28 November 2012

Appropriate?

When you are in the general section of a book web site and think you are in erotica, it makes a big difference to how you perceive titles.

"Tale of a big, bouncy dog", if instance.

27 November 2012

Hot new story

Photos - an erotic short story now avaiable on Kindle
Photos - an erotic short story

Photos: an erotic short story - available now on Kindle for your reading pleasure.  

And here's an excerpt to wet your appetite:



Finally he speaks. "I believe you have a special delivery for me." He tries to sound confident, but his voice quivers.

She swings around in her chair. "Took you long enough. Lock the door." Her voice is low and husky.

"Quite the photographer, aren't you?" he asks, walking over to her.
She laughs, a predatory look in her eyes. Her lips brush against his. She tastes of mints and coffee and strawberry lipgloss.

Suddenly her kiss becomes more urgent. She presses into him, fucking his mouth with her tongue. The fuzz of her woolen jumper sweeps against his skin, making his hair stand on edge. She overwhelms him, citrus-scented, whispering, taunting, velvet fingered, tickling, stroking, unbuttoning, peeling him bare, tingling, tongue flicking, warm bodied, cold handed, mint breathed, hard-lipped, hot mouthed, musky, caressing, teasing, crushing, red-hot-flashes woman.

26 November 2012

Little Raven Book Launch

On Saturday night, I was lucky... or smart enough to get along to the Little Raven anthology launch.  What a top night. Not only did the evening feature some raunchy readings from their anthology, it also had bonus burlesque from the hot chicks at Va Va Boombah burlesque troop.

Unfortunately, I didn't take my camera along so no photos.

The night was hot, the first hot summer night of the season, but the readings were hotter: from zombie lust to erotic spiders and some kosher porn thrown in for good measure.  Plus poems about cocks and a very sexy reading about body parts.  Mixing it up with humour and hotness, perfect listening entertainment.

I think this was the first time I've been out since I got back from Japan, in July!  And I can't think of a better way to have broken my dry spell.

The anthology is out soon or maybe now... I can't find a link to buy it on their site.




25 November 2012

Internet Dating Stories #2

M

We met, drank too much, spend the night together. Chatted occasionally after that.

I really like him but we talk with the unease of people who slept together too soon. We dance around each other with uncertainty.
Things have been quiet on the Internet dating front lately.  I just don't have the enthusiasm I used to have for it...I've lost the eye of the tiger, so to speak.  But recently I got an email from one guy I had been chatting too that left me rather stumped.
He said...  I am attaching a photo of myself; I think I look a lot like Charles Manson in it.
I don't know if this guy is taking the piss, is mentally disturbed or honestly thinks that women find Charles Manson attractive.  I wanted to reply but I still haven't found the words to answer him.

23 November 2012

Internet Dating Stories #1

A long time ago, I wrote a zine about internet dating.  Back in the days when I used to write more often and definitely used to date more often.  I'd forgotten about this until today when I stumbled about some old stuff of mine.  It had a pretty cover which I might post up some time.

This is the first of those stories.

You’ve been alone too long and the cravings get stronger. You yearn for something that you can’t quite put a name to – something less complicated than love; more complicated than lust. You want that feeling, just before a first kiss when your mind buzzes like a beehive of questions and your stomach lurches with nauseous joy. You ache for lips to nuzzle that spot on the back of your neck and for fingers to read the Braille of goose bumps on your skin. You want the heat, the smoulder, the seduction…

I wait for him to call with final arrangements, my mobile phone sitting on the edge of the vanity unit while hair removal cream frizzles on my skin. It smells of chemical burning.

He is house sitting for his parents in a suburb on the edge of the city and wants me to meet him for lunch. I agree, as molten leg hair spirals down the drain.

Will he like me? Will I like him?

I drive though the city, until the red brick suburbs sprawl into warehouses and showrooms with giant inflatable mascots. At a service station, I call to tell him I’m running late.

Do I look ok? Am I wearing too much makeup? Not enough?

The pub is a brick and aluminium barn with a car park bigger than a city block. It is twinkling lights, top 40 rock and turquoise nylon carpets tattooed with cigarette burns. I phone him from the bar then rearrange myself, deciding on the best possible angle for a first impression. He lumbers over, torn from a winning pokie machine. He’s country-boy-impressed with tabaret and melamine and complains of dingy rural pubs with surly barmaids; I love dinge. I love surly.

What do I say? What does he think?

We move to grey vinyl couches beside a faux wood fire and talk of things to fill spaces. He says he’s a gentleman and I believe him - because he sits with his back to the telly even though the footy’s on, even though his team is playing, even though I offer to swap seats. He thinks it would ‘be disrespectful to his parents to have a woman at their house.’ I think that means he doesn’t wanna get jiggy with it after all.

