Charity Sunday: Rosie's Place - #Homelessness #Sanctuary #CharitySunday

Welcome to this month’s Charity Sunday.

I’ve been thrilled at the great response from other bloggers who’ve joined Charity Sunday over the past few months. It’s always enjoyable for me to see what causes my colleagues choose to support. I’ve noticed that many of you donate to local rather than national or international charities. So today, I thought I’d focus my Charity Sunday on a “local” charity, too: Rosie’s Place.

Of course, Rosie’s Place – the first homeless shelter for women in the US, established in downtown Boston in 1974 – is not exactly local to me any more. However, for years, when I lived in Massachusetts, I was an avid supporter. Homelessness is a persistent problem in the United States, despite our affluence, and in some ways it’s harder for women than for men. Women on the street are more likely to be victimized or brutalized. Homeless women often have kids to care for. And even in the twenty first century, it’s still harder for a woman to get a decent-paying job that will make it possible for her to pay for a roof over her head.

Rosie’s Place was born when its founder Kip Tiernan saw poor women disguising themselves as men to get a meal at men-only shelters. Think about that. Think about the danger, and the shame.

Rosie’s provides free meals 365 days a year; a food pantry with non-perishable items and fresh produce; showers, laundry and lockers; overnight beds for up to 21 days; and providers who offer health and wellness care. Rosie’s Place also offers job and life skills training, and connects its guests with legal and financial professionals who can help them navigate the complex maze of government assistance programs.

I could say more – but I urge you to go check out the organization's inspiring website. The bottom line? For every comment I receive on today’s post, I’ll donate two dollars to Rosie’s.

I have the perfect excerpt for you, too, from my lesbian tale The First Stone, first published in Cheyenne Blue’s anthology Forbidden Fruit: Stories of unwise lesbian desire and now available as part of my own short story collection, Burn,Baby. This story takes place in a women’s shelter in Boston, not all that dissimilar to Rosie’s, and explores the unlikely relationship between a recovering drug addict and a nun.

“You're kinda pretty, for a nun.”

The voice was low and throaty, laced with echoes of the ghetto. It dragged me away from the columns of figures marching down the screen in front of me, out of the well-ordered realm of accounting and into the messiness of our inmates' lives. Our guests, I corrected myself. Nobody was forced to stay at Serenity House.

“Um — excuse me? Can I help you?”

My interlocutor grinned at me. Her plump, mauve-painted lips framed teeth that were a shocking white in her ebony face. She shook her head. Cheap, brassy earrings dangled from her fleshy lobes, swinging back and forth over her bare shoulders.

“Just wanted to say hi. Oh, an' to ask if I can stay out past curfew tonight. Heard you were in charge.” She extended a hand tipped with hot pink fingernails. “I'm Magnolia. Me and Moonbeam just got here yesterday.”

November in Boston, two weeks before Thanksgiving, but Magnolia's skin felt August-hot. The woman's breasts almost overflowed the sequined tube top that constrained them. Below, she wore baggy sweatpants with a Celtics logo that didn't hide her more than ample curves. Her feet were crammed into open-toed high heels of scuffed gold-toned plastic. She towered over me. I felt pretty sure that would be true even if I were standing.

“Moonbeam?” Confronted by this apparition, I couldn't seem to manage more than a couple of words.

“My kid.” Magnolia indicated a diminutive toddler with kinky pigtails, sprawled on the floor of the common room, surrounded by alphabet blocks. Hard to believe that delicate child was the offspring of this Amazon.

“Ah — um — well, you're very welcome here, Magnolia. We're glad to have you with us.” I struggled for the warm yet professional manner I'd learned to adopt with our guests. Rising from my chair, I gave her hand a firm squeeze before relinquishing it. My skin tingled in the aftermath. I'd been right; she stood half a head taller than my five feet six inches, and probably weighed nearly twice what I did. “Have a seat, please. I'm Sister Kathleen Patrick, the assistant director. But I guess you know that.”

