Weekly Playboy Ads

First up, for the people wondering: Yes I was punished. Oh my baby JESUS was I punished. The marks curved around my thighs and hurt so bad it hurt to lie down on my sides.
Husband used a thin, looped power cord first (it's his favorite cause it doesn't make this loud slapping noise on impact, so the only sound he's hearing is my hollering), then the paddle, then the flogger.
I thought he was done after the paddle. There always comes this point at the end of a punishment when things begin to wind down, and you just get a sense that it's almost over, you know? And then yesterday, I thought he was done after the paddle...he "made nice" and lulled me into thinking it was over...and then he started in with the flogger. It didn't hurt as much as the cord, but my dismay at that point was overwhelming. I was crying before he was done.
Anyway. It's done. I won't be making the same mistake again.
Onward!
This post brought to you by the nice ladies of November 1990.

I'm skipping a couple months I think, but this issue is such a doozy I decided I couldn't wait. What makes it so special, you may ask?
For starters, I opened the front page and saw this:

"Pierre, catch me, I'm falling!"
"I got you, Frachesca. Now look all pouty-intense for the camera."

That guy on the right, his hair--that ushered in the new decade right there. Did you notice how they all have these looks on their faces, like they're all stuffed with butt plugs? And the guy on top is like, "what?  What's the big deal? Butt plugs aren't so bad. What's with you guys?"
Kinda like what I was saying when I saw the ad in the first place.
The artistry continues:

This is a beautiful kimono. The model is gorgeous. But what does a geisha have to do with beer? Assuming she is a geisha. I never heard of a geisha that serves beer, but then, I've never personally known a geisha. If anyone out there personally knows a geisha, ask 'em for me if they serve beer, okay? Okay.

Let's move on the technological signs of the times. This music player claims it's designed for people with little space, and yet...it doesn't look all that small to me. At first glance, it looks like it's supposed to fit compactly into a book shelf, but if you look closer, you realize the whole thing's been photoshopped. You see the picture in the lower right? The one of the whole system? Yah, that's about the same actual size of an Ipod shuffle right there.
Mind boggling if you ask me.







Speaking of photoshopped:

Let's spot the problems, shall we?
1. The girl in the blue bikini has no legs.
2. The girl in the blue-checkered bikini has nothing at all below the rib cage.
3. The girl in the red bikini has no right arm.
4. The girl in the yellow bikini seems to have a twisted spine.
Maybe it's an ad for amputees? I actually think that would be uber cool. There's nothing that says an amputee can't be a total hotty, you know--and I'd argue with anyone who says otherwise. I once dated a guy missing two fingers on one hand (war wound), but what he could do with those three other fingers was awesome. And quite talented.
Next!

Let's look at a couple T.V. ads. This T.V. is smart. Why? Because it has a "smart window," a "picture-in-a-picture." Apparently this is great for sports fans, but not for the rest of us who don't know the difference between the World Cup and the Super Bowl and frankly, don't really care.
Yeah, I admitted it. So there.
The funniest thing is the small print, there at the bottom, if you can read it: the "smart window" only works if you have the T.V. hooked up to a VCR. No explaining why.

This ad seems to (want to) appeal to the more sophisticated, more refined reader. Notice the spongy-textured background of polished wood. Notice the DVD player it seems to come with. Notice how it's Elite. Notice the two graphs on the left which prove how this TV is better, because graphs prove everything. 










You might need a VCR with this one too, though.

So get the VCR even a five-year-old can use!

Seriously, do you remember how hard it used to be to program those VCRs? No one could, no matter what the ads said, but the VCR that could market itself as the easiest to program always won out. Even though we all knew it was a lie.

I haven't used a VCR in years. My youngest kid doesn't even know what one is.


I am old.




So is this computer:

You get a word processor that can convert to a typewriter, and 50,000 word memory, and a spelling/grammer check, and a printer, and a monitor! All for $900! EAT YOUR HEART OUT, LAPTOP!

I just laughed out loud when I saw this ad.

