Updates (and Bombs)

Dear Readers,
It is with great excitement that I share the news: my latest book is now out!

It is a stand-alone book, the second one in my "Erotic Fairy Tale" series. You can read sample chapters on AMAZON or BARNES&NOBLE.

My other news is not so exciting. I tried updating my blog last week—including all my pages—and I ended up inadvertently planting bombs instead, killing a lot of my design and blog photos. I fixed what I could, and everything should be fine from here on out, but many of my previous entry photos are now kaput.
Bah. Bah and grr.

I'm traveling again this week (this summer is the "Summer of Travel," it feels like); when I get back, it'll be time to start outlining my next book.

I'll be visiting family while I'm away. You can look forward to blog posts about my religiously-conservative, ANTI-kink family.
Bah. Bah and grr.

Book of the Month: Training Ella

Dear Readers,
This month one of my books, Inside the Hotel Bentmoore: Training Ella, is Goodread's BDSM group's book of the month. I am very pleased and proud to say the least.

If you want to follow along in the discussion over at Goodreads, you have to join the group. You can get to the group by clicking here. Then you ask to join in.

Please consider joining the group—and please consider buying my book! The Amazon link is here, and the Barnes and Noble link is here. 

And happy reading!

My Writing Process: A Blog Tour

My friends Jack and Jill from Frisky in the 916 asked me to participate in this blog tour, started by Amanda Nicole over at Peaches in Missouri. Since it's been a while since I blogged about my writing, I thought, sure, why not. 

1. What am I working on?
HAHAHAHA Aaaand right there is our first problem. I am supposed to be working on a BDSM erotica take on The Lady of Shallot story.
Before that, I was trying to work on a BDSM erotica take on the story of King Thrushbeard, but I kept getting snagged up in the writing process. The Lady of Shallot is a much easier flow for me; I know what the steps are, where the story is going.
But—BUT—it feels like lately I'm suffering from a severe lack of time to actually write. I cannot write BDSM erotica while my kids are home, and for some reason, it feels like lately, they are home all the fucking time.
Spring Break has not been my friend, people.

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Well, I think the big thing is that I don't go for this non-consensual non-consent business. I go for consensual non-consent, most definitely; but if I write in a scene where a woman says "no," she has no other way of stopping the scene, and no other safeword has been negotiated? My Top stops, period. I don't enjoy reading scenes in which the Top hears a woman say "no" and continues anyway, with this misplaced belief that her "no" wasn't genuine somehow. I hate that.
I see this all too often in vanilla romance novels. More so, in fact, than in BDSM erotica novels. I think authors who write scenes full of "she-said-no-but-she-really-meant-yes" are perpetuating rape culture.

3. Why do I write what I do?
Because it's hot. Because it makes me wet. And because I want my readers to get hot and wet, too.
I want to give people another way of looking at BDSM from what they probably read in that "Fifty Shades" book.

4. How does your writing process work?
It starts with the characters: Who are they? What do they want? What will happen if they don't get what they want? What'll happen if they do? I find that if I start with the characters first, and what the stakes are, then the plot takes over from there.
If I can't figure out why my characters are doing what they're doing, what their motivations are, then chances are, my readers won't be able to figure that out, either. Then I have to stop and reassess.

Thank you, Jack and Jill, for inviting me into this blog tour. And thank you Amanda for starting it!
Want to answer the questions yourself? Go for it! Just link back to Amanda's blog—and Jack&Jill's. And mine, please. :)

The Line I Cannot Cross, Even In My Writing

I don't usually do posts on my writing, but once in a  while, I make an exception. 

Since finishing up Blood and Desire, Seduction and Murder, I've been working on (what's supposed to be, anyway) my next book, King Thrushbeard: An Erotic Fairy Tale. 

I actually started this book before B&D,S&M. I got about 20,000 words into it...and then I had to stop. There were too many holes in the sequence of actions, too many questions of motives I couldn't answer; and if I can't explain the motives of my characters, if I can't make sense of the plot in my own head, there's no fucking way I can expect my readers to. 

While I was writing B&D, S&M, I let King Thrushbeard stew in my head for a while. If you're a writer, you know what that's like: letting the characters breathe a little bit so they can reveal, one scene at a time, what they want, and what they're willing to do to get it.

Once B&D, S&M was done, I started in on King Thrushbeard once again.

And again.

And again.

I have never had to do so many plot revisions and re-writes with a manuscript before. Never. This book is driving me fucking nuts. 

But I think I've finally figured out my basic problem.

In many of my books and stories, I push the envelope a little bit, and dance around the issue of consent. I force my submissives into situations that make them struggle to resist the urge to flee; sometimes, I don't even give them the option to flee. I dive into portrayals of dubious consent, consensual non-consent, and the like.

In all my Hotel Bentmoore stories, all the characters are there at the hotel because they want to be there. It might not be for the kinky sex, it might be for different reasons entirely, like making their Master happy, or saving their marriage; they may even have been blackmailed into it. But for whatever the reason, the characters always have the choice to be there. Nobody put a gun to their heads and forced them to step one foot into the hotel. They always have their safeword, and they always have the option to leave. 

In my other book, The Taming of Red Riding, the heroine is kind of seduced into a D/s relationship. But again, she enters into it on her own volition, and gives her full consent. In fact, the Dom refuses to enter into their dynamic until he has her complete, and vocal, agreement. 

So as a writer, I am willing to play around with dubious consent and consensual non-consent. 

What I'm not willing to do is cross the line into true non-consent. I'm not willing to give the Dom complete allowance to "have his way" with a sub unless he is completely sure it is what she wants.

Because even if the submissive ends up loving what he does to her, even if she ends up having twenty thousand orgasms and can't imagine sex being anything else every again...do you know what it's called when a man forces himself on a woman who isn't consenting?

ASSAULT

RAPE

And I will not go there. Not even if, "in the end," the submissive loves it, and it fulfills all her heretofore unknown fantasies. 

