In Praise of Flirting - #Flirting #MeToo #ComingTogether

Image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay

 

Sometimes I think it’s more fun to flirt than to fuck.

Of course, I’ve always been focused more on the experience of arousal than on the ultimate release. That’s just the way I’m wired. When I recall my most intense erotic adventures, I don’t remember the orgasms, but rather, the inexorable upward ramp of desire, the thrilling anticipation of what was to come.

You get a lot of the same pay-off from flirting, without the attendant risks.

Knowing someone wants me—realizing the power I have over my partner’s body and imagination— it’s heady, almost addictive. Kick me out of the feminist union if you want, but I love being seen as a sex object. I don’t mind the fact that men (or women) might be watching and lusting after me. Quite the contrary. I do the same, after all, discretely ogling strangers, fantasizing about their hidden charms.

Flirting goes a bit further, but not much. Flirting requires an acknowledgment. A smile. A wave. An exchange of greetings, moving on perhaps to compliments or double-entendres. Underneath it all, there’s the excitement of mutual attraction, the pleasurable buzz of arousal that doesn’t need to be consummated to be enjoyed.

When you flirt, you don’t need to worry about practicality or propriety. I can chat up the lanky twenty-something barista at my local coffee shop, basking in the heat I feel in his gaze, despite the fact that I’m forty years older and happily married. I can shoot back some clever response to the burly construction worker who gives an appreciative whistle as I walk past, though I know we have nothing in common. I’ve brightened his day. He’s done the same for mine. Maybe he’ll fantasize about me as he’s jerking off. That doesn’t bother me. I might take the same liberties.

Flirting is most satisfying, though, with an intellectual equal. I remember a small party, years ago, with some university friends, hosted by a very appealing philosophy professor and his wife. We’d gathered to create homemade cheese tortellini. Christopher had dark eyes, the graceful long-fingered hands of a musician, a devilish smile and a delightfully agile mind. As we worked together—he cutting neat squares of pasta dough which I filled and twisted closed—we discussed politics, solipsism, and the works of Robertson Davies.

At one level, the topics of our conversation hardly mattered. The focus was the magnetism, the sexual tension that flickered between us. At the same time, the mental gymnastics in which we engaged added to the pleasure. If we were ever to connect, we knew the bond would be more than physical. Not that either of us really considered going further— well, of course, I don’t know in detail what was going on in his mind, but both our spouses were present, and I had no inkling his marriage was in any way less satisfying than mine. But reality was irrelevant. Flirting is all about fantasy, about possibilities that will very likely never materialize but which nevertheless excite.

The detail with which I remember this particular long-past incident of flirtation is testimony to how much it affected me.

I worry, however, that flirting will become a dying art. These days, flirting is often conflated with unwanted sexual attention. A respectful and well-meaning compliment is likely to be interpreted as inappropriate, offensive or threatening, while a friendly wolf whistle will get you roundly condemned as a sexual predator. I mentioned above that flirting involved lower risks than full-out sex, but in today’s hyper-vigilant climate that might not be true.

Where’s the line, though, between flirtation and harassment? How can someone distinguish between innocent innuendo and potential abuse? When does sexual objectification become demeaning or dangerous, rather than fun?

I don’t have an easy answer to these questions. It might depend on mutuality, or on the certainty that a lack of reciprocity would immediately put a halt to the unwanted attention. I do know that individual reactions vary. I’m sure that some of the actions that I’d accept as flirtatious behavior would be condemned as unacceptably sexist by some women.

At the same time, I’m certain that life would be far less colorful and entertaining if every expression of sexual interest between strangers were banned.

Given my appreciation of flirting, you’d expect it to show up frequently in my writing. In fact, I have very few stories that feature this sort of interaction. I know most readers aren’t like me. They’re looking for physical, not just fantasy, sex.

I did find a few prominent examples, though. Here’s one of my favorites, from the short story “Test Drive”, which appears in the altruistic erotica anthology Coming Together: On Wheels, edited by Leigh Ellwood and benefiting UNHCR.

“Hey there, pretty lady.”

His drawl rumbled through me, an avalanche of heat, melting everything in its path. My hair flew as I turned back in his direction.

I’d intended to scold him for his barely polite greeting. The words caught in my throat as I took him in.

He lounged in the doorway of the Indian motorcycle showroom, hands in his pockets, broad shoulders braced against the frame, one lean, denim-clad leg crossed over the other—six feet of loose-limbed masculinity. A sand-colored braid hung down across his solid chest, almost to his waist. The rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt revealed tanned forearms furred with golden down. His sun-bronzed face wasn’t classically handsome, but when his bright blue eyes snagged mine, I couldn’t look away.

Thirty. Thirty five at most. I could almost be his mother. Shocking that all I wanted to do was tear off my conservative skirt and blouse and throw myself into those obviously strong arms.

“Want to come for a ride, darlin’?”

“Ah—huh—what?” A master’s degree in library science, reduced to inarticulate mumbling by a bit of flirting. What was I, a teenager?

“Got a sale going on, through next week. Discounts of twenty to thirty percent on all our models. I have to say you’d look fantastic on a bike, Miss.” He unfolded himself from his casual pose and handed me a business card. “I’m Jack Taggart. Top sales associate in the Midwest, three years running. And you are…?”