You know what these are, right? They're balls. Gold balls--that want you to "Hang Tough." If that weren't bad enough, there's a picture on the left of the balls being held by a...monkey. Are they trying to tell you you are a monkey for buying these balls? Or that you'll have monkey balls? Does either one really appeal?
One thing's for sure, these are NOT "power tools." Having a pair of gold balls on your desk does not make anyone look powerful. But I'm sure they'll be a conversation-starter.
And finally, our last ad, which happens to be on the back of the Playboy itself.

It will change the way you hear music by turning your female companion into a dog. Unless she was always a dog. In which case, you really need to put down the Playboy and get yourself out of the house. Go to a munch or a club or something.
I like the flowers on the side though. They were a nice touch.
I'm putting this post up a day early 'cause I'm going on vacation for a week and won't be around. No posts till I get back probably, unless I get access to a computer somewhere. See you later, Kinksters!

Punishment out of Love

So, in case you're not following me on Twitter and don't know, I had an, um, mishap today with my toenails.
See, in summer when I'm wearing open-toed sandals non-stop, I typically wear fake toenails. You know, the kind you can buy at just about any drugstore.

They look neat and sleek and awesome--when done right. That means devoting time and a certain amount of space to the task at hand, so you can focus on making sure each nail fits good and is on right and you're using the right amount of glue.
I was in a hurry today. My shoes were already going on my feet when I suddenly looked down and remembered I had to put on my fakes. So what did I do? Did I take off my shoes, head to the bathroom, and focus on the process? No. No, that would have made sense. I went to the bathroom and tried to do a half-assed job of it--with my shoes still on, no less. Guess what happened?
I super-glued my feet to my shoes.
Yes, you read that right.
At this point, I faced another choice. I could have taken a step back, a deep breath, thought about the enormity of what had just happened along with the hundred different ways it might continue to go wrong, looked for some kind of instructions on the pamphlet labeled "what to do if you glue your skin to your shoes, you fuckin' idiot" and followed it to the letter. But did I do that?
No, of course not. Again, that would have made sense. 
You see a pattern emerging here?
I grabbed some nail polish remover, some toilet paper, poured the polish remover into said paper, and began to try to drip it into the space connecting my skin to the wicked shoes. Mind you: this might have worked, eventually. Nail polish remover is one way of dissolving the glue. But it takes time.
Did I give it time? Three guesses.
I dripped, and ripped. Dripped, and ripped.
Until the shoes were off my feet, along with a quite a bit of nausea-inducing skin. My poor toes bled and throbbed, and looked like they'd had a fight with a meat tenderizer, and lost. Not very neat or sleek or awesome at all.
I wanted to cry at this point. Not because of the pain--the toes hurt, but I have a very high pain tolerance--but because my feet were going to look ridiculous now, and they did. Not only did I have to deal with the physical consequences, I also had to deal with the physiological and social ones, of walking around totally self-conscious and feeling like an idiot.
So here's where I get to the point of this post. I called Husband and told him what happened. And, just like I thought, he chuckled for a minute. But then he got concerned, and mad, and upset that I'd been in such a hurry and so quick to act, I hadn't thought of the consequences of my actions. I have a punishment coming now, I doozy, and it's not even one I can protest, cause I deserve it.

Sometimes punishments are necessary to keep subs from doing stupid things that hurt themselves. Sometimes we subs need to be reminded that our bodies do not belong to (only) us, and we have to keep ourselves safe and healthy whole, if not for us, then for our Doms. Like anything of value held dear, our Doms trust us to keep ourselves safe when they cannot, and if we break that trust, we deserve what we have coming.

I would be so much more hurt if Husband didn't care, if his attitude was, "sorry you hurt yourself baby, what's for dinner?"
He takes my health so seriously.
I didn't cry over my toes, but I have a feeling I'll be crying tonight by the time he's done with me. But I'll feel the love behind the punishment, too.

Toys You'll NEVER See in a Hotel Bentmoore Story

The following pictures have been brought to you by scarysextoyfriday.com, the letter O (as in OhMyGOD, my eyes, my EYES) and the number 4 (as in for the love of GOD, make it GO AWAY.)

You will never see these toys in any of my stories. You're welcome.

We start with some hand restraints. The Hotel Bentmoore believe firmly in hand restraints; they are quite useful for a variety of purposes. One purpose not listed, however, is the satisfaction of a squid fetish.