She settled her bottom into the chair I'd indicated. “Yeah, the other gals told me. Pleased to meet you, Sister.” Her plucked eyebrows knotted into a frown. “That what I should call you? I ain't had much experience with nuns.”

Her obvious concern made me chuckle. “'Sister' would be fine. Or you can just call me Kathleen. We don't stand on ceremony here at Serenity House.”

“Not like at Baystate Rehab. You forget to call one of the nurses 'Miz' or 'Mister', you lose privs for twenty-four hours.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brown forehead, which was beaded with sweat. The woman must have a furnace inside.

There was something lush and tropical about Magnolia. Her name fit her. She seemed totally out of place in this shabby office lit by the unrelenting gray of the late autumn sky. I could imagine her wrapped in a rainbow-hued sarong, dancing barefoot on a beach beneath swaying palms. Or swimming naked through the waves under a golden moon...

I hauled my thoughts back to the present. “Is that where you've just come from?” Not all our guests had substance abuse problems, but it was pretty common.

“Escaped is more like it.” She giggled. “This place's like heaven after Bayhab. Six fucking weeks — oh, sorry, Sister — I mean, six long weeks in that hellhole! Away from my baby, too. 'Course, I deserved it. All the junk I pumped into my veins, not thinkin' about who'd care for her if something happened to me. Then the OD — I really fucked up. Oh, I'm sorry, Sister!”

“Never mind. So you've made yourself comfortable, then? You're happy with your room?"

 

Yesterday had been my day off. Rachel must have done the intake. I reminded myself to check Magnolia's file after she'd left the office.

“It's great. I'm sharing with Lou-Ellen and her little boy. He's only a couple months older than Moonbeam. Food's good, too.” She flashed me another grin and glanced down at her generous body. “Not that I need it!”

Her laughter kindled mine. Our eyes met. Hers were espresso-brown, practically black, fringed with mascara-augmented lashes. They snagged me like magnets.

Something jolted through me — a lightning strike, a sudden storm, some personal earthquake. The floor dropped out from under my chair and I found myself suspended in space. My breath caught in my throat and perspiration soaked the armpits of my gray wool sweater. I'd been chilly before — we tried to stretch our donor's generosity as far as possible — but now I burned. I couldn't tear myself away from her gaze, though I knew I'd been staring far too long.

**** 

Magnolia could easily be one of Rosie’s guests.

Please be sure to leave a comment. Every one helps women in need.

And I hope you will visit the other bloggers joining today’s Charity Sunday blog hop. You’ll find links to their posts below.

Thank you!

I’m Back... (#SmutSunday #reviews #masturbation)

You might have noticed I was pretty scarce last week. Actually, I had an accident that required emergency surgery, and spent the time in the hospital. Don’t want to think about that now, though... I’m home working on recovering, and it’s Smut Sunday!

First, I want to thank everyone who left comments on my Charity Sunday post, July 9^th. If you haven’t had the chance to read or comment, there’s still time to do so. I will donate $1 for each comment I receive to my charity of the month, Rosie’s Place. The post will be open for comment until the second Sunday in August (Charity Sunday #3).

Speaking of Rosie’s Place, I got a personal email from them thanking me for doing the promotion. I was blown away. I’ve done quite a bit of altruistic erotica over the years. My impression has been that charities are happy to take money from smutmongers like me, but they don’t like to acknowledge it. Rosie’s definitely has class!

In other news, I just got another five star Amazon review for Damned If You Do. Moondancer called it a “sweetly-hot read with a great story”. Funny that she thought the BDSM was “not overly graphic and heavy”. I’m not sure I’d agree, but you know, different strokes and all...!

Finally, for my Smut Sunday offering, I’d like to send you over to the Unbound Box Magazine, to read my brand new erotic short “Watch Me”. Here’s the first few paragraphs.

“Watch me.”