It’s none of your business who I am, I wanted to tell him. Fat chance. “Um—Alice. Alice Robinson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Robinson.” Apparently helpless to resist, I accepted the large, calloused hand he held out. Lighting sizzled through me as our palms connected. “Or is it Mrs. Robinson?”

His cocky grin sent blood rushing to my cheeks. I straightened my spine and tried to regain some sort of control over my autonomic functions. “Mrs. My husband died four years ago.”

“Oh—I’m so sorry…”

He gave my hand a sympathetic squeeze. With some difficulty, I pried it out of his grasp. What if one of my co-workers came by? “That’s okay. He was sick for quite some time. In some ways it was a blessing.”

“Still, it must be hard for you—being alone and all.”

I shrugged. I missed Ben, but I had to admit I enjoyed some aspects of being single. Aside from work, my time was my own. I didn’t have to answer to anyone—except, occasionally, my daughter on the West Coast. I smiled up into those sky-colored eyes, noting the crinkles at the corners. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as young as I thought.

“What makes you think I’m alone?”

“Well, I admit that it’s unlikely a woman as lovely as you would be unattached...”

“Is this how you got to be the top-ranked salesman? Flattering the customers?” I flipped a lock of hair over my shoulder and smoothed my skirt down over my lap, very aware of the dampness underneath. It might be the purest bull, but that didn’t stop me from reacting.

“That’s not fair, Alice—can I call you Alice?” He continued without waiting for my nod. “First of all, it’s the God honest truth. You are the most beautiful woman who’s walked by the shop in days.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll bet you told the same thing to the last half dozen.”

“No way! Secondly, I’m the best because I love the bikes. I know pretty much everything about the full Indian line, from the Scout to the Roadmaster. I don’t just sell them. I can repair ‘em, too—did a six month mechanics training course in Minnesota. And of course I ride, these days a Chief Dark Horse. Started on a vintage 1950 Black Hawk, when I was sixteen.”

He paused his monologue to give me another appreciative once over. “You ever been on a bike, Alice? I know you’d love it.”

“I’ve never been that inclined to risk my life,” I replied with a chuckle. It was difficult for me to maintain an attitude of skepticism in the face of his enthusiasm and his obvious admiration.

“It’s no riskier than driving a car. And so much more fun! The speed—the freedom—the sense of control—there’s nothing like it. It’s addictive. Come on, Alice. Let me take you on a test drive.”

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Of course, in this story, the protagonists do eventually have sex. But they have an awful lot of fun flirting first.

Review Tuesday: The Tutor by K D Grace - #EroticRomance #Haphephobia #ReviewTuesday

The Tutor by K D Grace

Totally Bound Publishing, 2016

How can you make love to someone you can’t touch?

Sex might be about bodies, but eroticism starts in the mind. This truth (or belief, if you disagree with me) fuels much of my own erotic writing. It lies at the heart of K D Grace’s audacious erotic romance The Tutor.

Renowned but reclusive sculptor Lex Valentine suffers from haphephobia, the result of a terrible childhood trauma. He cannot touch, or be touched by, another human being without suffering acute physical distress, to the point of vomiting or blacking out. His personal assistant Dillon and the rest of his attentive staff try to protect him from risky situations, and Lex has adapted to his ailment by pouring all his frustration, loneliness and passion into his art. Still a virgin in his thirties, he has almost given up on the possibility of love or sex.

Kelly Blake earns her living as a romance author, while moonlighting as a sex tutor. She’s not a sex therapist; generally she maintains a hands-off approach with her clients, offering acceptance, honest analysis, expert advice and encouragement, to help them achieve greater satisfaction from their sex lives. Her work as a writer has helped her develop a deep understanding of relationships and sexual dynamics which she applies in her shadow career.

Through a mutual acquaintance, Lex books a sex tutoring session with Kelly. Their immediate erotic connection terrifies them both—Lex because he wants so much to touch her, Kelly because their mutual masturbation breaks all her rules about professional distance. In the aftermath, however, Lex senses that Kelly may well be the person destined to free him from the burden of his fears. He discreetly pursues her, until an unscrupulous TV journalist precipitates a crisis that forces Kelly to go into hiding at Lex’s estate.

Kelly and Lex grow closer, but Lex is still far from being able to caress her as they both desire. Instead, they have intensely erotic encounters through various surrogate objects, including Lex’s sculptures and, notoriously, a can of pears in heavy syrup. Not until the very end of the novel, after Lex rescues Kelly from serious danger, do the two actually engage in physical intercourse. However, no reader will doubt that they’ve been making love all along, at a distance, from their very first meeting.

I loved the original concept of The Tutor and I found the sex-without-touching scenes highly arousing. I could readily believe someone with Lex’s phobia might satisfy his sexual needs this way. In this novel, K D Grace masterfully demonstrates my personal tagline: “Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac”.

The plot, however, struck me as somewhat contrived. In particular, events depend on unexpected connections and relationships between the characters. For example, Dillon is the cousin of the Andy, the college kid who works mowing Kelly’s lawn. Andy’s girlfriend Jenny turns out to be related to a colleague of the nefarious reporter. Kelly’s best friend just happens to be the ex-wife of the PR guy handling Lex’s exhibitions. And so on.