A guy who engages in BDSM with a woman without knowing he has prior consent is not a Dom, he's just an asshole. 

I will not write my heroes to be assholes. 

So. I will need to re-write, yet again; and this time, I will have to find a way for my hero to seduce—or force, if necessary—prior consent from my heroine to engage in some heavy BDSM before any action happens. 

She may be his prisoner, and he may have full rights to her body, but that's not good enough. She may discover that she loves the way he treats her, but that's still not good enough. 

She has to give prior consent, in some way, for him to begin to go down this path with her. No matter what her reasoning is, no matter why she agrees, on some level, he must know she wants it, too, before he lays a finger on her.

Once that happens? I think the scenes will fly.

A Tale of Safewords

A short story, meant to be funny, inspired by last weekend's SoBad meeting. Because writing this beat doing laundry.

Once upon a time there lived an incredibly kinky, horny, and lecherous Dom. This Dom lived with his submissive, named SubMiss, and his slave, named Slave. The three of them together made up the House of MasterDom. Unfortunately, this Dom was not very smart; but that was okay, because neither were his two women.

One day, MasterDom called his submissive and his slave downstairs to the dungeon.

“SubMiss!” MasterDom called. “Slave! Come down here, RIGHT NOW, please!”

Being the ever-obedient sub and slave they were, the two women rushed down to the dungeon to find their Lord and Master, MasterDom, waiting for them in the middle of the room.

Unfortunately, Slave had been in the process of cleaning out the litter box of their cat, Pussy, when she had heard her Master’s call, and so she was still wearing a pair of long yellow rubber gloves. MasterDom frowned when he saw Slave kneeling before him wearing the gloves.

“You know you are not supposed to enter the dungeon wearing any clothes, Slave,” he said.

“I’m sorry, MasterDom,” Slave said. “But you called, and I didn’t want to take the time to remove the gloves first. Shall I do so now?”

“No,” MasterDom sighed. “There is no place to put them here. You might as well just leave them on.”

“Yes, MasterDom.”

“Now then, “ MasterDom said, getting down to business and addressing both women, “I have called you in here because my new flogger has finally arrived from SirLordMasterUberDom.com, and I would like to try it out. SubMiss, since Slave is stuck wearing the rubber gloves, I guess you’ll have to be my first test subject.”

“Yes, MasterDom,” Sub replied, her eyes growing wide. “Shall I stand against the St. Andrew’s Cross?”

“What a marvelous idea! I mean, yes, SubMiss, go stand against the Cross.”

SubMiss went to stand against the Cross, and MasterDom buckled her into the restraints. But before MasterDom could begin flogging her with his brand new flogger, Slave stopped him.

“MasterDom,” she said, “Allow me to remind you, in my most humble supplication, that we need to agree on a new safeword. Our last one did not work so well.”

“Oh, yes,” MasterDom said, slapping the flogger against his thigh. “Harder did not really work as a safeword, did it? Neither did Owie, now that I think of it. Okay, we must all agree on a new safeword, and this time, let’s make it a good one.”

“It must be something we wouldn’t normally say in conversation, or during a scene,” Slave said. “Something that stands out.”

“This is very true,” MasterDom agreed. “Do you have any ideas, Slave?”

“How about ‘copacetic’?” Slave offered.

“Copacetic? What does that mean?”

“It means satisfactory,” she told him.

“Its sounds like the name of a medicine,” MasterDom replied, scowling.

“Well, it’s certainly not something you’d use during a BDSM scene, is it?” Slave said. “But if you don’t like it, how about ‘lugubrious’?”

“Lugubrious?” MasterDom repeated. “What does that mean?”

“It means dismal.”

“It sounds like something that comes out of your nose,” MasterDom said. “Think of something else.”

“Okay…how about effluvium?”

“Effluvium?” MasterDom cocked his brow. “Are you just making words up now, Slave?”

“No, MasterDom,” Slave shook her head. “I wouldn’t do that, no way. Effluvium means an unpleasant smell.”

“All these words you’re giving me are very strange,” MasterDom said. “Can’t you give me something more normal?”

“But you want it to be strange, MasterDom,” Slave reminded him. “You want it to be a word we wouldn’t normally use.”

“This is true,” MasterDom sighed. “Can you give me something more pleasant sounding? And more kinky?”

“How about hornswoggle?”

“Hornswoggle certainly sounds more kinky,” MasterDom had to agree. “It has the word horn in it. Any word with horn in it has to be kinky. What does it mean?”

“It means to deceive,” Slave replied.

MasterDom pursed his lips. “Give me another word,” he said. “Something with more of an erotic meaning.”

“Well then, how about concupiscent?” Slave replied. “It means ‘possessed of erotic desire.’ ”

“I like it,” MasterDom said. “That’s the one. SubMiss, did you hear what the safeword is?”

“Concupiscent,” Sub said, giggling against the Cross. “It sounds funny.”

“Be serious, now!” MasterDom yelled, raising the flogger. “There is no giggling allowed in a BDSM scene! BDSM IS SERIOUS BUSINESS!”

“Sorry, MasterDom,” Sub said, contrite. “I won’t do it again.”

“Good!” MasterDom said. “Now let’s begin. Are the restraints around your wrists okay?”

“They are copacetic,” Sub replied.

“Why, SubMiss,” MasterDom said, shocked. “Are you trying to safeword before we even begin the scene?”

“No MasterDom,” SubMiss said. “I’m saying the restraints are satisfactory. Our safeword is concupiscent, remember?”

“That’s right,” MasterDom said, remembering. “No giggling, SubMiss!”

“Sorry, MasterDom.”

“Okay then. If the restraints are good, we shall begin.”

MasterDom began to flog SubMiss against the cross. Soon, she was crying and howling, and MasterDom had a huge smile on his face.

“How does it feel, SubMiss?” He asked between hits.

“Lugubrious!” Sub shouted.

MasterDom stopped the flogger mid-swing and stepped back. “What did you have to safeword for?”