Although if someone has a deep desire to fuck a mermaid, I suppose these things would have their uses.







Believe it or not, the Hotel Bentmoore does have its limits. It does not, for instance, condone necrophelia. Which is why you'll never see a toy like this:

And while this guy is not technically a zombie, he's still scary as hell:

You think he blinks?

Imagine having a staring contest with him...through the flesh of your pelvis.

AAAAHHHH! WHAT COULD BE SCARIER?






This guy:

The Good Thing about Self-Publishing Number #1001

Yup, now that summer's here posts are definitely going to get more sporadic. Can't help it: kids are home, there's no schedule...and NO PRIVACY. I still need to put up that Playboy Ad post that was due on Saturday, I know, I know.

The truth is, though, that writing my Bentmoore stories have to come before writing for this blog, and I'm not even getting enough time to do that. It sucks. During the day when I'm busy, I can push all my characters and scenes and background stories to the back of my brain where I don't have to really think about them, but at night when I'm exhausted and trying to get some sleep, all of it, all of them, come stampeding out of the creative part of my head like a herd of buffalos ravaging a dusty plain, and who can sleep through that?

I just had to interrupt writing this post for over an hour because my kids' orthodontist called and told me I forgot about an appointment they were supposed to have this morning. We drove over there fast, but even so, the office staff had to wait for us. They were very nice about it, though. I'm telling you, summer time is cray-zee.

Where was I? Oh yeah, no time to write.

The good thing about self-publishing your work is that it's on your schedule. There is no such thing as being "late," except what you decide in your own head. I make my own deadlines, and when I miss those deadlines I have to deal with the consequences of breaking a "deal" with myself. But there's nobody else mad at me, no agent or editor or publisher breathing down my neck. This is both good and bad: I don't have any outside influences pushing me to get the stories done by a certain day or time. The thing is, a third-party influence might push me to work harder, like when I'm procrastinating or afraid or just plain lazy, but other times, it would be a problem.

Take last week, when I was sick beyond belief. I now know of a few other people in the community who caught the same bug I had, and did have to be admitted to the hospital for IV meds. Would having had someone waiting for me to meet a deadline been any help? No, not at all. It would have made me feel guilty, and like a terrible person for making them wait, but that's about it.

So I'll have a great, albeit crazy, summer with my kids and my family, and I'll write as much as I can, and I'll blog as much as I can, and of course, I'll read as many other blogs as much as I can. I'll make a schedule I can live with.

P.S. Remember: if you have a blog, or if you know of a blog, that should be included in the "check them out" list, let me know. I love linky-love.

Post Topic: Blindfolds

Sorry for no posts the last few days: I was ill. As in, do-anything-to-keep-myself-out-of-the-hospital ill. Stomach bug. I'll spare you the details.

And yet, while I lay sick in bed trying my best to keep down every drop of carefully sipped water, my kids still managed to get themselves let out for summer vacation. So I have a feeling posts will be more sporadic from now on. We shall see.

Today, we're going to talk about: blindfolds. Anything that keeps a person from being able to see what's going on, what's about to happen to them.

For some people, this is a great turn-on. Imagine being restrained against a wall or bed so you can't move, can't flee, can't protect yourself in any way...and then being blindfolded so you can't see what's coming. You can't prepare yourself; you can't even fathom what's to come. You just don't know.

All the rest of your senses heighten in anticipation, and probably fear; your breath comes in small gasps that you try to control, just to better hear what's going on around you. You tilt your head from side to side, trying to discern the slightest sound, the slightest breeze against your prickling skin, that will give you some hint of what's coming.

It may be the light touch a feather you feel against your cheek, moving down your chest, tickling and puckering your nipple. Or it may be a clamp you feel pinching around your nipple instead, lightly at first, then tightening, tightening, until you're crying out for mercy. Or it may be the sudden, stinging clap of a paddle thwacking against the unsuspecting soft flesh of your ass. You just don't know.

Personally, I don't really go for blindfolds, because I get off on seeing what Husband has coming for me next. It sometimes frightens me, what I see him getting out of the closet...it may be a flogger, it may be one of the belts, it may be the tawse I like to call the Devil's Tail....Sometimes it frightens me so badly I'm begging for mercy before he's even reached me. But the fear is part of it, it's part of what gets us both going, and makes everything feel so good. It's part of our kink.

