By
Cynthia W. Gentry (Guest Blogger)
I’d
like to tell you that my road to publication was the result of some
magic formula of craft, persistence, and tolerance for rejection. And
it was all of those. But it was also the result of a the
relationships I’d built with other authors, my network, and luck.
I
didn’t set out to become a writer of erotica and erotic romance,
although the Barbie-doll nudist camps I staged as a child might
suggest otherwise. It is true that I’ve been a writer for as
along as I can remember. When I was nine years old, I made my first
book by hand for some long-forgotten class project: I fashioned the
covers out of cardboard and colored paper and printed out each story
painstakingly by hand, and then bound the whole thing together with
green yarn.
The
stories themselves were populated not with the fairy princesses you
might expect from a little girl growing up in conservative Southern
California in the late 1960s, but with ghosts and talking animals.
One story that proved of particular interest to my future therapists
starred a lion cub whose mother told her that if she roared too
loudly, no lion would ever want to marry her. (At the end of the
story, she roars anyway, and saves everyone. Huh.)
In
1973, the Richard Lester version of “The Three Musketeers” hit
the movie theaters. My best friend Dana and I promptly became
obsessed with 17th century France, and stumbled upon the
Angelique series of novels by Anne Golon. Dana and I spent
long afternoons alternately devouring what was known at the time as
“bodice-rippers” books and writing long, romantic tales starring
ourselves as the heroines. How did two virginal drama geeks deal with
sex? We’d end the scenes with our heroine and hero falling into
each other’s arms, and then primly cut away.
Ending
Writer’s Block—With Erotica
Flash
forward. I went to college and got a degree in English, taking
several creative writing classes, and then went off to graduate
school for journalism. I pushed my dreams of fiction writing to one
side as I focused on making a living wage. I dabbled in
screenwriting, and rehashed old short—mostly autobiographical—from
my college days.
But
sometime in my late 20s, around the middle of my first, too-early
marriage, I got the world’s worst case of writer’s block. My
desire to write disappeared, along, I might add, with my libido. It
turns out that ongoing resentment is not an aphrodisiac.
My
libido—although not my marriage—was saved when I discovered
erotica. I don’t know what made me pick up Anaïs Nin’s Little
Birds. All I know is that when I read those stories, I felt
desire again, and one night, I sat down and started typing out one of
my racier fantasies—a threesome that featured phone sex, a male
hooker, light bondage and a New York hotel room.
Three
thousand words later, I’d written “Just Friends,” and my
so-called writer’s block was gone.
I
sent “Just Friends” to a few magazines, and got a few rejections.
I showed it to a few friends. But mostly, it stayed on my computer.
Meanwhile, I got divorced. I started a graduate program in creative
writing. I kept writing stories, and I started a novel that featured
a lot of comically bad sex gleaned from my experiences of being newly
single.
Here’s
where that network of writers comes in.
Writing
24 Stories in 4 Months
One
day I received an email a woman with whom I’d been in a writing
group. She was working for an East Coast publisher. An author had
approached them with a proposal for a book on tantric sex—a topic
that I knew nothing about. The book, Red Hot Tantra, would use
short stories to illustrate the author’s how-to instruction. They
felt the author, a man, needed a female voice for the stories. “You
write erotica, don’t you?” she asked. “Are you interested?”
Yes, and of course, I answered.
Suddenly,
I found myself signed up to write 24 short erotic stories in about
four months—despite the fact that it often took me four months to
write one story, let alone 24.
I
soon discovered the dirty secret of writing about sex: most of the
time, it isn’t that sexy. I camped out at my local cafe, brow
furrowed, face occasionally buried in my hands. I didn’t sit there
heaving and blushing and sighing as my fingers pecked away at the
keyboard. I spent a lot of time staring into space, puzzling over how
to describe a particularly athletic sexual position. But I didn’t
have the time to fret over every word, and that kept writer’s block
at bay. With the deadline looming, I just had to get words on the
page.
How
did I describe my characters’ intimate acts without sounding either
hopelessly corny or disgustingly explicit? I tried to create
believable characters, characters I liked, characters with
personality and quirks and issues and fears and hopes. I tried to get
inside their heads, whether I was writing about the 60ish couple
discovering the fun of spanking, the single guy trying to get over
his ex-girlfriend, or the young woman experiencing her first orgasm.
It’s
an approach I still use when writing about sex. I try to avoid
metaphors in favor of clear, straightforward description with lots of
sensory detail. There’s a difference between explicit and specific.
Explicit gives you a laundry list of body parts and acts. Specific
takes you there, so you’re in the room.