“Why MasterDom, I wasn’t trying to safeword,” SubMiss said, surprised. “You asked me how it felt, and I was trying to say dismal. This new flogger really hurts.”

“Oh,” MasterDom said. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, we shall now continue, SubMiss.”

“Yes, MasterDom.”

MasterDom began to flog SubMiss once more. As the flogging continued, the marks on SubMiss’s thighs and ass grew redder and redder.

“Oh, SubMiss, you look so beautiful,” MasterDom said in a hoarse voice. “Your bottom is so sexy.”

“Concupiscent,” Sub cried.

“That’s right, I’m feeling concupiscent, too,” MasterDom agreed, flogging her harder.

“Concupiscent! Concupiscent!”

“MasterDom, I think SubMiss is trying to safeword,” Slave remarked.

MasterDom lowered the flogger. “SubMiss, are you trying to safeword?”

“Yes, MasterDom!” Sub shouted. “Something in here smells really awful! I can’t take it anymore! What is that stench?”

“Effluvium,” Slave said.

MasterDom rounded on her. “Now why are you trying to safeword?” he yelled. “You’re not even the one getting flogged!”

“No, I mean, I think there’s a bad odor in the air,” Slave said. She sniffed her gloves and grimaced. “I think the smell is coming from my gloves.”

“Why would your gloves smell bad?” MasterDom asked.

“Because of the box.”

“Which box?”

“Pussy’s box.”

“Your pussy smells?” MasterDom asked, cringing. “Ew. You should have that looked into, Slave.”

“No, MasterDom, it’s from the cat’s litter box. I was cleaning it out with the gloves on before I came down here. “

“Ah, that makes more sense,” MasterDom said, relieved. “I have to agree, the smell is getting in the way of the scene. Perhaps we should stop for now, and continue this later.”

“Yes, MasterDom,” SubMiss said, slouching against the Cross. “Please.”

MasterDom uncuffed SubMiss from the St. Andrew’s Cross. “You did good under the circumstances, SubMiss,” he said. “I’m sure our next scene will be better.”

“Hornswoggle,” SubMiss replied.

“No need to safeword now, the scene is over,” MasterDom said in a comforting voice.

Submiss turned around. “MasterDom, may I make a humble suggestion? From now on, could we stick with ‘red’ as our safeword? It is much easier to remember.”

“Why SubMiss, what a marvelous idea,” MasterDom said. “I wonder why no one’s ever thought of it before. Red! It’s perfect. What an amazing submissive you are.”

“Thank you, MasterDom,” SubMiss said, smiling. The three of them returned upstairs, with Slave in the lead.

New Book is OUT

As of now, the book is out in ebook format.
It's available on Kindle here, and on Nook here. Please go check it out!
(It should soon be available on Kobo, Apple, and in print. It's a-comin'.)

NEWS! NEWS! (Read: Some Major Self Promotion Going On)

Two things!

First of all: I was named in Rori's famed list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2013. Yes, I am pleased. Yes, I am grateful. Yes, I am horny…and I'd like to think, with this insane blog of mine, I make a few of you horny, too.

Second of all: My next book is coming out soon! Its title is Blood and Desire, Seduction and Murder: A Hotel Bentmoore Romance. I've added it to the list of my books, right at the top. It should be out in the next few weeks; I hope you like it.

That's all for now. I'm off to a kinky Winter Ball. My life is good.

Edited to add: I put in the link for Rori's list, because, duh, you want to see it! Also, there's a button on the right, if you want to get to it by clicking over that way. 

A Day in the Life (of An Erotica Writer)

6:30- Wake up, brush teeth, wash face, go downstairs to make coffee, see that Son2 forgot to take out the garbage last night, take out the garbage, find some dirty clothes sitting two inches from the hamper, wonder with confusion once more why Son1 is incapable of putting dirty clothes in the hamper, put dirty clothes in the hamper, decide there's enough dirty laundry to start a load, start a load of laundry, remember I was supposed to make coffee, go make coffee
7:05- Wake up Son3, Wake up Husband, snuggle with Son3 and Husband until one of them farts and they both start laughing, leave bed in disgust, make Son3's breakfast
7:15- Drive Son1 and Son2 to school
7:30- Return home, remember that Son3 has no school today because GOD FORBID ALL THREE KIDS SHOULD HAVE SCHOOL AT THE SAME TIME, curse the world
7:45- Kiss Husband goodbye on his way to work, eat breakfast, try to have some coffee
8:00- Sit down to try to get some writing done
8:10- The antics begin.

Mom! MOM! Come quick!
(I come running) What?
Can I invite Greg B. to my birthday party?
Um…sweetie, your birthday isn't until March.
So?
So can we talk about this later? I'm trying to get some writing done.
Okay!
Ten minutes later
Mom! MOM! Can you come here?
(I come walking) What?
My pants are too big. Can I get new ones?
Honey, they fit you yesterday. Maybe you just need to pull them up a little.
Oh! You're right! Thanks!
No problem.
Twenty minutes later
Mom! MOM! COME QUICK!
(I yell down) What?
I'm hungry!
You just had breakfast!
I know, but I'm hungry!
Then go get yourself something to eat!
Can you get something for me? I don't want to miss this scene!
NO.
Ten minutes later
Mom! MOM!
(I walk downstairs) Honey I really need to get some writing done and I don't appreciate you calling me down here for every little thing!
I'm sorry mom. I just wanted to tell you the dog pooped on the carpet.
Oh for the love of God….

9:00- Realize I'm not going to get any writing done like this, give up, and take Son3 to the park
11:00- Eat an early lunch with Son3, because hey, why not, I've got nothing better to do
12:00- Set up Son3 with the Wii, the TV, his computer, the iPad, and my phone, tell him I really need to get some writing done, and hope to heaven he understands
12:15- Nope.