What about you? Do you like the idea of being blindfolded, or do you like to see what's going on, what's about to happen, what's about to be done to you? Next time you're reading some titillating BDSM erotica, take a good look at the scene that's turning you on, and note if anyone in it is blindfolded. It may be an eye-opener.

Consent: Romance vs BDSM Erotica

I've mentioned elsewhere how, when I was young, my parents would let me buy the books I wanted. They trusted my judgement when it came to what I could handle, and they were right to do so. I never appreciated how much freedom they gave me in that regard, because I didn't know how other parents censored their kids' reading. But I appreciate it now, and I give my kids the same freedom when it comes to choosing books.

This doesn't mean that back then, I could get my hands on any book I wanted--or that I even knew about all the books out there. I was limited to what was available inside my local bookstores. Barnes and Noble carried a LOT of romance, but erotica? Not so much. (This is true to this day, by the way. Borders carries more erotica than B&N, but even they don't shelve that much.)

So I read a lot of romance books by the likes of Johanna Lindsey, Karen Robards, and Jude Deveraux. I fell in love with so many of those books. Jude Deveraux's A Knight in Shining Armor has the most satisfying ending I have ever seen in a romance novel; if I can ever get one of my stories to end with such fulfillment for the reader, I will consider myself a successful author.

But many of the books, particularly Lindsey's, contain a lot of non-consensual sex. And I'm not talking about forced seduction; I'm talking about rape. Two books in particular I'm thinking about have the heroine's first sexual encounter be in a rape scene. Now, the women weren't physically hurt, they didn't struggle and get beat up or anything, but they didn't have a choice about it either. They submitted to what was being done to them, that was all.

As I got older and learned how to get my hands on erotica, particularly BDSM erotica, I moved away from purple-prose romance and stuck with that.

So here's the thing: I have never seen a non-con scene in any BDSM novel I have ever read like I did in so many romance books.


In BDSM erotica, the woman is usually made to submit, yes. She is often restrained, she is usually spanked, or belted, or slapped. Sometimes she is serviced into pleasuring more than one man at once. She may be degraded, humiliated, beaten and used.

But always, always, at some point, she has given consent for these things to be done to her. She is a willing participant in each and every scene. I have never seen a BDSM novel where the woman/sub doesn't have at least the Right of Last Refusal--the chance to walk away completely. The reader understands that this choice may be painful for her, it may be hard, but the choice is still there, and she can do it at any time. Most books also include a safeword for the woman/sub: a word she can use to take a break in the scene, or even stop it completely.

This, at least to me, is very different from a novel in which a man is forcing a woman to have sex with him, either through manipulation or physical advantage. Even if the author tries to make us, the reader, think the woman somehow enjoyed it in the end, or at least didn't mind it, it's still non-con sex. She had no choice, none at all.

This may be titillating to many. I mean, obviously--these books still sell thousands of copies. I certainly didn't have a problem with it, until I got older and began to understand what was really going on in those scenes.

But I'm trying to point out the difference here between the kinds of scenes you see in "innocent" romance, described in purple prose and flowery language, where a woman is forced to submit to a penetration against her will, and BDSM erotica, where a woman may be caned and sodomized and leave the scene covered in welts, but she is satisfied. She wanted everything done to her. She wasn't abused, and she certainly wasn't raped.

I don't understand why romance is sold in all bookstores, and no one has a problem with it, but BDSM erotica has to be ordered elsewhere and handled with kid gloves because it's somehow more dirty and controversial. Isn't it more important we teach girls about responsibility, and dignity, and making informed choices, than remaining "pure" and "innocent" and only letting men "take" us in a certain way?

Playboy Ads Weekly Series

This week's Playboy ads brought to you by the fine ladies of September 1989.

This must have been around the time that the last GOOD Indiana Jones movie came out, because there is a whole page ad for this:

There's some bad photoshopping right there, unless his forehead protrudes about a foot beyond the rest of his skull. Hay! Maybe that was the original idea behind Kingdom of the Lost Skull! Okay, I admit, that was lame.