She stretches out on the cool cotton sheets, back arched, arms above her head, fingers extended toward the headboard. Her spine lengthens and her muscles shift, tightening her belly, raising her breasts. The movement draws his attention—with her head thrown back she can’t see him, but she knows him well enough to predict his responses. Better, perhaps, than he knows her. Her nipples, always prominent, harden into rigid beads that ache for stimulation.

Unlike him, she knows how to wait.

She holds the pose for long moments, giving him the chance to appreciate her taut nakedness, before letting go and sinking back into the mattress. Then she turns toward him, toward the chair next to the bed where he sits, equally naked. As she’d guessed, he’s focused on the lush hills and valleys of her body—but not completely. Though his eyes devour her, his hands are busy elsewhere, stroking the fat, eager erection that rears up from his lap.

“Stop that, darling. I want your full attention. Concentrate on what I’m doing. Imagine what I’m feeling.”

“You look so hot, I can’t help it,” he protests, though he releases his cock, at least for the moment. It’s a beautiful cock, smooth and straight, with a rosy crown that’s already slick with his anticipation. She wants to swallow it, to straddle it, to feel its solid bulk slide into her and fill her. Not yet, though.

Read the rest of the story here: https://unboundbox.com/blogs/magazine/watch-me

And when you’re done, head back to Smut Sunday central for more lovely, sexy posts!

Charity Sunday 2: Rosie's Place (#CharitySunday #donation #homelessness)

Welcome to my second Charity Sunday. In case you missed the debut of this feature lastmonth, it works like this. On the second Sunday of each month, I devote my blog to a specific charity or cause. I’ll talk a bit about the charity I’m supporting, plus give you links to find out more. Then I’ll give you a sexy excerpt. (I am, after all, an erotic author!) You’re invited to comment on the excerpt or the post.

For every comment I receive, I will donate one dollar to the specified charity.

This month, I’m supporting Rosie’s Place, a women’s shelter and helping community in Boston, Massachusetts. I’ve been a Rosie’s Place donor for nearly three decades. They’re a hands-on demonstration of the power of love and respect in action. 
 

Rosie's Place was founded in 1974 as the first women’s shelter in the United States. Their mission is to provide a safe and nurturing environment that helps poor and homeless women maintain their dignity, seek opportunity and find security in their lives.

Today, Rosie’s Place not only provides meals and shelter but also creates answers for 12,000 women a year through wide-ranging support, housing and education services. Rosie’s Place relies solely on the generous support of individuals, foundations and corporations and does not accept any city, state or federal funding. Thanks to these donations, 88 cents of every dollar raised goes directly to services for poor and homeless women.

There’s so much I love about Rosie’s Place: their deep personal commitment to women of all ages and ethnic backgrounds; their understanding that helping women means helping their kids, too; their creative programs to build skills and self-respect, as well as to raise money; their recognition that each woman has her own story and her own path, with no “one size fits all”.

I’ve never been homeless, but one of my good friends from university spent months on the street. Although she was a brilliant young woman who’d been accepted by an Ivy League school, she had a psychiatric condition that required regular medication. If she went off her meds, she started acting truly crazy. That was the genesis of her homeless period. For some reason, I really identified with her situation. I guess I realized we’re all susceptible to bad luck.

I’ve written a couple of stories featuring homeless characters, and have several more roughed out in my notebook. Here’s a bit from my holiday story Slush, a holiday romance which is currently free as part of Smashwords Summer Sale.

“You say you found me near a fancy car? A silver Beemer?”

The kid pulled off his mittens to warm his fingers over the flames. “Sorry – I wouldn’t know. I really didn’t notice. I was busy trying to get you into my cart.”

Ian patted the pockets of his fleece-lined leather coat, then shrugged it off his shoulders. Finally the place was starting to warm up. “Did you find my keys?” He rifled the pockets of his soaked trousers, with increasing urgency as he discovered every one was empty. “Where’s my phone? My wallet?”