Mom! MOM! Can I have a popsicle!
(I yell down) Yes!
…Can I have two popsicles?
No!
Why not! Why not! I want two!
It's one or none!
But I want twooooooooo
STOP IT NO POPSICLES FOR YOU

12:20-1:00- Listen to Son3 complain how I am the worst mother in the world and it's not fair and why can't he have one (one being really two) and Dad would let him have one (yes one not two) and when is Dad coming hooooommmmeee
1:31- Grab myself another cup of coffee, curse the heavens some more
1:35- Listen as Son2 comes home from school because it's WEDNESDAY, and everyone gets out early on WEDNESDAY, it's like a LAW or something
1:40- Listen to Son2 tell me about his day, his homework load, and why he really, really couldn't take out the garbage last night
2:00- Leave to pick up Son1
2:10- Get a phone call from Son1, telling me to pick him up later from school…turn around and go home
2:30- Get met by a now reformed Son3 who is perfectly happy getting one popsicle, GOD MOM, of course one popsicle is TOTALLY FINE, why would he want two ANYWAY
2:35-3:05- Get some writing done! Hallelujah!
3:05- Go to get Son1 AGAIN
3:15- Arrive home, tidy up kitchen (including all popsicle stickiness which seems to have contaminated the entire room), put laundry in dryer, pay bills, clean bathroom because Husband made a face about it that morning and Husband making a face about anything is a bad fucking sign
4:00- Try to escape for a little while to get some more writing done.
4:01- Nope.

Mom! MOM! I need to ask you something!
(I run down) What?
Can you bake brownies for tomorrow? For my class fundraiser?
Uh…no? Sorry, but it's a little short notice.
The thing is, I kind of told them you would.
You told who what now?
I told my teacher you'd bake brownies for the fundraiser.
…When did you tell your teacher this?
Last week. So can you?

4:06- Wish for the millionth time I'm the kind of woman who drinks. Get out the pots, pans, brownie mix, and start messing up my formerly clean kitchen
5:00- Brownies are done, but it's time to make dinner
6:00- Finish making dinner, clean up kitchen AGAIN, call kids over for dinner, listen to one of them complain how he really doesn't like this dish and why couldn't I remember he REALLY DOESN'T LIKE THIS DISH and why do I always have to make something HE doesn't like
6:30- Escape to my bedroom with two Tylenol (who knew Tylenol could be so sexy)
6:45- Husband calls

(Me, into the phone) WHAT!
Well that's not a nice way to say hi to your Husband.
You're right, honey, I'm sorry.
I was just calling you to tell you I'm on my way home. Maybe I should also tell you it's time for a caning.
No! No, I'm just a little frazzled right now. I'm sorry.
That's better. Now…how was your day? Did you get any writing done?

My Response to the Editors at Good Men Project

Dear Good Men Project,
I've always been a fan of your site. For one, it's eye-pleasing, and two, the content has always been above grade. And let's face it, with a name like "Good Men Project," and a lofty goal like "enlightened masculinity," how could women everywhere not love it, or at least condone it? You want to show your readers what it means to be a "good man." You want to lead by example.

So here's my question for you: What the fuck happened?

I'm talking specifically about this article. You know, the one written by the guy who admits raping a woman while drunk, then tries to explain it away, just so that he can justify his need to party.
Drunk. And raping.

Let's take on a few interesting points from the article you put up as your featured fucking content, shall we?

With what I’ve learned as an adult, I’m pretty sure I’m technically a rapist. Technically nothing. One woman told me herself. Our encounter was years before—I’d been in a drinking contest and she’d been drinking and flirting with me (yes, actually flirting) all evening. As blurry and fucked-up as I was, I read her kiss of congratulation to me as a stronger signal than it was, and with friends hooting and cheering us on, I pressed her up against a wall and… well. Call it rape or call it a particularly harsh third base, I walked away with the impression that it had been consensual, if not really sensible. (She had a boyfriend at the time, but their boundaries were fuzzy.)

Years later, she was in a recovery program—not for alcohol, ironically—and she got in touch with me during the part where she made peace with her past. She wanted to clarify that what had happened between us was without her consent, that it hurt her physically and emotionally, that it was, yes, rape.

Even as he's telling this story, the author has to explain that it seemed ok to rape at the time.
The woman been flirting with him. Yes, actual flirting!
He was too blurry and fucked-up to realize a kiss is not an invitation for rape.
His friends were cheering him on. He had to please the crowd, damn it!
Her boundaries with her boyfriend were fuzzy...and everyone knows, no protective boyfriend=fair game for rape.
But here's the real kicker: he can't even bring himself to call it rape. No, it was a "particularly harsh third base."
It hurt her, physically and emotionally. He violated her body. But it wasn't real rape.

Which I guess is one of the reasons why he feels justified to "run the risk" of doing it again?

The author later goes on to say how it's even possible he was raped. He's not sure, of course. But it's possible! He might be a victim here, too! But he's willing to take that chance, and keep drinking and partying.

I've accepted a certain amount of rape as the cost of doing business, and so have most of the people I know.

And if he's willing to take the chance of getting raped, then by God, all the women he parties with should be willing to take the chance of getting raped by him. Because partying is what's most important.

I'm not surprised there are men like this author in the world. I'm not naive; I know plenty of men think rape is no big deal--did I say rape? I meant a particularly harsh third base--and women should just accept that if they're going to party, they have to accept responsibility for their actions. Actions that might get themselves raped. If rapists can take responsibility for their drunken misconduct--kinda--then the raped women should too, right?
This is the rape apologists' attitude, anyway.

But why is the Good Men Project defending it? For god's sake, why?

Oh, you put a disclaimer above the article, yes.
Do you really think this disclaimer absolves you? Let's take another look at it, shall we?

Editor’s note: This is a difficult article to read, and to publish.