You know, the ad might be silly, but the photo is damn fine. Harrison Ford, pre-Calista Flockhart, was quite a nice specimen. Just look at that man hand!



Okay, moving on.

This ad made me realize how tastes can change so much over time. Back in 1989, men were supposed to have hairless chests. All the guys on Beverly Hills, 90210 had bare chests, remember?





And then this guy came along:

And all of a sudden it was okay to have a hair again. Lots of it. And army tags instead of a wimpy "Franklin Mint American Eagle Medallion." I mean, look at those two pictures again. Which chest would you rather rake your hands over?



We've got our technological signs of the times, of course. Like this ad:

This phone ushered in a "new era" of cordless phones. The antenna is on the inside! How did they do that? Of course, now when I hear "Cobra," what I'm thinking about is temporary health insurance and job loss. My my, how times have changed.

Frankly, I'm not sure this ad was cool even in 1989. It certainly doesn't look like something that belongs in Playboy; it looks like something that would be much more fitting for a teen magazine, circa 1985.
"Yo! So Low"? What does that even mean?
And now, I present to you: the return of June and Steve!

"Okay June, let's just call a truce...
wait, what's that on my ass?
June, NO!!

At least in this ad, they are both looking at the camera, even if they still don't look too happy. But this time, it's not just her knee that looks wedged in his ass, it's her hand, too.















The ad that I wish was still good today:

I think this is so cute. Seriously, you can open bottles while holding onto this little gem. Not that I have so many bottles to open, but still. I've never seen a novelty item like this. Have you?

Next week, new ridiculousness!

The Liaison

I've written a little before about the hosts of the Hotel Bentmoore stories, how they each have their own looks, their own personalities, and their own backgrounds.
The guests obviously have their own histories, their reasons for coming to the hotel in the first place.

The characters that play a pivotal role in the stories, yet never really get fleshed out, are the liaisons.

The liaisons act behind the scenes; they are always at hand, always ready to perform their duties, yet can make themselves inconspicuous to the point that you forget they're there. They know the ins and outs of the Hotel like no one else, and they keep their secrets well.

After you drink what's in the cup,
you'll need the towel,
believe you me.

Liaisons at the Hotel Bentmoore are all older gentlemen who have seen things that would sear your eyeballs, yet keep themselves slightly aloof from everything going on around them. They don't judge, they don't comment, and they certainly don't gossip.

Each host has his (or her) own liaison. All communication between host and guest outside of the activity rooms must go through the liaison. Consequently, liaisons are privy to information that is often quite personal and incriminating. That is why they must be so trustworthy.

Hosts are allowed in all parts of the hotel, except for one exception: the guests' private rooms. But liaisons are allowed anywhere and everywhere they are needed. In any case, the duties of the hosts are primarily performed in the activity rooms on the lower floor, and so it is fairly rare to see them wandering around the hotel.

Liaisons, on the other hand, can be seen walking about the hallways all the time. They are delivering messages, bringing guests to and fro, handing supplies off to hosts when needed...you never know what they are carrying under that domed tray.

Could be a carefully sealed message...could be a short  whippy rod. You'll never know.

They are always dressed impeccably. They always carry themselves with a sense of quiet nobility. They take pride in their work. They are helpful. They are patient. And above all else, they keep their secrets.

No Ma'am,
the gift doesn't go on you:
it goes in you.

And they never, ever, judge.

Man Hands

You would think, after yesterday's post, that it's a guy's face that gets me all hot and wet between the legs.

Ahhh, but you'd only be half right.

True, I go for the slanted brows, the soft creamy eyes, the angled nose and square jaw. I like a guy with messed up hair and a five o'clock shadow, like he's just gotten out of bed after a good tumble between the sheets.

But what really gets me going isn't the face...it's the hands.
Man Hands.

Show me a good pair of man hands, and I'll suddenly turn into a woman who can't collect her thoughts, who's standing frozen with caught breath and beading lip.

What makes a good pair of man hands, you ask? It's simple: everything that makes them different from feminine hands. Man hands have to be square, and knuckled, with well defined tendons and rounded fingers.