Red
Hot Tantra led to more nonfiction books on sex with the same
publisher: The Bedside Orgasm Book (renamed Mindblowing
Orgasms Every Day), What Men Really Want in Bed, Secret
Seductions, and What Women Really Want in Bed. But I still
held on to my dream of writing fiction.
So
what happened to that first erotic story, “Just Friends”? As it
turned out, my editor for Red Hot Tantra went on to launch a
website for erotic romance. I sent “Just Friends” to her, and in
2008, a decade after I’d written it, she published it. She also
asked me if I thought I could develop it into a novel. “Yes!” I
answered, thrilled.
Little
did I know that it would take me another eight years to do it,
in between raising a child and a series of corporate jobs. It wasn’t
until I got laid off, and Holly gave me a serious deadline, that I
finally hunkered down and finished the book that became Three
Days.
In
one of those weird twists of publishing, the French rights to Three
Days sold first, and Bragelonne/Milady published it in April
2016. We’re still trying to sell the English rights, and I’m
trying not to get discouraged. In the meantime, I’m working on the
sequel: Three Months.
I
hope you enjoyed the story of my path to publication. I would love to
hear from you!
Excerpt
from Three Days
The
story: On a trip to New York, Claire's boyfriend Trey makes one of
her wildest sexual fantasies come true with the help of a male escort
named Rich. Back home in San Francisco, Claire can't stop thinking
about Rich, who's awakened her secret desire to be sexually
dominated. When Rich shows up in San Francisco, he draws Claire and
Trey into a sensual journey that tests Claire's limits over three
erotic days.
The
following excerpt is from the first chapter of Three
Days. You
can read the entire chapter FREE
(and pick up some pretty awesome pleasure products and jewelry) on
the website UNBOUND.
*
* *
I
lead them
in to
the suite’s
living
area. Trey
rolls his
eyes toward
the bedroom
and grins.
I feel
my face
getting
warm as
I reach
past him
to pull
the door
shut.
“The
mini-bar is that way,” I tell them. I stick with tequila. Rich and
Trey pour themselves scotch from tiny bottles. I try not to think
about the bill. I’m suddenly very thirsty, and Rich goes to get
ice. While he’s gone, Trey sits down on an armchair and stretches
his legs out on the ottoman.
“Come
here,” he says. I squeeze into the chair with him. He looks into my
eyes. “It’s good to travel with you. Every time we do, I’m
reminded of what a hottie you are. Don’t make that face. You are. I
see how guys look at you.”
“Huh.
I see more women looking at you.”
There’s
a long pause. My mind is suddenly blank.
“Kiss
me,” he says.
My
heart begins pounding. This is ridiculous. I know this guy like the
back of my hand. “No tongue. Rich will be back any second.”
“Sure.
No tongue.”
I
tilt my head up and let him kiss me. At first he keeps his lips
closed. Then his tongue slips between my lips. The heady, peaty
fragrance of scotch fills my mouth.
“You
said no tongue,” I say, but I don’t pull my head away.
“I
lied,” he answers, and keeps going. I’d forgotten what a good
kisser he is. Then I hear the click of the lock and the door. Rich.
I
pull away from Trey, embarrassed. “Sorry, Rich.” But Trey doesn’t
let me go and Rich only smiles.
“Don’t
worry about it. It looked like fun.” He pours me a glass of water,
which he sets on the coffee table. He sits down on the ottoman, near
our feet.
“It
is fun,” Trey says. “She’s a good kisser.” He turns to me.
“Rich broke up with his girlfriend recently.” If this is
calculated to get my sympathy, it works.
“Oh
God,” I say. “Then you don’t need to watch us kissing.” I try
again to pull away, but Trey doesn’t break his grip.
“Yes,
I do,” Rich says.
At
times like these, there comes a moment when we make decisions. To
decide whether to stay with what is familiar and tell ourselves that
we are being good, or to go with the unknown. And though I don’t
consciously know it, it’s at this moment that I’ve chosen the
latter.
“There’s
only one problem,” I hear Rich say. Trey and I are kissing deeply
now. He has pulled me closer to him. I’m letting him stroke my
back, my ass. At Rich’s words, we stop and look at him.
“I’m
sitting
here
thinking
how much
I’d
like to
be kissing
those
beautiful
lips
myself.”
His words
are catnip
to me.
I’m
already wet
between my
legs, now
I feel
my lower
lips fill
with
warmth,
soften and
open. My
heart thuds
in my
chest.
Can’t
they hear
it? I
pull away
from Trey
and sit
at the
edge of
the chair.