Do you think it being "difficult to publish" exonerates you from doing so? You published a rape apologist article. You made that choice. You could have published an article like "Why I stopped drinking: because I raped" or "Why men need to stop blaming their actions on alcohol" or "I will never make up for raping while drunk." Or how about publishing an article from a woman's point of view? "I was raped by a drunk man at a party. Here's what happened."
But no, you guys chose to publish an article written by a rapist who admits he raped a woman, knows he might do it again, and doesn't fucking care, not enough to take whatever steps necessary to not rape again. Because it feels too fucking good. 

We at the Good Men Project do not endorse or support the author’s worldview

You don't endorse his worldview. But you published it as featured content. So what would you call it, if not endorsement? I guess if we can play around with words like "rape" and "boundaries," we can fudge the definition of "endorsement," too.

but it does speak to a very common experience that is often taken for granted 

Yeah, it's a common experience. One that has to stop. That's not what this article is about.

We thank the author for being willing to speak openly about it, and share his struggle with his own experiences

I guess if you get a writer who's articulate and can write about a difficult topic poignantly, it doesn't really matter what his viewpoint is, does it? You'll publish the article. Because he's sharing his struggle with his own experiences. Only...it wasn't just his experience, it was also the woman who got raped. Remember her? And I really don't think he's struggling as much as she is. But hey! He's open and honest about what he did! He deserves a cookie!

we want to make very clear that we do not agree with his conclusions.

I'm so glad you don't agree with his conclusions. Seems kind of weird, though, you published the article anyway.

And that's the kicker, isn't it? You guys didn't agree with the "conclusions" of the article, and you felt the need to tack up a disclaimer...but you posted it anyway. Why? Because it's sensationalist writing? Because you knew people would be talking about it? Because you needed the publicity?

Well, mission accomplished, Good Men Project. I'm devoting a whole post to you guys. I'm letting everyone know how disgusting, abhorrent, and chauvinistic your featured content is. Your name is forever tainted with your readers. You are not the "Good Men" project anymore. You are the website that posted an article defending drunken rape, and sent a clear message to your readers that if you're a guy who rapes, but you feel kinda bad about it, and you can write well, then you'll have a platform waiting for you.

Is that the message you wanted to send? Good job.
But if not, then you guys got some thinking to do.
My advice: pull the article while you think, and offer your readers a damn big apology, because dudes, you fucked up.

Guest Author Appearance: Dylan Cross

You guys know I'm on FB, right? I don't do very much on it. 

(Except play backgammon. I play way too much backgammon. So if you want to chat with me? Get on FB, friend me, and challenge me to a game of backgammon. I can't resist. It's a problem.)

One of things I do enjoy about FB is making new friends. This is how I met Dylan Cross. He's a fellow self-published erotica writer, and highly prolific. 

The following is an excerpt from his latest book, Fair Trade. Here is what the book is about:

Corporate VP Joanna Barnes is condescending, domineering and micromanaging. She belittles and insults the workers beneath her. In other words, she's a bitch.

Her behavior at her industry's trade show is no different. Her poor intern, Steve, has been on the receiving end of her verbal abuse all day. But, when the two of them get behind closed doors in the hotel room... it will be Steve's turn to call the shots, as he literally

brings the curvy executive to her knees...

And here is the excerpt:

Joanna slipped out of her skirt, let it drop, and then moved it aside with her foot. She reached behind her back and unhooked the custom-made bra... affording herself a sigh of bliss as her considerable breasts were released from twelve hours of confinement in their lacy prison. Then, finally, she hooked her thumbs beneath the waistline of her panties and pulled them down, taking care not to snag her underwear on her pumps.

She stood. From experience, Joanna guessed that his order to strip "everything" didn't include her silky black stockings or her slutty footwear.

She'd guessed correctly. "Come over here," he now ordered. "On your hands and knees. Crawl." She got down on all fours and began feeling her way across the plush carpet. Her pendulous 44DD breasts swung to and fro as she advanced toward him like a stealthy cougar—a ripe analogy, she reflected, considering the fifteen-year age difference
between herself and her intern.

When she got about five feet away, he made her stop. “On your back..."

If you liked the excerpt, click on over to the Amazon product page, or the Smashwords product page if you don't have a kindle.

Why I Write

I am a writer. I am one of many. It's easier than ever to write; it's easier than ever to call yourself a writer. But why do we write? Why do I write? I think the question is really two fold: one, why do I write at all, and two, why do I keep at it with such persistence.

I have always thought the most profound thoughts people have, and will ever have, are not the ones they write down, but the ones they keep locked inside their heads. The owners of such thoughts do not even try to write them out, because their thoughts are simply too big, too complex, too profound to contain and repress into words.
Words are limited, you see. No matter how much we glorify and even cherish them, they are nothing but little etches of lines and symbols we use to convey meaning. We need them, we rely on them, we survive on them, but they are not perfect.

Writers are constantly taking leaps of faith. We hope we can translate our deepest thoughts, our most shattering emotions, into words, and the words we pick will be virtuous. They will not taint the purity of our meaning with implications or suggestions we did not intend; they will not corrupt the message they are meant to convey. They will realize their goal, accomplish their task, the very reason why we put down ink to paper in the first place.
The slate was clean before, an empty void; we came, put words down, and created...meaning.
Or something.
What it is exactly we create is up to the reader.

And that is the problem every writer must face. We can never assume our meaning will be understood exactly the way we want it to be, because many times, it's just not possible. Our feelings are our own; like souls, no two are exactly alike. We can try to thrust them into words, press and mold them until we think the words we've chosen are perfect, but once they are consumed by the reader through the eyes, they shed their form once more, and become something new, something that belongs solely to the reader. It is magnificent, and it is horrifying.

Any writer will tell you, we write because it's a compulsion: writers have to write. But that doesn't exactly answer the question, does it?
When I write, I am taking something magical, something monstrous, a thought, a feeling, a sense of truth and beauty and wonder in the world, a sense of what it is to be alive, and I am forming this flash of immortal consciousness into words. Trapping it inside there, really. I give it flesh; I give it substance. I give it a body.
I am playing God.
It is the very magic of writing. The thoughts are in all of us, the very breath of life, and when we write, we are breathing this life into words.