They have to be wide, and the fingers have to be able to spread. A lot.

When I see a pair of great looking man hands, I'm not thinking about the guy's face or figure anymore. I'm thinking about all the things those hands can do, all the places they can go...I'm wondering where those hands have been. And on whom.

I'm picturing them holding different implements of punishment, maybe some tools of pleasure...I'm imagining them at work.

Why do you need a pair of gloves to hold a bottle?...OH, MY!

So a face is nice, a flat stomach is nice, a wide chest is nice...but nothing gets my juices flowing like a great pair of hands.

Of course, it doesn't hurt to have a great pair of hands modeling a great ass.

Inspiration

I got an interesting email the other day, asking me if, when I'm writing my Hotel Bentmoore stories, I use the images of other men to "inspire" me when I'm portraying my hosts. I suppose the short answer to that is yes.
I don't copy the whole body, of course. I don't picture the whole form in my head and use that to model my host. But I'll try to figure out what it is about a man that turns me on, and inject that into my host character.

When I was very young, I had a major crush on Christian Slater. I mean MAY-JOR. I had a huge poster of him on my wall; I bought every magazine I could find with his picture.
What was it about him that turned me on so much? Mainly, the mischievous smile. Slater's got that perfect mouth that holds limitless secrets and endless fun. It's playful, it's coy, it's sneaky, and it's just plain breath-catching. So I gave one of my hosts a coy, mischievous smile.

As I grew older, my tastes changed. I started watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer (shut up, you're never too old for Buffy) and discovered David Boreanaz.

David's dangerous. He's meticulous, he's serious, and he gets the job done. He'll tell you exactly what he's about to do and why he's doing it, and he'll tell you with his eyes. So I gave one of my hosts the same haunting, deep eyes.



And then...and then Queer as Folk came along, and oh my God, there was Gale harold.

Harold is quiet. He's a thinker. He'll spring up on you when you're least expecting it and make you dizzy with need. You'll realize you're in his clutches and under his complete control only when it's too late.
Yeah, I tried to make one of my hosts like that.

There's another kind of sexy I'd like to try to copy, the boyish/hyper/emotional/crazy kind of sexy that only this guy can show so well:

But I don't know how that would translate for a Hotel Bentmoore host. I mean, hosts are supposed to be Doms, always in control, always anticipating the next step. 'David Tennant sexy' is more of an adventure, impulse, 'jump-first-and-look-after' kind of a thing. But maybe I'm only picturing it that way because I'm used to seeing him as Doctor Who. Maybe I need to start seeing him more like this:

Poster Boy for Leather

Kink Meme, Day 29

"Do you have a BDSM title (e.g. mistress, slut, sir)? What is your opinion of the use of titles in general?"

I don't have a title beyond Wife. But Wife in my household encompasses many things, including (but not limited to) professional organizer, secretary, butler, teacher, animal trainer, cook (but not a good cook) and a little too often, maid. I am a great mom, but I could never be a dad; which is fine, because Husband is a great dad (but he could never, in a million years, be a mom).
I am submissive to Husband, but that doesn't mean I don't let my opinions be known loud and clear, especially when it comes to the kids and the running of the household. I would say a vast majority of the time, once I state how I want things to go within the home, the reply I will get is "yes, Wife." Because Husband knows I do my job well, and bows to my better judgement.
This only applies to the running of the household and general daily dealings with the kids, of course. When it comes to "dad" stuff, I leave it up to him. And he has veto power over everything, because let's face it, sometimes he can see things with his clear eyes that I simply can't and he can stop me from making a muck of things before it's too late. But he steps in only when he thinks he has to.
Frankly, it's quite humiliating for me when he has to "help" me do my job of running the house and dealing with the kids. The other week, I had to have him call a teacher and have a talk about one of our kids. I had to ask him to do it because this teacher was obviously not taking my concerns seriously, poo-pooh'ing everything I was saying, and I was left with the distinct impression he was patronizing me because I am a woman. I was right; once Husband called him, the teacher did an about face and suddenly took my original issues very, very seriously.
I knew it wasn't my fault I had to ask for help, this teacher is obviously a sexist individual who couldn't see me as anything but a hysterical mom. But still, I felt like there should have been a way for me to force him to take me seriously, to get him to see me as his equal. But I didn't know how to do that, so I had to ask Husband to step in. In cases like these, I feel like I failed somehow to do my job.
But I know everyone feels like that about their jobs now and then. The job of being Wife and mom is no different.