Of course, most people don’t read erotic romance for the plot! Certainly, if you’re looking for romantic heat, The Tutor will bring you to a boil—even though the protagonists hardly touch one another until the last few pages of the story.

Someone Else's Skin (#characters #research #empathy)

Kate O'Neill, the heroine of my first novel, had quite a lot in common with her creator. Like me, she was petite and curvy, loved to dance, and was sufficiently adventurous to go live in Thailand. She had graduate degrees and worked as a software engineer, just as I did. True, she had flaming red hair – I've always wanted coppery curls instead of my mousy brown – and she was quite a bit younger than I was when I dreamed her up, but I think it's fair to say that many of her emotions, reactions and fantasies mirrored my own. Most importantly, the journey of sexual self-discovery that she undertook in Raw Silk paralleled my personal sexual quest, in spirit though not in detail.

Writing Raw Silk was surprisingly easy. All I had to do was look inside my own heart.

I shared a lot with Miranda Cahill, the protagonist of Incognito, too. Not physically – Miranda was a tall, slim brunette. However, otherwise, she was much like me in during my (many) years in college and graduate school: shy, hard-working, so serious that she doesn't always understand other people's jokes, but seething with desire and sexual curiosity underneath her prim, good-girl exterior.

By the time I got to Ruby Maxwell Chen, in Nasty Business, I was beginning to create characters whose emotions and history weren't copies of my own. For one thing, Ruby was bossy, bitchy and competitive – nothing at all like me...! Ruby was also far richer than I could ever dream of being, and part Chinese. I tried to make her cultural heritage an integral aspect of her personality. With Exposure's Stella Xanathakeos, I moved even further from my roots and comfort zone. Stella is working class and not particularly well-educated. She's streetwise in a way that I, a product of the suburbs and the American middle class, will never be.

In recent years, I've challenged myself to write characters with whom I have very little in common. In my short story “Fire”, my nameless character is a young man from the American midwest with a fetish that compels him to arson. The story is told in the first person – there could hardly be a voice more different than mine. “Refuge”, the story I wrote for Alessia Brio's charitable anthology Coming Together: At Last, is narrated by a dark-skinned youth from the backwaters of northeast Thailand, forced to join the army and work as a guard in a refugee camp by his family's extreme poverty. My M/M paranormal romance novel NecessaryMadness features the rocky relationship between a homeless clairvoyant teenager and a bitter city cop.

As the social, psychological and experiential differences between me and my characters increase, it becomes more difficult to create characters with depth, breadth and believability. To succeed in capturing my readers, I need characters whose emotions and actions are both genuine and compelling. How can I step into someone else's skin and imagine his or her thoughts and feelings, when that person and I come from different worlds?

Part of the answer, for me, is my conviction that individuals, despite their backgrounds, histories, cultures and gender, are more similar than might be expected based on surface characteristics. Certain emotions are fundamental: fear, anger, desire, sorrow, joy. Although different people express and react to emotions differently, we all experience them. In fact, I think my job as an author is to elicit these emotions in my readers. The very act of creating characters with whom my readers can identify presupposes a level of emotional commonality.

So, when I am trying to create a character very different from me, I assume that I can still use my own emotional reactions as a starting point. This seems to work quite well for sexual desire. If my story requires a character whose sexual interests don't mirror my own, I begin by imagining a scene that does turn me on. Then I transplant my arousal to my character, focusing it on different objects or activities. In Raw Silk, my personal kinks drove the story, quite transparently. My lusts and fantasies still stoke the fire in my work, but now they're subterranean, roiling like molten rock beneath the surface of my characters' existence.

Imagination and analogy can take you a long way toward an understanding of life in someone else's skin. But this strategy will fail if not accompanied by research. Writing requires creation not only of your characters but also the world they inhabit. If you are writing a tale set in a different time period or culture (including a sub-culture), you need to have a deep sense of the world you're trying to evoke and the ways that it shapes its denizens. Assumptions, vocabulary, sexual practices and taboos will vary from one world to another. Sadly, I've read far too many historical romances in which the characters wear period costumes but think and act like representatives of modern Western culture.

So if you are writing, for instance, a homoerotic tale, you can't simply rely on your imagination to tell you how gay men interact. You need to watch and read gay porn. You need to talk to gay men and read about their experiences. In the case of M/M erotic romance, it also helps to read other authors in the genre and figure out what works and what doesn't.

This brings up the fascinating issue of realism versus expectations. I will use M/M erotic romance as an example here, but the same question arises with BDSM or interracial or lesbian or historical erotica. Readers have certain notions about what to expect from a particular genre. In the M/M romance I have read, the rough aspects of gay sex rarely appear. Furthermore, the fear of homophobic attacks, the stigma of being gay in an ostensibly straight society, the effects of HIV on the gay community, are mostly absent. I suspect that if an author tried to be realistic about the experience of being a man who desires men, a significant segment of the readership for M/M romance would be turned off, possibly even upset.

The same could be said of BDSM erotica. Most BDSM tales present an idealized dominant who magically understands the needs of the submissive. (Raw Silk is no exception.) They ignore the far more common situation of insecure, incompetent, ego-tripping or genuinely cruel doms. They usually omit the lengthy negotiation process between dom and sub, in which the pair explores the submissive's squicks and limits. It's far more exciting to imagine a master so intuitive, so attuned to his slave, that he understands what she wants and needs without any prior discussion.