I know the words, once formed, are out of my control; they are free to run off and cause all kinds of mayhem and look stupid. But I do my best to build them up right. I do my best, because I know when they look stupid, I look stupid, and I don't want them causing harm. But at some point, I have to trust in them, trust in myself, and be done with them.
I let them go.
They take a piece of me with them.
Is this how God felt?

When I write, I am humbled. I am scared. I am hopeful. Sometimes, I am proud, but that comes later, after I learn what pleasure my words have brought to someone else. Sometimes, I am ashamed.
But while I am writing, during the process itself, I feel closer to God than in any other way I can. More than prayer, more than worship, writing is what brings me closer to the divine.

It is horrifying, and it is magnificent.

Super Quick Post, and You'll Figure Out Why

Background: Husband is downstairs, writing up something on his computer. I can hear the taptaptap of his keyboard going from where I am upstairs. Unfortunately, my keyboard is not going so fast--I'm having a hard time focusing.

Me: Husband! I need help!

Him, from downstairs: With what?

Me: Motivation. I can't focus on my writing. I need you to give me a good kick in the ass.

Him: What?

Me: I need a good kick in the ass!

The sounds of his footsteps come stomping up the stairs. He rushes into my room. 

Him: You need a good fuck in the ass? No problem. Get in the bed.

Me (shocked): I didn't say fuck, I said kick. I need a kick in the ass to get some work done...wait a minute. You did hear me right! You're just faking! 

(Husband smiles wickedly at this point)

Goddamnit, that is not called getting work done! That is the opposite of getting work done.

Him: You're still getting me done.

Me (spluttering): But I need to get some writing done.

Him (relenting): Okay. Hold on.

He disappears for a few minutes. When he comes back, he's holding five clothing pins in his hands, all connected with string. 

Him: If you don't get some writing done, tonight, I'm going to put these clothing pins on you; two for each nipple, and one for your clit.

Me: NO!

Him: Yes. Every page you write, you get to take one pin away. That's four pages. 

Me (breathing hard): Okay. Okay. Four pages is no big deal. I can do that.

Him: But I'm going to come in here once in a while for a blowjob.

Me: WAIT A MINUTE. If I'm blowing you, I'm not writing. You're taking my time away. That's not fair!

Husband: Deal with it.

He walked away at this point, leaving me spluttering, again.

So this is how he motivates me. Notice, I'm not writing right now--not on my next book, anyway. I'm writing you fine people. 

Husband knows how to scare me...but he inspires me, too.

And hey, it's only right I share the inspiration. 

Shameless Wanton Request

Inside the Hotel Bentmoore: Training Ella is out.

Click here for Amazon.

Click here for Barnes and Noble. 

I have a request: if you read the book, and you like it, can you please write me a review? Reviews help other readers find books they might like. It doesn't take that much time or that much writing (I think Amazon has a minimum of like 20 words, that's it) (this paragraph is now more than 50 words, just to show you what I mean).

As a little gesture of appreciation, here are some hot tumblr pics:

Other than pics, I don't know what you guys might want. If you have any suggestions, feel free to offer 'em in the comments. 

News (and Ramble to the Blue Shirt Guy) (Not that one...THAT one)

Okay, so first off, one big big piece of news:

My latest book, Inside the Hotel Bentmoore: Training Ella, will be available soon in digital format. (Print format is going apace, but it is slower. Those little letters of ink on paper take time to magically formulate, you know.) You'll be able to find it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other foine sites in the next day or two.

Kudos now!

If you like the image on the cover, you should go check out LibertineEraPhotographic, who supplied the photo. Seriously amazing models and artists over there. Their banner is on the right.

And, as always, a big shout-out to my cover designer and formatter, Streetlightgraphics. If you're thinking of publishing your own book, you should really check 'em out. Their banner is on the right, too.

Final kudos go to you, dear readers...all of you who participated in my online poll. The results were insightful, and frankly, rather surprising. 

An equal number of you (who voted--I know from my stats a ton of you did not so WHAT THE HELL WOULD CLICKING ON A BUTTON HAVE BEEN SO FUCKING HARD IT'S NOT LIKE I CAN FIND YOUR IP ADDRESS YOU KNOW EVEN IF YOU ARE A BUNCH OF INDUSTRIAL SPIES THERE'S NO WAY FOR ME TO REPORT YOU OR ANY SHIT LIKE THAT AND EVEN IF THERE WAS I WOULDN'T BECAUSE I LOOOVE YOUUU AND TOTALLY NOT IN A CREEPY WAY NO AND EVEN IF IT WAS MAYBE A LEETLE BIT CREEPY LIKE I SAID I CAN'T TRACK YOU SO YOU'RE SAFE EVEN YOU THERE THE HOTTIE IN THE BLUE SHIRT OH EM GEE KISS KISS) want historical romance and contemporary romance. Barely any of you were interested in straight-up hardcore erotica. I found this surprising, since I am always looking for a quick pure grade-A erotica story to read. 

But I shall listen to my readers! The votes were equal here, but my twitter followers were leaning heavily toward historical. So King Alfred it shall be. 

I Think I'm Supposed to Make Some Kind of Reference to Fish?

I'm been seeing this phrase crop up more and more, "so long, and thanks for all the fish." I didn't understand why so many people were using it, until I finally looked it up and read it's a quote from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I didn't realize this quote was so famous. I didn't realize so many people I know read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, either. You learn something every day.

Moving on to my main point, the reason why I've been seeing it so often lately is because a lot of people are saying goodbye in one form or another. People are leaving Fetlife, people are leaving twitter, people are shutting down their blogs...and some people are disappearing online completely. Which, you know, I get. Having an online presence, regardless of what form, can be mentally draining, even when everything's going fine. Add some drama to that, and you've got a shitstorm of fucktitude. 