The youth looked up, face rosy from the fire. “The muggers probably took ‘em. Anyone can see you’ve got plenty of dough.”

Panic seized Ian by the throat. His iPhone, his Cartier watch, his Hermes wallet, all gone. No money. No credit cards. No way to communicate with the outside world. “How – how do I know you didn’t steal them?” He lunged toward the figure near the fire, sure he could shake his belongings out of those rags.

That stare, stripping him to the bone. That laugh again, like a crystal bell ringing in the cramped, stuffy ex-garage. “Come on! If it was me who ripped you off, why would I bring you back to my place?”

Drained by his sudden exertion, Ian collapsed back onto the lumpy mattress. “Ah – um – of course you’re right. Sorry. Thank you. I do appreciate your help, really I do. I’m just tired, and disoriented, and so thirsty...”

The kid retrieved a chipped mug from one of the crates piled up against the wall, filled it from a spigot above them, and handed it to Ian. “Here you go.”

Ian sniffed at the liquid before he took a sip. It smelled a bit musty, but he needed it too badly to care.

“I managed to score some aspirin today, too. Think you could use it more than me.”

His host popped two white tablets into Ian’s palm. He peered down at them, dazed.

“By Jesus! You think I’m gonna poison you?”

“No, no, of course not.” He washed the medicine down with more of the water. Somehow he felt better already. “You’re very kind.”

The young man shrugged once more. “Anyone would do the same.”

Not me. If I saw you lying in the gutter, I wouldn’t look twice.

The thought gave him more pain than the throbbing lump at the back of his head. Was it really true?

“Lie down. Rest. You hungry?”

Ian interrogated his battered body. “Um – no, I don’t think so.”

“Well I am. Gotta get out of some of these clothes first, though. It’s getting pretty toasty in here.”

The kid yanked off his woolen cap. Ian gasped as masses of fine golden hair spilled down over those narrow shoulders.

“You – you’re a woman!”

“Yeah – you didn’t know?” Her peals of laughter made him blush with embarrassment. Rage simmered underneath. No doubt she thought him a fool. It was so obvious now – the slender body swaddled in second hand sweaters, the little hands, the delicate features and fair complexion... But who would have expected to find such a pretty girl in a place like this?

“I’m sorry,” she said, gulping air in an attempt to smother her hilarity. “I sometimes forget. I’m not exactly a glamor queen these days.” She gestured at her raggedy clothing. “You don’t mind if I take some of this off, do you?”

Stunned, Ian shook his head. She peeled off a stretched out hoodie, two sweaters and a flannel shirt. After prying off her sneakers, she shed her baggy dungarees. Now she wore nothing but off-white athletic socks, a grass-green tee shirt and the scarlet long johns. Both of the latter clung to her willowy form, making it quite clear there was nothing underneath.

Despite his exhaustion and the pain in his head, Ian’s cock stirred inside his damp, hand-tailored trousers. You bastard, he thought. She saves your life, probably, and all you can think of is fucking her.

She didn’t notice. She was surveying her own petite body, the green top and red bottoms. “Wow,” she chuckled. “I look really Christmassy, don’t I?”

Her merriment was infectious. “All you need is a pointy cap and you could be one of Santa’s elves,” he told her.

Her face lit up with delight. “Thanks. I’m Daisy, by the way. Should have introduced myself before and spared you the shock.”

“That’s okay. My name’s Ian.”

She fixed him with one of those direct stares. Her eyes were gray, he noticed, not the cornflower blue he would have expected given her hair.

“Maybe you should take off your own wet things, Ian. Wouldn’t want you to catch pneumonia, or anything – after all the work of dragging you back here!”

~~~

Head over to Smashwords and get your own copy of Slush, absolutely free. Before you go, though, I hope you’ll leave me a comment. Remember, I’ll donate one dollar to Rosie’s Place for every comment I receive. I hope you will help me spread the word, too.