Thus, research by itself is not sufficient. Once you understand how your character's world is different from your own, you still need to decide which differences to highlight and which ones to discard. Reviewing the conventions of your chosen genre can help, but this can also be a trap, producing cookie-cutter stories where the characters and situations are far too predictable to be interesting.

Slipping inside someone else's skin and writing from their experience is tough. It requires considerable effort and judicious craft. Writing characters that are similar to me is far easier. Sometimes I feel like being lazy, just opening up my mind and letting my perversions flow unchecked onto the page. When I do, though, I run the risk that I'll just be writing Raw Silk, over and over again. To keep my work fresh, novel, exciting to other readers as well as to me, I need to get away from myself, to look through the eyes of characters who see the world differently.

Review Tuesday: Filthy by M. Christian (#outrageous #gay #erotica @MChristianZobop)

Filthy: Outrageous Gay Erotica by M. Christian

Alyson Books, 2006

M.Christian will do anything. That's what you'll be ready to believe if you read much of his work, and most particularly, this latest collection of his MM stories. The subtitle "outrageous" is appropriate, as much for the ancillary action and the themes of these tales as for their sexual content. The truth is that M.Christian can imagine anything, and describe it so convincingly that you can't help but believe that he has actually been through the experience.

In the chilling yet ultimately uplifting "Friday Night at the Calvary Hotel", we are meet a nameless drifter who accepts thirty thousand dollars to indulge another man's unusual kink: a lust to be crucified. "Suddenly, Last Thursday" introduces us to Sebastian, a diabolically talented chef who understands the incestuous relationship between physical and sexual hunger. "Imago" portrays the peculiar liberation of suspension bondage, being completely immobilized, mummified, blindfolded, gagged:

Breathing a cavernous roar in his ears, his heartbeat the trot of steaming horses, vision nothing but soft black, taste of his own sweat trickling down from his upper lip, touching nothing but steaming self, reflected back by his insular cocoon, ... between floor and ceiling, self and other, here and there.

"Heart in Your Hand" is simultaneously graphic and romantic in its portrayal of a relationship based primarily on fisting.

M.Christian does it all: sentimental nostalgia in "Happy Feet" and "Flyboy", gritty noir in "Bitch" and "The Hard Way", self-deprecating humor in "Moby", and futuristic angst in "Utter West". The latter was one of my favorite stories in the book, as much for its haunting depiction of adolescent desire and loss as for its portrayal of uber-suburbia of the future and its discontents. Another favorite was "The Greener Grasses", with its searing D/s scene and its final ironic twist.

The sex in these stories also varies, from gentle and tentative to rough and urgent. None of the stories, though, is only about sex. I found myself wondering whether gay men would be turned on by these tales—and whether they would be able to tell that M.Christian is in fact (if not in fiction) straight. In "About the Author", M.Christian imagines, in his usual vivid detail, the disillusionment of a gay man discovering that his favorite author of queer smut is actually one hundred percent het.

Much of the other gay erotica that I've read has leaned heavily on the physical. This author, though, is at least as interested in the emotional and yes, the spiritual, dimensions of sexual encounters as he is in muscular buns, tanned pecs, thick uncut cocks, salt, sweat and jism. I don't know how a gay man would react to these non-physical complexities, but they suit my preferences perfectly. If your tastes match mine, you should pick up a copy of this intriguing collection.

Living Without Winter (#mm #winter #excerpt)

For the past thirteen years, I've resided in a tropical country where we have three seasons: the hot season, the rainy (and hot) season, and the laughably-titled "cool" season, when the temperature occasionally dips into the seventies. Thus, I've been deprived of winter for the better half of a decade. Before the move, though, I lived in rural New England for more than twenty years, so I have plenty of experience with all the joys the season brings: blizzards, ice-storms, and that nightmarish anomaly that seems to be a Massachusetts specialty, freezing rain. I remember winter only too well: power outages, snow tires, storm windows, shoveling, hauling firewood, pulling all the winter clothes out of the attic, making sure your anti-freeze is full... After spending two years in balmy California then returning to my native clime, I came to realize that winter in a place with serious weather is an incredible amount of work.

I usually go back to the U.S. once a year to visit family, but in the spring (during the excruciatingly hot season in my adopted country). Winter is a vivid but increasingly distant memory. I do find myself romanticizing a bit. I imagine the crisp, hushed beauty of a frigid night, when the stars glitter like faraway diamonds in the velvet sky. I remember the excitement of waking up to find the trees cloaked in a soft white blanket, the river frozen, the footprints of a rabbit the only sign of life in the snow-smothered world. I find myself missing the camaraderie of working with my husband to clear a path up our long driveway to the street - conveniently forgetting aching backs and frost-bitten extremities. Memories of childhood delights return to entice me: racing down a snowy hill on my Radio Flyer, digging snow houses out of the piles left by the plows, sitting on the wooden bench next to the flooded and frozen tennis court to don my cherished white figure skates. The scent of wood smoke hanging in the air - Campbell's tomato soup topped with Cheerios and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch after stripping off my soaked snowsuit - real cocoa topped with marshmallows to warm my numb fingers... I could go on and on. Yes, I do miss winter, no matter how hard I try to focus on the dangers and inconveniences it brought.