Why I Give a Bad Review

I admit it, I like buying those relatively short pieces off Amazon for .99  cents. It's probably why I write them; I write (or try to write) what I would like to read. I know a lot of writers think the .99 cent buyers don't really care about investing their emotions into the story, or keeping track of which authors resonate with us and which didn't, but we do. At least, I do. For .99 cents, I may not get a long, intricate novel, but I can get a taste for the author's style, and if I like it, I'll be more willing in the future to spend more money. Which is usually exactly the point of authors offering their stuff for .99 cents.

If I read something and really like it, I leave a good review. If it's okay but needs a quick fix, I'll say that, too; one time I thought a story needed a key piece of information put in the Amazon description, and my advice was followed. It may be that the author was being told this by a lot of people and not just me, but still, I felt good about my advice being followed.

If I don't like what I read, and it's the writing style and not something that can be quickly fixed, I don't leave a bad review. I don't like to do that. Unless...unless it's really, really bad. Like, I'm finding spelling and grammar mistakes that any computer would point out kind of bad. Or I was promised one thing in the description and got something completely different kind of bad. Then, I leave a bad review because I feel like the author didn't give a shit about me as a reader. S/he got me to invest the .99 cents, but didn't even try to hand me something of quality in return. I feel cheated, and when I feel cheated, I try to warn people not to make the same mistake I did, and keep them from getting cheated, too.

Today I had to write two (2) bad reviews. Both of them were for the same reason: the writer didn't bother to state in the description what I was buying wasn't a full story. They were part of a story, the beginning of a story, but in both cases they ended quite suddenly, mid-plot. I don't mean there were some loose ends; I don't mean there was some foreshadowing for a sequel. I'm saying the end came like the blade of a guillotine, and I was left looking at a bloody stump of a head and wondering where the fuck the body had run off to. I mean, I was engrossed, I was connected, I was in, and then the story just stopped and I was like 'whaa...?'
Sure enough, I click to the next page, and there's some text telling me if I like what I read, I can buy the next part...available soon!

Oh I'll just snap that up! Not.

Here's the thing about buying any kind of literature for a kindle: I can't get an immediate idea how long it is. I can't flip the pages in my hands, I can't visually see the size of the thing. And I certainly can't skip to the end and read the last page where it basically says 'to be continued.' The author (or publisher) has to include all that in the description. If they don't, they run the risk of pissing off their readers. Hell, sometimes you'll include all that in the description and you'll STILL get pissed off readers. I had one reader give me a bad review because she thought one of my stories was too short, even though I clearly state they are short stories. But at least I felt like I had done all I could.

Erotica is not like fantasy, or sci-fi. You cannot leave your readers hanging. If you do, you damn well better warn them in advance. Cause if you let it come as a surprise, you're not being funny, or coy, or creative; you're just being mean and leaving your readers pissed off.

And the last thing you want to do is leave your readers pissed off. That is a sure-fire way to get bad reviews. At least from this reader.

Weekly Series: Playboy Ads

This week brought to you by Miss June, 1989.

I swear, this issue has some of the weirdest ads I have ever seen. But let's start with the technology of the times, shall we?

You'll notice that this ads talks a lot about price. This is supposed to be the most affordable car compact disc player ever. EVER. It can handle the new, smaller CD-3s directly, it comes in a slide-out version, it's rich and dynamic and gives the automobile upward mobility...and it's AFFORDABLE.

You see any mention anywhere in the ad about how much this thing costs?
Yah, neither do I.
It may be affordable, but I don't think it's free. I think someone in the ad department made a little boo-boo here. Unless they want you to call and ask about the price? But doesn't "call for price quote" usually mean NOT affordable?

$

 $500 bucks. For a cell phone. That's after the rebate, by the way.

I have no idea why that dollar sign showed up above the text. It just did. Zombie dollar sign, haunting my post! AHHH!
NEXT!

