bed. She remembered how he held himself just above her and moved his chest slowly against her belly and across her neck, licking her as some fine leopard might do in long grass out on the veld.
He was an animal. A graceful, hard, male animal who did nothing overtly to dominate her yet dominated her completely, in the exact way she wanted that to happen at this moment.
But it was far beyond the physical, though the fact that he could make love for along time without tiring was part of it. Loving him was- it sounded almost trite to her now, given the last two decades – spiritual. It was spiritual, but it wasn’t trite.
In the midst of it, the lovemaking, she had whispered it to him, captured it in one sentence. “Robert, you’re so powerful it’s frightening.” He was powerful physically, but he used his strength carefully. It was or than that, however.
Sex was one thing. In the time since she’d met him, she had settled into the anticipation – the possibility, anyway - of something pleasurable, a breaking with a routine of hammering sameness. She hadn’t counted on his curious power.
It was almost as if he had taken possession of her, in all of her dimensions. That’s what was frightening. She never had doubted at the beginning that one part of her could remain aloof from whatever she and Robert Kincaid did, the part that belonged to her family and life in Madison County.
But he simply took it away, all of it. She should have known when he first stepped out of his truck to ask directions. He had seemed shamanlike then, and her original judgment was correct.
They would make love for an hour, maybe more, then he would pull slowly away and look at her, lighting a cigarette and one for her. Or sometimes he would just lie beside her, always with one hand moving on her body. Then he was inside her again, whispering soft words into her ear as he loved her, kissing her between phrases, between words, his arm around her waist, pulling her into him and him into her.
And she would begin to turn in her mind, breathing heavier, letting him take her where he lived, and he lived in strange, haunted places, far back along the stems of Darwin’s logic.
With her face buried in his neck and her skin against his, she could smell rivers and woodsmoke, could hear steaming trains chuffing out of winter stations in long-ago nighttimes, could see travelers in black robes moving steadily along frozen rivers and through summer meadows, beating their way toward the end of things. The leopard swept over her, again and again and again, like a long prairie wind, and rolling beneath him, she rode on that wind like some temple virgin toward the sweet, compliant fires marking the soft curve of oblivion.
And she murmured, softly, breathlessly, “Oh, Robert…Robert…I am losing myself.”
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Sexy Commercial
In honor of April Fools' Day, I'm posting this very clever commercial for a new candybar by Mars. Enjoy, you fools.
Erotica Clichés Done Right: Exhibit 1 - Food
Edwin Schlossberg said, “The skill of writing is to create a context in which other people can think.” Unfortunately, when it comes to erotica, people have thought about almost everything. It can be difficult to come up with a creative scenario when humans have been thinking about and performing sexual acts for decades.
Throughout the coming blog days, I plan to discuss some of the most common erotica clichés and highlight examples of authors gone right, providing proof to the belief that although equally effective, erotica is smarter than pornography.
Exhibit 1: Food
What do people fantasize almost as much as they fantasize about sex? Ah, yes…food. This culinary cliché can be found all throughout pop culture. From the porn favorite “pizza delivery boy,” to phallic hotdog references, to whipped cream bikinis, food and sex have been combined in many ways.
Yet, Jessica Winter found a way to weave in food without going overboard, a pie encounter that would make Stiffler’s mom hang her head in shame.
“It started with a cherry pie.”
Movie Night
Throughout the coming blog days, I plan to discuss some of the most common erotica clichés and highlight examples of authors gone right, providing proof to the belief that although equally effective, erotica is smarter than pornography.
Exhibit 1: Food
What do people fantasize almost as much as they fantasize about sex? Ah, yes…food. This culinary cliché can be found all throughout pop culture. From the porn favorite “pizza delivery boy,” to phallic hotdog references, to whipped cream bikinis, food and sex have been combined in many ways.
Yet, Jessica Winter found a way to weave in food without going overboard, a pie encounter that would make Stiffler’s mom hang her head in shame.
“It started with a cherry pie.”
Movie Night
A New Coat of Paint
A photographer friend and I used to "creatively challenge" each other by picking a phrase (a song lyric, whatever) and then creating our interpretation of it, he through photography and I through the written word. Here's a piece I suspect I'll never submit anywhere...
New coat of paint
My mother was the stereotypical corner shop hairdresser. Some of my fondest and most formative memories are a result of spending sunny, school-free days in the shop. I heard my first cuss word there and learned that a diaphragm is not a drawing that architects follow. I’d sit in the silver padded chair and pump myself up to the moon and spin until I felt nauseas. I’d watch as my mother’s lacquered fingernails made quick work of the curlers in the hair of her mouthy, platinum-haired patrons.
“Appearance is everything,” she often reminded me. “How we decorate ourselves on the outside is a direct reflection of who we are on the inside.”
My favorite thing was to watch her give manicures. I loved how she would file and shape the nails into perfectly rounded tips. I loved to watch her massage the oil into the cuticles. I loved to watch her buff the nails into a clean shine. But mostly I loved when she and the customer would let me pick out the nail color for the finishing touches.
The first time I approached the wall of color, I felt overwhelmed. There were so many colors of polish, stacked neatly on four thin plastic shelves, neatly arranged from the lightest hue to the most shockingly vibrant. Certainly even Mr. Crayola himself would bow in submission to this palate of polish.
My eyes bounced among the options trying to pick that perfect color.
“Hurry up, sweetie,” my mother said hurriedly as she fanned the woman’s nail bed helping the clear, basecoat of polish to dry.