One of the side benefits of being a writer, though, is that we can use fiction to recreate what we've lost. I definitely do that when it comes to the erotic aspects of my work. The faraway sexual adventures of my youth provide seeds for many of my stories. I write partially to recapture the thrill of those heady days when I was exploring the joys and perils of passion.

In a similar vein, I can relive the experiences of true winter by incorporating the season into my fictional worlds. My M/M novel Necessary Madness is a winter's tale. In one of my favorite scenes, the protagonists, driving home in a storm, stop at a closed, snow-clogged highway rest area because—well, they can't wait any longer:

They’d left in a rush, barely polite. In their eagerness to get back to Rob’s apartment, they’d refused offers of coffee and breakfast. The one-hour trip from Petersham to Worcester seemed endless, especially since the state of the roads demanded extra caution.

Rob’s erection throbbed, painful and demanding. He guessed that Kyle was hard too, though with the bulky jacket and scarf, he couldn’t tell for sure. Kyle felt Rob’s gaze. He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question and his full lips curled into a smile, but he didn’t speak.

Rob couldn’t stand it any longer. They were coming down the hill into Gardner. There was a rest area near the city line. Rob yanked the steering wheel and the car swerved into the exit lane, cutting off a truck easing up from behind.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kyle yelled. The rest area hadn’t been ploughed yet. The Saturn skidded for several yards before it came to rest in a parking spot. Rob scrambled out, then came around to open the passenger-side door. “Come on. I just can’t wait anymore.”

The lot was deserted. Wind rustled the tall pines sheltering the building that housed the toilets, knocking clumps of snow onto the windshield. Rob grabbed Kyle’s hand and practically dragged him out of the car.

“Rob, it’s probably locked.”

“I’ll break down the door if I have to.” Rob was desperate. But the men’s room was open, although the electricity appeared to be off. Wan light entered via a dirty window near the ceiling. He pulled Kyle through the door and pressed him against the tiled wall, devouring his mouth. Kyle responded with equal passion. Rob ripped open the snaps on Kyle’s jacket and grabbed at his crotch.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to have you. Now. I can’t concentrate. I can’t drive. All I can think about is you.” He unfastened Kyle’s belt and unzipped his fly, then yanked the jeans down around Kyle’s knees. The young man’s cock sprang out, huge and ready. Rob cradled it in his hands, then squeezed hard. Kyle groaned.

“Rob, what if somebody comes?”

Rob chuckled as he wrestled with his own cold fly. “Somebody is going to come—you and me!”

“No, really. If a state trooper came in to take a leak and found us here—you might lose your job.”

“I don’t care. I can’t help it. Honestly, if I don’t fuck you right now…” Rob didn’t bother to finish the sentence. He turned Kyle to face the wall, bracing the other man’s hands against the cold ceramic surface. He wrapped his arms around Kyle’s chest and rubbed his cock back and forth in the boy’s ass crack. Kyle whimpered and ground his butt against Rob’s hardness, until Rob was sure he’d explode.

“Do it,” Kyle gasped, as Rob reached down and gripped his partner’s cock around the base. Kyle bent forward, presenting his rump. Rob spit on his fingers, then slipped one into the crevice between those pale globes. He probed the tight knot of muscle guarding Kyle’s entrance.

“I’ve got a rubber but no lube,” he whispered, wriggling his digit into Kyle’s rear hole. Kyle writhed in response. “Nothing but spit.”

“I can take it.” Kyle caught his breath as Rob inserted a second finger. “I can take anything you give me."

When I wrote this, I was there. All the sensory details were clear. I could feel the sickening swerve of the out-of-control vehicle, hear the pines groaning in the wind and the muted splat of snow blown onto the windshield. I shivered in the bitter chill of the unheated building, the scent of disinfectant rising in my nostrils, goosebumps prickling my bared flesh. Pasting the segment in here, I am surprised to note that almost none of the wintery sensations actually made it into the scene. The focus (appropriately, I hope) is on the sexual tension building between the characters. Winter is in there in the background, though, a contrast to the heat of my characters' desperate coupling.

Unlike some people who move to the tropics, I didn't leave my former home to escape from winter. Life is easier now, I'll admit, but I sometimes hunger for a taste of the cold, dark, snowy season and the complex emotions it evokes - fear, frustration, comfort, awe, hope. When the temperature drops below zero, you truly appreciate warmth. When the sun sets at four in the afternoon, you kindle a fire on the hearth to remind yourself light will return. Living without winter, I write to keep those feelings alive.

It's Not About Sex (#eroica #desire #genre)

Anyone who has read my blog posts will know that I have a bit of a problem with genre labels. My own work doesn't fit into neat pigeonholes, and often, the fiction I enjoy most is just as stubborn. I've found that the best books frequently defy categorization – or create new genres, which is basically the same thing.

Advocates of labeling claim that assigning books to particular genres helps readers find what they like. I'd argue that it's just as likely to discourage readers from picking up something new that they might actually love.

If you had to pin me down, though, I guess I’d label what I write most often as “erotica”. Of course, this is the kiss of death from a marketing perspective. Many readers have the (mistaken) idea that a book that calls itself erotica will include constant, graphic sex. Some people think that this also implies an absence of plot. I sigh when I encounter this sort of attitude, which seems to be to be quite wrong.