This is where the ads start to just get weird. I'm used to seeing ads in Playboy for radars, cigarettes, cigars, alcohol... but this one surprised me.

As you can see, it's an ad for deodorant. Now, it's men's deodorant, but...still deodorant.
And who the hell thought up this ad?
A tux. Wood panelling. An antique book. And the hair. The HAIR!
















On the other hand, I think I just found this guy's long-lost cousin:

Granted, the 1989 playboy ad guy looks better. We're degrading, people.






The ads really start to get strange from this point on. Take this one:

You think the ad is for a car? Nope. An audio system, then? No again. This is an ad...for a poster. A $2.00 poster.
I KNOW!

Here's an ad for a toning machine. But...why are these people posed this way? And why is he looking at her like that? This is like one of those "add your own caption" pictures.















"June, you're knee is kind of in my ass. Can you move over a bit?"
"Don't talk to me, Steve. I'm trying to get in character."



And then there's this one, which just absolutely takes the cake.

It's an ad for a cruise. I get it. But are they saying you'll see mermaids on your cruise? That they have mermaids on board the cruise, in their "Aquaventure Complex"? And what's up with the suits? They are obviously not required in order to see the mermaids. But...they're holding briefcases and paperwork. What's the paperwork? Shouldn't it be in the briefcases? Maybe they're giving the mermaid a court summons? Maybe they're proving they have divorce papers so they can find their own mermaids and live happily ever after? I AM SO CONFUSED!!

And so ends this week's ridiculousness. Next week, new ads!

Kink Meme, Day 28

"How do you dress for kink/BDSM play? What significance does your attire have to you?"

Generally, the only thing I'm wearing for BDSM play are restrains and welts :)
If I'm feeling playful, I might wear one of my slinky pink nightgowns that drives Husband crazy, and a pair of snug black panties underneath.
If I'm feeling very daring, and it's daytime when Husband does not have time to "deal with" me, I might make sure he knows I'm wearing a garter belt and thigh-high hose, with a pair of translucent blue stretchy panties. This will drive him wild and keep him thinking about me the rest of the day (me, and my translucent blue panties). I'll pay for my daring later, of course...but that's part of the play, too.
But really, it doesn't matter what I'm wearing, the point is the way the clothes are taken off. Who removes them, in what way, how quickly...those are usually the things that help set up the scene.

We don't do cosplay or pony play, and the only thing leather he wears is his belt. We do dress up a bit when we go out to a club, but that's different: that's social, not BDSM play.

Maybe I should look into getting a harem girl costume....

Compatability

So, I spent most of yesterday in a really bad mood. I mean, a really black swirling thundering cloud of a mood. I felt edgy, out of sorts, totally snappy...with everyone. With myself.
I needed a spanking.
Husband came home, and I told him what I needed. He nodded that he understood, then went to eat dinner and spend some time with the kids. I left to put the youngest to bed, he went upstairs to watch a little TV...and fell asleep.
Now, I know better than to wake him up (there are 'release' spankings, and then there are 'punishment' spankings, and then there are 'by GOD woman you will learn never to do THAT again' spankings, and the latter is to be avoided if at all possible). But I couldn't fall asleep for a long time, and by the time I did finally fall into something resembling sleep, it was very fitful and light.
I woke up this morning tired, cranky, and unhappy. But I wasn't the only one. Husband woke up in a bad mood, too.
"I'm really irritable this morning," he said, clenching and unclenching his hands over the breakfast table. "I don't know why, I'm just really keyed up."
"This is why we get along so well," I replied.
"I don't get it. What are you talking about?"
"Why we are so compatible. You need to give what I need to get." He looked at me in confusion for another moment, then slowly nodded as understanding came.
I needed a spanking. He needed to give a spanking. We would both feel better after the deed was done.
He took me by the hand and led me upstairs, and gave me a short, quick, stinging spanking. It had to be fast because the kids needed to get to school, and he had to go to work. A spanking version of a quickie, if you will. But it felt amazing, for both of us. It wasn't really anything sexual, and certainly didn't lead to sex. It was perfect the way it was, because it was what both of us needed.
This is why we get along so well. Why I can't imagine spending my life with anyone else in the world.