Does he want to leave? Do I want to leave?

We sit for two hours and the conversation is running dry. The counter lunch crowd has been and gone. I wonder if there is any minute detail of my life I’ve yet to talk about. It’s my shout and I think that finally he is either going to leave or make a move. He asks for another beer.

We sit for three hours and sex is definitely becoming a better proposition than the two-hour drive home. When he moves to warm himself by the fire, I stand beside him, fingers touching, but he moves away.

Should I go? Should I?

Four hours and I am too drunk to drive home. I ‘m hungry and drunk. And we are still talking but I’ve stopped listening and I think maybe I could curl up on this couch and have a nice little nap and the football’s finished and his team lost and I am sure the story about the guy in the loading docks at the work, not the one he mentioned earlier but the other one is really, really interesting if only I could keep my eyes open…

Five hours and he makes a move to leave. He yawns and stands up. Ya wanna come with me? he asks. I nod.

I follow him at breakneck speeds down country roads, with the windows open to keep me awake, to the L. J. Hooker family home. He extols its virtues – the bigness, the newness, the homesteadiness.

We stand on opposite sides of an enormous room until something clicks and we crush together. He puts on music. The Vines. The goddamn frigging Vines. He wants to get jiggy to The Vines.
I follow him to the bedroom.

We fumble drunkenly in a room filled with his childhood things. It isn’t good or bad or much of anything really. It’s grunts and groans and angles.

Then he says he has to go feed the dogs. He makes me Cheesy 2-Minute Noodles and instant coffee. He tells me he ‘appreciates any chick that lets him root her’. I feel like that should somehow offend me but I can’t stop laughing. Oh, you have a way with words. He doesn’t understand either reaction – laughter or offence. He’s just a simple country boy.

Driving home, I know this isn’t what I wanted. This is cold, like the Titanic crashing into an iceberg, I wanted heat and fire and smoulder.

15 November 2012

Nagasaki

I mentioned that I've been busy writing a novel for Nanowrimo. 

I finished my 50,000 words on Monday.  Yeah, I'm a little bit goal-driven like that.  I wrote 16,000 words just over the weekend.

Now I have to get the thing into some kind of decent shape.  I only had a vague idea of the story when I started writing.  I did some research but I need to do a shitload more now I know where the story is going.




My novel (as yet unnamed) is about a women living in Bakumatsu era Nagasaki.  It was originally meant to be a romance but the romantic bits really aren't.  Instead it ended up being more about her quest for independence.

There are so many stories written about White Men (in capital letters) who imposed their will on the "natives" and were adored by the women, but not much on women.

There's actually been a shitload of research involved - Japanese history, Irish history, Victorian history in general.  Then trying to find out if life was different for the Japanese in Nagasaki than in the rest of the country, having had contact with foreigners for many years.

If you have an access to information - either about the Victorian era or life in foreign settlements in Japan - I'd love to know.

I'm finding it difficult to learn much about women in particular.  Some women came to Japan as missionaries, some because they were married or related to people working there but they are barely mentioned.  I've found information on women who came to travel and wrote accounts of their observations but little about those who lived there.

What did they do with their lives?   What did they wear?  Did they dress in the full crinoline skirts and petticoats of the era (which would have been insane in the summer)?  How much freedom did they have?

I'm finding the more I learn, the more the romance fades into the background while the story of a woman caught between two misogynist cultures emerges.

11 November 2012

Ikea Porn

Lately, I've been hearing the term Ikea Porn, meaning writing where part A slots into part B, mechanically described sex.

However, the term gets my mind going in a whole other direction.  A story involving that bouncy ball room and the Billy bookcase and swedish meat balls and hot, steamy sex.  Maybe being locked in the showroom at night or some other scenario.

I love Ikea just a little too much, I think.

06 November 2012

Nanowrimo productivity tip

If you are participating in Nanowrimo this year or just trying to bang out a lot of words with some creativity, my advice is to wear a hat.






In the past, pretty much all the good writers wrote hats.

It will instantly make you smarter and more stylish.  All the words will stay in your brain instead of floating out.

Yesterday I wore a red turban while writing.  Today I might wear something more elaborate. 

Do you wear a hat when you write?

04 November 2012

Spiders

Sorry if this freaks anyone out but we have a plague of spiders in our house at the moment.  I've got a bite on my underarm, my sister has a couple on her and we think poor Gemma-dog has been bitten too.

I think tomorrow's job is to clean out the spider webs that have accumlated and spray the fuck out of everything with surface spray.