You want my opinion? (Well, of course you do, or you wouldn't be reading my post...) I think that erotica is not about sex, per se. Erotica is fiction that focuses on the experience of sexual desire. Sexual desire may be a concomitant or precursor to physical sexual activity, but it doesn't have to be. Desire in its many variants (arousal, lust, love, obsession) is fundamentally an emotional state or process. Thus, it's theoretically possible to write erotica that contains no overt sex at all. (More on this below.)

Conversely, a story that includes graphic sex does not deserve to be called erotica unless the author is primarily concerned with the characters' feelings about their encounters, and how those feelings affect the non-sexual aspects of the characters' lives. To the extent that sex is treated as a mindless, instinctual activity, a response to a stimulus that brings relief like a sneeze, it does not (in my view) merit the term erotic.

I've been a member of the Erotica Readers & Writers Association for more than a decade. ERWA has a list called Storytime, where members share their erotic fiction (and poetry) and ask for critiques. I don't participate in Storytime now – I just don't have the time – but the three or four years that I did had a powerful influence on my own writing.

In any case, I still recall one story that was posted on Storytime – at least ten years ago. I don't remember who wrote it, though I recall that it was a man. The main – indeed, the only – character is a soldier, staying in a cheap rented room somewhere, maybe Paris. A woman lives in the next room; the walls are thin. Night after night he listens to the sounds she makes coupling with her lover. He finds himself terribly aroused by this unseen female. He masturbates to her cries. He fantasizes about meeting her, about taking her lover's place. His obsession grows, his desire is unbearable, yet he still can't find the courage to knock on her door. Finally, one day, she's gone – the room next door is empty.

I found this story to be one of the most erotic pieces I've ever read. There was no sex involved, or at least none that involved the object of desire. Yet the tale managed to convey such a sense of yearning, a desperate, intense need – manufactured entirely out of the soldier's imagination.

That story (I really wish I still had a copy) has become my touchstone for erotica. I enjoy writing about sex, but like the soldier, it's the idea of sex that really turns me on. I've experimented, trying to write (and sell) erotica that keeps the physical side of sex to an absolute minimum. One story that falls into that category is “Stroke”, which originally appeared in Please Sir: Erotic Storiesof Female Submission, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. The male protagonist is a Dom who's bedridden in a rehab facility, partially paralyzed by a stroke. The heroine is his nurse, who suffers from kinky fantasies her boyfriend labels as sick and shameful. The dominant manages to fulfill Cassie's fantasies, without ever touching her.

~~~

"Look at me." His tone was softer but no less firm. I raised my eyes to his, which were the startling blue of glacial ice. I shivered and burned. "You're new, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, Sir," he corrected me. My nipples tightened inside my bra.

"Yes, Sir." Just his voice was enough to make me ache.

"What's your name?"

"Cassie, Sir. Cassie Leonard."

"Don't look away, Cassie. Look at me. Do you know who I am?"

"No, Sir. I just started at Lindenwood this week. Before that I was in the rehab department at Miriam Hospital."

"My slaves call me Master Jonathan."

My earlobes, my nipples, my fingertips, all seemed to catch fire. I wanted to sink through the floor. I didn't want him to see how his words excited me.

But he did see. I stared at my hands, knuckles white from gripping the rail.

"You have a boyfriend, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir, I do." An image of Ryan rose in my mind, his brown curls and uneven grin, muscled chest and hard thighs. I did love him, truly I did, with his quirky humor, his gentle fingers and his boyish ardor. He was a fine young man. My mother approved of him.

"He doesn't satisfy you." It was a statement, not a question. Tears of remembered frustration pricked the corners of my eyes. "Why not, Cassie? Is his cock too small?"

I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with a stranger, a patient, a half-paralyzed man forty years older than I was. I stole a glance at Dr. Carver. His mouth was firm but his eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

"No, Sir. His cock is fine." Ryan was justifiably proud of his meaty hard-ons.

"What is it then? Is he a selfish lover? Does he come too quickly for you?"

Guilt washed over me. Ryan would happily spend hours licking my pussy and fingering me, trying to get me off. The only way I could manage it was to think about scenes from the kinky porn I hid from him. Whippings and spankings, gags and handcuffs, all the clichés that I couldn't stop myself from wanting.

"Well? Tell me, Cassie. What do you need that he doesn't provide? What do you want?"

My mouth filled with cotton. I couldn't speak. I was acutely aware of my rigid nipples pressing against the starched fabric of my uniform. My clit pulsed like a sore tooth inside my sodden panties.

"Cassie, I'm waiting." His sternness sent electricity shimmering through my limbs. "Don't disappoint me."

I dared a glance at his face. His left eyelid drooped slightly. His eyes snared mine. I couldn't look away. One eyebrow arched in an unspoken question.

"I—um—I want him to, uh, to do things to me. That he doesn't want to do.” I tried to break away from his gaze, but the force of his will held me.

“Things?” He sounded amused. A fresh wave of hot, wet shame swamped my body. “What sort of things?”

“Uh—tie me up. Spank me. Use me. Treat me like his slave.” It all came out in a rush, the desires I'd never shared with anyone except Ryan. Even then, I'd only shown him the tip of the iceberg, the least perverted of my needs. “He wouldn't, though. He was shocked when I told him. Disgusted. Said that I had a filthy mind.” The tears that had gathered earlier spilled out over my cheeks.

“I imagine that you do, little one, delightfully filthy.” His voice was a caress, soothing and seductive. “I knew that right away, just from your reactions to my voice. Your deepest desire is to submit to a strong master, isn't it?”

“Yes—Sir.” I felt relief, now that I'd admitted my secret. He at least didn't seem to condemn me.

“You want to be beaten and buggered, shackled to the bed and split open by a huge cock. You want to bath in your master's come, maybe even his piss. To be forced to service his friends.”

It was thrilling and horrible, listening to him enumerating my darkest fantasies out loud. My clit felt the size of a ripe plum, swollen and juicy, ready to burst. I nodded, still finding it difficult to expose myself so completely.

“I will do those things for you, if you'd like.”

“You?” The suggestion startled me enough that I forgot the honorific, but he seemed to forgive my lapse. I searched his handsome, ravaged face. “How...?”

“Don't underestimate me, girl. I may not be the Dom I once was, but I can still make you burn for my touch. I can still make you beg.” He snagged the button on the end of its cord and raised himself to full sitting position. He moved more smoothly and easily than before. “Remove your clothing.” 