This
man is a source, the fast-receding professional part of my mind tells
me. Or is he? There’s something going on that I don’t quite
understand.
I
look at Trey. I have a feeling he’s on his way to being drunk. And
so was I, but now I feel stone-cold sober.
“Go
for it,” he whispers, his voice husky. “Kiss him.”
I
picture myself as supremely benevolent, the Queen of Kisses,
bestowing them out of charity and goodwill. I take Rich’s face
between my hands and lean forward. My lips meet his and I’ve made
another decision.
I
start to really kiss him, my tongue searching out his, but he says,
“Wait. Slow down.” He puts a hand on my cheek and kisses me
gently with his lips closed, and then again. With each new kiss, he
begins to slip his tongue a little further between my lips. We begin
kissing deeply, his tongue playing with mine. Finally, I pull away.
“There,”
I say. “How was that? Do you feel more included now?”
He
smiles. “Trey is right. You are a good kisser. I’d like to kiss
you again.”
“Don’t
stop on my account,” Trey says. “Claire knows that I like to
watch.”
I
do? He does? I push the thought away. We shift our positions so that
I’m sitting on the edge of the chair with my back toward him, his
legs on either side of me. He puts his hands on my hips.
“One
more,” I say to Rich, telling myself that that will be the end of
it, but I know I’m wrong. As I kiss Rich, Trey leans forward and
slides his hands under my shirt, playing with my breasts. I feel him
nuzzle my neck, my ear. He unhooks my bra and gently rubs my nipples.
Then he slides one hand down my stomach into my pants. I freeze.
“Are
you okay, babe?” Trey whispers in my ear.
I
stare into Rich’s eyes. They are warm and earnest.
For
a split second no one moves. Then I put my lips to Rich’s again.
Trey’s hand continues its explorations down my pants, under the
waistband of my underwear. But because of the jeans it can’t get
much farther than that. I shift my hips almost involuntarily, trying
to give him access. His other hand leaves my breast and unfastens the
buttons of my jeans. He slides his hand back down and discovers the
wetness between my legs. I hear his intake of breath and I moan as he
caresses my clit. Meanwhile, Rich continues kissing me. My mind is so
full of sensations that I can’t think.
Again,
I pull away from Rich and lean back into Trey, whose hand is deep
inside my wetness. Rich takes off my shoes. He reaches for my jeans.
“We
should stop,” I say, but have no will to make that happen. They
have to
decide.
“Is
that what you want?” Rich asks me. “To stop?”
Buy
Three Days
The
English-language print and e-book rights to Three
Days are
still available. Please contact Holly
Schmidt or Linda
Biagi for
more information.
Contest:
Win the Sexy Seductions Card Deck!
With
Valentine’s Day just around the corner, the Sexy
Seductions Card Deck
makes
a perfect gift. It contains 50 exciting sexual adventures for you and
your partner. Visit my website and join my mailing list by
January 31 (you can always unsubscribe later), and I’ll select one
lucky reader to receive a card deck! Visit www.cwgentry.com
to join my mailing list and enter the contest.
Author Bio
In
addition to her fiction, Cynthia W. Gentry has written several
nonfiction books on sex and relationships, including What Men
Really Want in Bed: The Surprising Facts Men Wish Women Knew About
Sex (Quiver) and its sequel What Women Really Want in Bed
(Quiver). Both books have been translated into several
languages.
She’s also the author of Secret
Seductions: 62 Naughty Nights, Lusty Liaisons and Sexy Surprises
(Quiver) and Mind-Blowing Orgasms Every Day: 365 Wild and Wicked
Ways to Revitalize Your Sex Life (Quiver). Secret Seductions
is also available as the Sexy Seductions mini book and as The
Sexy Seductions Card Deck. She was the co-author, with David
Ramsdale, of Red Hot Tantra: Erotic Secrets of Red Tantra for
Intimate, Soul-to-Soul Sex and Ecstatic, Enlightened Orgasms
(Fair Winds Press), for which she wrote the erotica.
Cynthia
has been interviewed by magazines like Glamour and Cosmopolitan for
articles on sex and relationships. Her fiction and journalism has
appeared in Area i, The Montserrat Review and Reed Magazine, as well
as magazines such as budget savvy. She has also covered film
festivals for indiWIRE.com and has written for the Literary Arts
section of SFStation.com.
Cynthia has a master's degree
in journalism from the University of California at Berkeley, where
she was the recipient of the Edna Kinard Prize, the Alfred & Ruth
Thompson Perassolo Scholarship and a Regent's Fellowship. She
graduated with departmental honors from Stanford University with a
Bachelor of Arts degree in English.
