By Helena Harker (Guest Blogger)
Thanks
for hosting me, Lisabet! Hello, everyone! Thanks for dropping by.
For
many years, I wrote young adult novels. I liked the fact that it
allowed me to go back in time and experience a part of life that I
never really got to enjoy. When I was a teenager, I was pretty
miserable. I didn’t fit in, didn’t have any close friends, and
couldn’t wait to get to college. But when writing YA novels, I
could be whoever I wanted to be and make my characters do whatever I
wanted them to. The entire world, whether it be contemporary, or
paranormal, or fantasy, was under my control. And I didn’t have to
stick to reality, either. I liked to create worlds with supernatural
elements and fantastical creatures that don’t exist in reality. It
was all about the escapism. When I read, I don’t read about real
people in real situations. That’s boring. That’s life. When I
read, I want to escape.
When
I started writing erotica, I naturally tended to write BDSM. Why? I
think it’s all about control again, and about escapism. I often
have the feeling that between my job and taking care of two kids on
my own, and trying to squeeze in as much writing as I can, that
everything is spinning hopelessly out of control. I’m on a
treadmill and I can’t stop running, even though I’d love to jump
off and take a break, just sit down with a frappuccino and chill.
In
my stories, women have a lot of trouble relinquishing control, or
they tend to be the ones in control and they play a dominant role
with respect to the men in their lives. Surrender is difficult for
them, and that’s the case for Bella, a smart-ass, often bitchy girl
who’s always on the defensive. She needs to learn to trust. She
needs to learn that not every guy is out there to use her or hurt
her. When she meets Darius, her roommate’s ex-boyfriend, who just
so happens to be a whip-maker, she doesn’t think he can convince
her to let go and try BDSM for the first time, even if it means
getting an A on her Psych paper. If you want to know more about Bella
and Darius, here’s an excerpt from the beginning of the story...
What
a place to do research for a Psych paper. I hooked my thumbs into the
pockets of my army camouflage pants and glanced at the huge black and
red banner over my head: Welcome
to Sextravaganza, your consumer sex show.
Yeah, not exactly my number one place to spend the afternoon,
especially since I managed to wander smack into the middle of the
bondage section. Up ahead, I heard a woman advertise the benefits of
the bondage bed, where you could immobilize your partner in all kinds
of kinky positions. What the hell did a bondage bed look like,
anyway? Did it come with its own rope and an assortment of D-rings?
I
didn’t really want to know, so I hung a left down another aisle,
coming face to face with a display of books about something called
shibari,
which was…let’s see…Japanese rope bondage. I picked up a
hardcover issue and leafed through it. The models were tied with
thick rope that formed complicated geometrical patterns over their
bodies. I didn’t know whether I should appreciate shibari
as a form of artistic expression or be disturbed at the sight of all
these bound women. Flipping through a few more pages, I tried to make
up my mind. The images had a haunting, sensual quality. Some of the
rope patterns were exquisite. Okay,
I decided, returning the book to its shelf, shibari
was art.
Sighing,
I readjusted my backpack over my shoulder, pulled the brim of my
baseball cap lower over my eyes and scanned the crowd. People seemed
pretty normal, a lot of couples strolling hand-in-hand, groups of men
in their early twenties, and even a few white-haired ladies with
their husbands. Before coming here, I pictured something totally
different, like nymphomaniacs on the loose, women strutting around
half-naked, and guys coming on to me left and right.
Not
that I’d mind if guys came on to me. Sometimes it was fun to turn
men down. It gave me a rush of power to grind a man’s ego under my
boot. Yeah, I was a little bitter at the moment. A bad boyfriend led
to a bad breakup, which led to a bad attitude. My life sucked
big-time and I had three days left to hand in a five thousand word
paper on the connection between the sensations of pain and pleasure.
I had a title, “The Paradox of Pain,” and…absolutely nothing
else. I didn’t even have an idea to start with, much less a
full-fledged thesis to expand on. But I had questions, a whole lotta
questions, and I planned to get some answers from my roommate’s
ex-boyfriend.
Daphne
dated Darius for a few months and when things got too intense, she
broke up with him. What she meant by too
intense, I had no idea. They were
still friends, though. She said he’d be the perfect go-to guy for
info about pleasure-pain dynamics, and I’d find him at “The
Whipping Booth.” At first I didn’t get it until she explained
what Darius made in his spare time. Whips,
she said. Darius is a
whip-maker. It took a while for her
comment to sink in. Most men spent time in their garages tinkering
with car engines, or they cruised down the highways on their
motorcycles, or they went camping on the weekend. But Daphne dated a
guy who had a passion for whips. I guess the only thing crazier than
him making whips was the idea that people actually bought them.
Finally,
after strolling past sexy latex cat suits, handcuffs with fluffy pink
lining, and a stunning array of leather collars—some with
wicked-looking spikes—I found a kiosk called “The Whipping
Booth.” There was the man I was looking for. The whip-maker stood
in front of a glass display case, feet apart like a soldier on guard,
a long glossy ponytail down his back. Man, I wish my hair looked half
as good. Of course my hair was cropped short, but I’d love to have
the same silky-soft shine. This guy could star in his very own hair
care commercial. I’d have to ask him what conditioner he used.
Damn,
he must practically live at the gym to have those killer biceps. His
cut-off T-shirt revealed well-defined muscle and tanned skin. He
could sweep me off my feet, all one hundred and fifteen pounds of me,
and do multiple sets of curls. And his chest? To die for. The
T-shirt’s stretchy fabric hinted at powerful pecs and ripped abs.
Sexy dark stubble covered his cheeks and his lips were full and firm,
the kind of lips a girl wanted to kiss. Fuck, was I getting the hots
for my best friend’s ex? No, never, not for a guy who believed sex
and pain were a perfectly matched pair, like peanut butter and jam or
popcorn and melted butter. Darius makes
whips, remember? Stay away from him, Annabelle.
Bio
Helena Harker is a teacher by day, writer
by night, a daydreamer who loves to escape to other worlds. Her
fiction is populated by strong men, passionate women and lots of
paranormal creatures. In her free time she enjoys photography and
curling up with a good book. She is multi-published and also writes
in other genres.
Twitter:
@HelenaHarker