~~~ 

No sex at all in this story. Just overwhelming sexual need. Is it erotic? I think so. And I suppose at some level it is about sex – the kind of sex that happens in the mind.

I really do subscribe to the philosophy summarized by my tag line. Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac. For me, erotica deals, first and foremost, with the mental and emotional aspects of desire. The physical stuff is optional.

What My Characters Look LIke

One thing I’ve learned in my years of writing romance: readers want to know what characters look like. Usually that takes some effort on my part. When I create a character, I often don’t have a clear picture of his or her appearance. Oh, I’ll be able to tell you something about the body type, the hair color, the style of clothing, but ask me (for instance) what color the hero’s eyes are and I’ll have to make something up on the spot!

Some of my author friends find photos of their characters, and use those as they’re writing. I’ve done this, but only rarely. More often, after the book is published I’ll go to the stock photo sites looking for pictures that fit my mental images of the characters.

That’s what I did for The Gazillionaire and the Virgin. In the case of this book, though, it seems as though I knew my characters better, both physically and emotionally. Certainly the book has more description than is normal for me.

For instance, here’s Rachel’s first impression of Theo:

I hadn’t expected him to be so big. He’s well over six feet tall, I’d guess, with the shoulders of a football player. A rumpled white shirt and loose trousers hide the details of his body, but I don’t think he’s fat, just large. His smooth, young face seems incongruous paired with his giant’s frame. Shaggy black hair overhangs his forehead and grazes his collar. Behind dark-framed, unfashionable glasses, his eyes dart from one detail of my luxurious office to the next, finally settling on the rust-hued trunks of the redwoods outside my window. He sucks in a deep breathe then releases it in a long sigh. He doesn’t look at me.

And here’s Theo, admiring Rachel:

She’s not what I expected. She’s soft and full, not lean and angular like most Californians. None of the gym-toned muscles everyone sports here in the land of sunshine. And she’s young, much younger than someone so filthy rich has any right to be. Her designer watch must have cost more than two months of my professor’s salary. On the other hand, I can hardly complain about her wealth, can I, since my pet project is the beneficiary of her largesse?

Going through the book, looking for quotes, I realize that Rachel says a lot more about Theo’s looks than vice versa. That actually seems a bit of a reversal, since theoretically guys are supposed to me more visually oriented than women.

But then, as I may have mentioned previously, Rachel and Theo are anything but typical!

Fresh Tarts

By KC Vixen (Guest Blogger)

Firstly I would like to thank Lisabet for allowing me to post here.

Now an introduction, I am a new, well make that very new, Erotic Romance author. I write under the name of KC Vixen, oh yes, I am bit of a foxy lady. I am a long time published author in other romantic genres, but a writing friend, Lacey Roberts, suggested I try my hand at writing an erotic romance. I did, and I am hooked.

I have so far published two novellas, The Schooling Of Virgins and Satan’s Wench, and a third is almost finished.

I don’t know whether I have been walking around with my eyes closed never noticing a thing, but yesterday something strange happened.

My hubby loves grocery shopping. He can wander around for hours looking at things, says it relaxes him, while I am trailing along behind him grinding my teeth, because I hate it. My husband had heard of a new shopping mall opening up and he was eager to try it. Grudgingly I went with him, but I refused to go into the supermarket with him. Hell, I had been in the middle of a great sex scene for my upcoming story when he suggested we go out. The juices had been really flowing (in more ways than one).

I stood outside the supermarket fuming. What a waste of time I thought. Anyway, I glanced across to the other side of the shopping mall and at the top of the window, I saw a sign and I burst out laughing. I couldn’t see what type of shop it was because there were several people standing around blocking my view but I was able to read – Fresh Tarts. Obviously a cake shop, or maybe not?

The Schooling of Virgins

In a cloistered, 17^th century English village, a young woman’s virginity is prized above all else. Fraternisation with Outsiders is forbidden.