Fast forward to this morning, when I'm finally (finally!!) trying to catch up on my blog reading, and as I'm going down my list, I find many blogs gone. POOF. Closed. 

I don't know for how long some of these blogs have been gone. I'm sorry I'm just noticing now. 

But I would like to give them a fond farewell. So as we say goodbye to the following blogs, let's wish them al the best, and hope these bloggers have safe journey on their travels:

Novice Nancy

_sub_girl

Sir Stompsalot

Sarah Bella Fina

I obviously have to update my blog roll.

Which means...

IF YOU HAVE A BLOG, TUMBLR ACCOUNT, OR WEBSITE YOU WANT ME TO ADD TO MY LIST, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. 

I like sharing the link love. I think it's a simple, easy way to support fellow bloggers. So add your blog in the comments section, and I'll put you up.

Edited to add: Bloglist has been updated. If you want your blog/site added, please email me at this point. Also, if you want your twitter account added to your blogsite, let me know about that, too. 

Not All Art Speaks To You

Writing a book is a lot like trying to create a piece of art. You don't just work hard at it, you put yourself into it. Your time, your emotions, your dreams, your fears...you lay its foundation with a piece of your soul. And hopefully, if all goes well, when it is complete (or at least, when you think it is complete), you can stand back, wipe off your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, and stare at it in wonder. 

You can think, "this is a marvelous piece of work."

Riding on the heels of that thought is the cloudy fear: "Will anyone else like it?"

All artists dream of seeing their work in places like the Louvre, the Metropolitan, the National Gallery in London. They--we--want it to be loved, appreciated, given the respect and admiration we think it deserves. But often, that does not happen. Our work is passed on, dismissed as something lower than "true" art. It is cast aside.

We get angry. We have worked so, so hard for our art; we don't want to be told all that hard work amounted to nothing. Nobody likes to be told that. But we forget that hard work is never pointless. Sometimes, it just takes a little longer to see the rewards, and often, those rewards are not what we thought they would be.   

We don't always know when we're done, when we've reached the end. Nobody is waving their arms wildly at the finish line, letting us know where that line is, how much farther we have to run. Sometimes, we have to just keep ourselves going, convince ourselves to take just one more step, one more step, go a little bit farther, that line is just around the corner. Blind and ridiculous hope is often the only thing that keeps us going.

We're crazy, of course. There is no finish line. (Or maybe it's more accurate to say, life is full of finish lines, and when you've crossed one, it only means there's another on the horizon.) But we're used to be called crazy. We're artists. It kind of comes with the territory.

Then there are the times we go visit other galleries and museums, looking for inspiration, hoping to meet other struggling artists like us. Instead, what do we find hanging from the exhibit walls? Nothing but crap. At least, we think it's crap. If that's what's being called art, what do we know about what art really is?

And we think to ourselves, how can anyone like this? How can anyone find this worthy for public viewing? How is this work better than mine?

The answer is, it might not be. Or it might manage to affect some people in a way you can't feel. It might have a story behind it you can't see at first glance. Or it might have just gotten lucky, plain and simple.

None of us wants to be the creator of the painting people look at and say, "Why is this considered art?" But is it better to be that person, or the person whose art is never viewed at all? I don't know. All I can say is, it takes is one heart, just one, to touch with our art, and it's all worth it.

This whole post has been my longwinded way of saying I got a rejection letter from a literary agent today. It wasn't the first. It won't be the last.

It never hurts less.

But that doesn't stop me. I'm going to keep going, push myself further, run a little harder...that finish line might very well be just around the corner. I have to keep writing.

When the Sub Doesn't Fit the Mold

I am faced, once again, with writing a story surprising difficult for me.

There are so many nuances and inflections that go through a sub's thought processes as she's in entering subspace, little things that can have a big effect on the rest of her journey. Paths in her head divert and converge, depending on responses to the smallest observation or variation in the scene as it unfolds.

A scent of adrenaline in the air. The clenching of a jaw. A short raise of the Dom's eyebrow. The way he purses his lips; the way he looks away when he utters a single word, or the way he meets her look head on. The light coming from the window. The height of the pillows, scattered across the bed; or, perhaps, the fact that there aren't any. So many things that can alter a sub's reaction in different ways and compelling ways.

Things get even murkier when the woman in question does not fit the standard "sub" stereotype. Maybe she's not really a sub at all, but what I call a "Surrenderer." These women don't walk the middle of the road, but live on the extremes; they will fight back, hold their ground, and not give an inch. But once they surrender, they relinquish everything: heart, mind, and soul. There is very little negotiation that can guide these women, because with them, it is all or nothing; they give their complete self, but only to select few. 

Or maybe she identifies as "Prey." For these women, it is all about the raw, physical, and yes, often brutal, elements of the dynamic. She wants to be chased, hunted down and captured. She wants to be outwitted and outmaneuvered. She wants a predator who can prove he is above her in the food chain, and has earned the right to play with her the way he does, the way a leopard will play with its food before it eats it. She is strong, fast, smart, she has what it takes to survive; she is game for the apex predator alone.

The woman I'm writing about now falls somewhere between Surrenderer and Prey. Or maybe she has elements of both. I'm not quite sure yet. I know she's not the average sub, and so writing her out takes a bit of thought and careful planning on my part. But it's fun, too. It's fun, and exciting, and exhilarating. At the end of the day, I'm so happy doing what I do, writing what I write.

And really, that's why I go on doing it. 

NEW BOOK IS OUT

Quick writing post.

My latest work, The Edge of Jasmine: A Hotel Bentmoore World Novel is now available on Amazon, and should be available through Barnes&Noble (and other formats) by tomorrow.

This book serves as a sequel to Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore: Samantha. I know a lot of readers have been waiting for this to come out, and I'm sorry for the delay. But it's finally out! Yay! Thank you for waiting...and thank you for reading!

(Forgot to add: Glendon Haddix, over at streetlightgraphics.com, did the cover and formatting on this book, too. His banner is to the right. If you ever need artwork or formatting done for an ebook, he's your guy.)