I chose a juicy red. It was the color of my tricycle and felt just as fast. I imagined how it would glitter on the woman’s fingers, how it would simmer along with the embers of her cigarette that she would balance between the nails of her thumb and forefinger.
I smiled proudly as I handed my prize choice to my mother.
She took one look at my stretched out hand and pushed it away as though it turned her stomach. She scrunched up her face and squeezed her eyes shut, perhaps trying to block the sight from her mind. “Not that color. Only tramps wear bright red polish. Pick another color,” she said.
**********************************************************************
My mother left an imprint on me far beyond that shop on the corner. Not only had I inherited my mother’s broad hips and brooding demeanor, but also her preference for passive nail polish.
They always had such sweet names. I wore Pleasantly Peachy on my first real date with a boy.
Pretty in Pink the first time we made love.
Lovely in Lavender the night he proposed.
Purely Pearly on my wedding day.
Sweetheart Pink on our last wedding anniversary.
But tonight I feel strangely empowered as I apply this new coat of paint, slowly stroking with the brush one last time, just to get it right. I searched for just the right shade for tonight, perusing up and down the aisle at the store, looking for that perfect hue with an equally perfect name.
Finished, I stretch my arm out in front of me to admire my handiwork. Satisfied, I plop the polish bottle into my purse, label up: Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I write my husband the goodbye note informing him that I want a divorce. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I back out of our driveway and head toward the hotel. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I pick up the extra key that was left at the front desk for me. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as my, oh so sexy and oh so married co-worker greets me at the door and throws me onto the bed. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I drag my nails across his back as he presses over and over into me. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I catch a glimpse of my freshly painted nails and as I hear my mother’s words echo in my mind, “Only tramps wear bright red polish.”
I smile as I think to myself, “Yes mother. Yes we do.”
New coat of paint
My mother was the stereotypical corner shop hairdresser. Some of my fondest and most formative memories are a result of spending sunny, school-free days in the shop. I heard my first cuss word there and learned that a diaphragm is not a drawing that architects follow. I’d sit in the silver padded chair and pump myself up to the moon and spin until I felt nauseas. I’d watch as my mother’s lacquered fingernails made quick work of the curlers in the hair of her mouthy, platinum-haired patrons.
“Appearance is everything,” she often reminded me. “How we decorate ourselves on the outside is a direct reflection of who we are on the inside.”
My favorite thing was to watch her give manicures. I loved how she would file and shape the nails into perfectly rounded tips. I loved to watch her massage the oil into the cuticles. I loved to watch her buff the nails into a clean shine. But mostly I loved when she and the customer would let me pick out the nail color for the finishing touches.
The first time I approached the wall of color, I felt overwhelmed. There were so many colors of polish, stacked neatly on four thin plastic shelves, neatly arranged from the lightest hue to the most shockingly vibrant. Certainly even Mr. Crayola himself would bow in submission to this palate of polish.
My eyes bounced among the options trying to pick that perfect color.
“Hurry up, sweetie,” my mother said hurriedly as she fanned the woman’s nail bed helping the clear, basecoat of polish to dry.
I chose a juicy red. It was the color of my tricycle and felt just as fast. I imagined how it would glitter on the woman’s fingers, how it would simmer along with the embers of her cigarette that she would balance between the nails of her thumb and forefinger.
I smiled proudly as I handed my prize choice to my mother.
She took one look at my stretched out hand and pushed it away as though it turned her stomach. She scrunched up her face and squeezed her eyes shut, perhaps trying to block the sight from her mind. “Not that color. Only tramps wear bright red polish. Pick another color,” she said.
**********************************************************************
My mother left an imprint on me far beyond that shop on the corner. Not only had I inherited my mother’s broad hips and brooding demeanor, but also her preference for passive nail polish.
They always had such sweet names. I wore Pleasantly Peachy on my first real date with a boy.
Pretty in Pink the first time we made love.
Lovely in Lavender the night he proposed.
Purely Pearly on my wedding day.
Sweetheart Pink on our last wedding anniversary.
But tonight I feel strangely empowered as I apply this new coat of paint, slowly stroking with the brush one last time, just to get it right. I searched for just the right shade for tonight, perusing up and down the aisle at the store, looking for that perfect hue with an equally perfect name.
Finished, I stretch my arm out in front of me to admire my handiwork. Satisfied, I plop the polish bottle into my purse, label up: Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I write my husband the goodbye note informing him that I want a divorce. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I back out of our driveway and head toward the hotel. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I pick up the extra key that was left at the front desk for me. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as my, oh so sexy and oh so married co-worker greets me at the door and throws me onto the bed. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I drag my nails across his back as he presses over and over into me. Fiery Vixen Red.
I smile as I catch a glimpse of my freshly painted nails and as I hear my mother’s words echo in my mind, “Only tramps wear bright red polish.”
I smile as I think to myself, “Yes mother. Yes we do.”
Read some of my published work
For those of you wanting easier access to some of my published writings, here are some links.
Coffee Lover
Born of Shadows
Ah…my official debut…
Coffee Lover
Born of Shadows
Ah…my official debut…
Writer Stalled
To those of you who were wondering when you might see some of my newest work, you should know that I'm purposely a bit stalled. I have a couple pieces in consideration by some editors and I want to hear back from those before I focus on new work. I can only keep so much in my mind at once. Although, I may get inspired and start a new one anyhow. The ideas appear randomly sometimes.
A Home For Fans of Velvet Moore
I'm new to this whole blogging thing, so give me a break. I figured that as an somewhat active erotica writer, I should join the world of bloggers and provide my perspective on the world . Or at least semi-indulge this part of my persona. Will be working on adding new content. Stay tuned!
VM
VM
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