Emma’s cruel guardian, Gideon Batlow, rules the maidens of his kingdom with zealous piety, the sting of his cane on their bare buttocks, and the enforced wearing of crotch straps. Can Emma escape Gideon’s shackles, and find passion with the man she loves? An Outsider.

Buy Link: http://amzn.com/B00JHMWLEU

Satan's Wench

Alexander Satan owns the Pleasure Palace, an exclusive gentleman’s club where carnal delights abound.

Emerald is the auburn haired beauty he rescued from the sea. While training her to become his sex slave, they unwittingly fall in love.

When Emerald is captured by Slave Traders, will Alex be prepared to give up his hedonistic lifestyle to save her?

Excerpt from Satan's Wench

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“Mas’r, Mas’r.”

Where the hell had Samuel been all this time? And how dare he yell out like that. Alexander Satan strode from his study. I’ve a damn mind to whip his black ass.

He skidded to a halt in the vaulted hallway. His man was dripping wet and he carried a girl in his arms. She was drenched also.

“Found her in the water near the cove, Mas’r,” he panted. “Her nearly drowned, must be off the whore ship that sank.”

The girl was barefoot. She only wore a torn, stained shift and her pubic hair was clearly shown off by the wet, almost transparent cloth. Her long auburn tresses trailed over Samuel’s arms like liquid fire, and Alex’s groin tightened.

“Take her to the kitchen,” he said. If she hadn’t been such a beauty he wouldn’t have followed Samuel to the kitchen, but he couldn’t resist the urge to gaze upon this wench’s naked body.

Samuel laid the girl on the scrubbed kitchen table. “Now get your own clothes off before you catch a chill, Alex ordered. As Samuel stripped off his sodden jacket and bent down to pull off his ballooning trousers, Alex glanced at his back. The criss-crossing scars and puckered skin bore testament to the numerous severe whippings he had received from a previous owner.

“Get something to dry her with.” Hell’s teeth, Samuel was well hung. His black dick stretched ten inches or more. It was secured on one side by cock rings attached to a band on his inner thigh to prevent from him getting an erection.

The wench was unconscious, little wonder with a huge bump on her forehead. The shift was ruined so he ripped it from her and threw it on the floor. Her skin was white and smooth as the finest porcelain, her breasts were high and tight, crowned with dusky pink nipples. A tantalizing wedge of auburn pubic hair had him stretching out his hand to tweak some of the curls, before he slid his finger into her clit.

Samuel returned with towels. Alex snatched them out of his hands and started drying the girl. No, not a girl, she was a young woman. Seventeen or so, if he was any judge. She whimpered and her eyes flickered open. He had never seen such a brilliant green before.

“Get some clothes on man. I’m sick of looking at that big black dick of yours.” Samuel, grinning, bent down and pulled on the harem type pants he always wore indoors.

Her naked body was flawless, her skin smooth as fine porcelain, her rose tipped breasts creamy mounds of perfection. Her stomach was flat and smooth, her legs and thighs slim and shapely. He felt an overwhelming desire to bury his face in the triangle of pubic fluff. He wanted to open her, part the soft pink lips guarding her female recess and slide his tongue into her lush clit, to taste the sweet nectar he felt sure he would find there. Hell’s teeth, he admonished himself. Stop behaving like a cunt-struck youth.

He couldn’t remember ever having seen a more exquisite wench. He dried her hair first, lifting the gossamer strands up before dropping them. They tumbled over her shoulders and splayed out over her chest. Carefully he patted her body dry with the towel, lifting up her breasts, rubbing the nipples until the pale ruby buds burst forth from their dusky areolas. Squatting down he slid the towel up her legs. He was shocked to notice a tremor in his hands by the time he reached her inner thigh.

His forehead rested against her belly, he only had to stick out his tongue. He clenched his teeth, nudged her thighs apart with one hand and gently dried her. She smelt of salt, sand and woman.

He fought to control the rising desire her naked beauty aroused in him. His cock felt hard, a huge bulge straining against the cloth of his pants. His balls became sensitive, almost painful as they tightened in his crotch.

She was awake now, glancing around with fear filled eyes.

“What’s your name?”

He got a blank green eyed stare. “I…I don’t know,” she said in a soft English midlands accent.

“What!”

“Where am I?”

“At my home, I’m Alexander Satan.” Bastard son of Lord Trengowey and a tavern wench, he could have added, but didn’t. Hatred rose up in his breast every time he thought of the injustice perpetrated on his mother.

His cock throbbed now. Why in the hell didn’t he spread the wench’s legs and take her right here and now in the kitchen? Impale her on his throbbing cock, letting the weight of her body push him into her deepest most succulent depths? She was only a harlot off Jacque’s sunken whore ship, and his friend and partner would have no such qualms. He vigorously tried out every slave woman he bought off the auction blocks of New Orleans, before shipping the best of them to England to work in his exclusive men’s club. The wealthy clients who frequented the Pleasure Palace paid high prices and expected the best, and that is what they got. Every sexual whim was catered for, every carnal desire satisfied, by beautiful, skilful women.

Buy Link: http://amzn.com/B00JQG8OI4

These novellas are available at other venues, also. The full set of links is available on my website (which is still in the embryonic stage).

http://carnal-candies.wix.com/kcvixen-1

Or the website I share with Lacey Roberts

http://laceyvixen.wordpress.com