New Experiment I'm trying

Guys, my new anal sex story is out. It's a quickie (pun intended), so I'm offering it on Amazon ONLY. But here's the good news:

STARTING TOMORROW, FOR THE NEXT FIVE DAYS, THIS STORY WILL BE AVAILABLE FOR FREE!

That's right, I didn't want to charge any of my readers for this story at all, because of its size. 

Size does count, ya'all. 

But Amazon doesn't work that way. So I enrolled it in a special program called "Select," and for the next five days, this story is free for everyone. After that, it will still be free for Amazon Prime customers.

You don't need a kindle to enjoy it. You can buy it off Amazon, and read it off your computer, too. It's short enough to be read during lunch hour.

I can't promise how productive you'll be afterwards, though.

Here's the blurb:

Michelle is back, ready for another scene of raunchy passionate sex with her host, Mr. Dean! 

Of course, being the ass-man he is, there is no way Mr. Dean is going to be able to leave that adorable little bottom of hers alone…and Michelle wouldn’t have it any other way.

Filled with lewd debauchery and graphic erotica, this short story serves as a sequel to "Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore: Michelle."

So relax, lay back, and get ready for a short interlude into the world of the Hotel Bentmoore.

That's right, I couldn't leave Michelle's choice piece of ass alone. And neither could Mr. Dean.

Enjoy, dear readers.

Guest Post

The following post was written by my friend, Sara Eiser. If you want to comment to her directly, you can find her on Twitter. 

*****

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found myself voluntarily becoming part of quite a few minority groups. As an adult, I converted to Judaism and became part of the BDSM community, and found some of the joys and the challenges of living in insular communities like these. Since the age of the internet exploded and the world got smaller and people became easier to connect, some of these more insular groups have been facing major challenges to both our identities and how we are viewed by outsiders.

With small, insular groups, there is an element of exoticism to those standing in the mainstream. I’m pretty sure we’ve all heard a few of these: Why do “those people” do that? Why is that woman/man voluntarily submitting to abuse? You have to be sick to enjoy hurting someone. Isn’t that anti-feminist/emasculating? No woman/man with self-respect would ever choose that. I bet she/he has mommy/daddy issues. When seen through a “mainstream” lens, even the benign aspects of our lifestyles can seem strange and harmful to modern American society. We’ve been called backwards, sick, unenlightened, regressionist, and we’ve all heard “Well, if they just [understood/got therapy/had a real relationship, etc], then they would come around.”

When the mainstream, majority-controlled world (and media) so fundamentally misunderstands who you are, how much worse is it when abuse comes into the picture? All communities have their abusers, but there is an element of statistical inevitability when abuse happens in a majority community. Take, for instance, a domestic violence situation in a white, straight marriage. It’s easy to say “Well, sometimes it doesn’t work out. Sometimes people are abusive. That one person is a problem. It’s not about the whole institution of marriage/all straight people being abusive.” That abusive situation doesn’t get extrapolated to all white, straight marriages, because you have thousands of examples for which that isn’t the case. For the mainstream, who may only have one or two “out” kinksters to look at, what happens? This person’s failings become everything that is “wrong” about the BDSM lifestyle.

When we in insular communities see abuse, there is a tendency to circle the wagons against outsiders to protect ourselves from those generalizations. There is a tendency to hide, to sweep “unseemly” behavior under the rug, to not talk about the bad things for fear that they will become extrapolated to our entire community. Segments of Jewish groups do it, and through the past two weeks on FetLife, I’ve realized kinksters do it too.

The scary reality of the situation, though, is that to a victim in the kink community, even to bring an abuse case to the police, to the court systems, seems unreasonable. We are a minority group, and these judges and juries are not our peers, despite our bill of rights. These are people to whom we would have to explain the basics of consensual non-consent. We would have to try to put into words the difference between sadism and abuse, the power that comes from submission. These are people who will look at us and see someone damaged, unenlightened, regressionist, and we wonder why more minority victims don’t seek the help of the authorities?

So we victims go to our own group, and even there, we are told to hush up for fear that these small, tight-knit groups will unravel. For fear that leaders of the group whom we respect will be seen in a bad light. For fear that there are actually damaged, unenlightened, and regressionist people in our very midst. That maybe we are more like what the mainstream says, that they will be able to point to this person and say “See? This person is exactly what we said the group is. There is your proof.” We try to put a good face on everything, to be perfect minorities, despite the damage it does to the victims in our groups.

When you’re a victim and you know that the courts will misunderstand you, you go to your fellow kinksters for understanding and to help protect others. Then they tell you to stop creating drama, to be quiet, to get over it, that you don’t want to ruin someone. That maybe it was all just a misunderstanding and maybe it didn’t even happen. You have no protection, no recourse, and abusers keep on abusing because of the silence, and more victims keep piling up and becoming alienated until the group itself unravels because it is no longer enriching.

Is this really where we want to go? Is this really the community that we cherish so much?

This whole discussion needs to be reframed. When abuse happens in an insular community, when abuse is brought up on FetLife, we need to reframe the discussion from “don’t hurt this one man” and “don’t make a scene because you’re making us all look bad” to “what keeps this from happening again?” and “how do we protect our other community members from this?”

The reality of the situation is that if we in our insular communities don’t protect our own, nobody will. We cannot count on the court systems to understand us - that much is patently clear - so our victims, our friends, have nowhere to go except to us. We owe it to them to listen, to understand, and to address the underlying issues in our communities that allow this to happen. We need mechanisms within our community for making spaces safer for all of us. For making the word “consent” mean something beyond a philosophical guideline. We need to be the ones to shut down spaces where subs have to be chaperoned in order to be safe, where abusers can flourish because our silence works in their favor. We need to actively be doing things to ensure that victims have space and support to speak.

We need to look out for each other. Fundamentally, that is what makes us a community rather than a shared-interest group. We need to become an actual community and protect our people from becoming victims, or who else will?