Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Pauline Likes Licks & Promises
I'm very touched - actually very, very, very, very touched - that my friend Pauline liked my new collection, Licks & Promises .. and even wrote a wonderful review of it. Thanks, sweetie!
I’ve just finished reading M.Christian’s superb collection of stories, LICKS AND PROMISES, and I’m trying to catch my breath. Such a fascinating display of twists and turns, demonstrating the themes of desire, lust, disappointment, betrayal, death and more.
There’s humour here too, in the brilliant “Regrets.” Who says Americans don’t do irony? Well, the Brits mostly, and I am one. But Christian shows that up for the silly concept that it is, in this wonderfully, intelligent piece of satire.
And there are tears in “The Waters of Biscayne Bay.” Grief and anger for a lost love and the fulfilment of a lover’s last wishes.
Christian gives us an innovative look into Edward Hopper’s great painting; NIGHTHAWKS, in his story of the same name. He teaches us, how to read a painting. Who is the woman with the red hair, in the red dress? Is the man sitting next to her partner, or are they two strangers desiring each other? Both, are lost in their thoughts. Christian subtly weaves a story around Hopper’s haunting painting. He walks us around this enigmatic couple, and we ponder about what might, or might not be going on.
There’s a lament in “The Waters of life" and a sense of loss as Christian reveals that the loved and revered art work is not what it seems. The loved one is not what he seemed, and we taste the bitter flavour of disappointment.
In “The House of the Rising Sun," a woman learns to love, and live again, after a betrayal, and in the wonderful “In Control,” just who is in control? The self important dom, who’s too mean to pay more than $50 for a sex toy, or the canny sub, who takes her pleasure, and leaves?
There’s a twist at the end of, “Her First Thursday Evening." A guy edits, and changes his lover’s first disastrous sexual experience, into one that is beautiful. But he can’t rewrite his own story; he wishes he could.
Through this wonderful collection, M.Christian shows the skill and diversity of a unique writer. He creates solid, fully rounded characters. He tells us stories that are enticing, he draws us in. He makes us laugh; very often he makes us cry. Christian loves language and words. Never, never dull, he encourages the reader to identify with and empathise with, his skilfully drawn characters. He brings us back to the simplicity of reading great stories, that stay with us long after we have closed the book.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
M.Christian at Cybernet Expo ... More!
I just got word of what I'm going to be doing at the Cybernet Expo (in addition to meeting and hanging out with many cool folks). If you're going, please try and make it to ....Effective Writing for Adult Websites
June 27, 2009 -- 1:30pm - 2:20pm
As the Internet grows more prominent in the successful operation of adult businesses, the written word likewise gains importance. From fictional stories to blogs, reviews and social interactions, much of the action online happens through the display and transmission of simple text. Effective writing is of tremendous importance to the success of adult Internet businesses, and poor quality writing is a fast way to lose visitors to the competition. This panel discussion will focus exclusively on the importance of writing online, how to write effectively, and what opportunities exist in adult space for talented writers.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Welcome to Weirdsville: The Golden Rivet
For as long as men have sailed the seven seas they’d tried to keep women off their boats. It’s a sad fact, but for hundreds of years -- and in the case of certain civilizations, thousands of years -- water and women simply haven’t mixed.That’s not to say that as the ships have rocked and rolled on the high sees the crew didn’t do their own kind of rhythm magic. Women might have been banned -- with extreme penalties in many cases for any attempts to break the rule -- but sex and the sea have always been part of a sailor’s life.
The logic behind banning women from being sailors appears sound -- for about a minute: to keep the swabbies in line, and to prevent in-fighting among those who might be getting, and might not be getting, it was thought better to keep the ships all male. In response to the obvious homosexual outlet for all that testosterone juice, many admiralties prohibited sex between crewmates -- with punishments ranging from simple monetary fines to floggings.
The fact though was that the big-wigs with the fruit salad on their chests were hundreds or thousands of miles away, so it was usually the discretion of the Captain on whether queer sex was a good thing or a bad thing.
Some captains and ships even bent the rules considerably, and thus was born the Captain’s Wife or Daughter: a courtesan brought on board simply to service the officers of the ship. Other Captains obeyed the letter of the law, while not embracing the spirit -- and thus allowing their crews to ‘embrace’ their own smuggled-aboard women, cross-dressed as fellow swabbies.
Even pirates, who some would think would be lax when it comes to rules and regulations, were much more stern in their sharing of the sexual favors of their fellow crews. Always concerned with equality among their crews, some pirate charters went as far as requiring ‘stranding’ on a desert or severe floggings as punishments for bring aboard women. It’s ironic that two of the more legendary pirates, Anne Bonny and Mary Read, were women -- and who managed to escape the gallows by the singular female plea of the time: “we plead our bellies” meaning they were pregnant.
Pirates, by and large, during this time treated women -- particularly women captives -- rather well. Part of it was wanting to stay on fairly good terms with the authorities (nothing like ravaging some women to get your ship hunted down) but also because women fetched high prices as merchandise as well as in ransom from rich fathers and husbands. A crewman guilty of harming a female captive was treated as someone who had either stolen or damaged merchandise -- a very serious charge in pirate law.
While women (when they weren’t captain, that is) were banned from ships, sailors managed to keep their sanity by keeping any number of common-law wives in a variety of ports. The system worked actually rather well, since the pirates were at the whim of the wind and available profit -- and many of their wives were also the wives of other pirates, sailing on other ships. The only time there was a problem was when there was a question of seniority, such as when a husband died and his goods had to be divided among his wives -- in such cases the women he was married to the longest usually won out, unless the younger one had children. Pirates, for their mush-maligned reputations, were remarkably civilized.
Other pirate societies, such as the buccaneers, created a form of partnership that often included homosexual love. Matelots were a form of permanent relationship between two men that served in many ways the needs of both financial as well as emotional well-being. Many men were more protective and emotionally tied to their matelots than their own wives -- going so far as to will them their lands and goods.
Early Christian Missionaries -- and puritans in general who sought to kill or capture pirates -- often used these forms of same-sex marriage to condemn their society, though it’s telling that the fact that these men where practicing homosexual love and marriage wasn’t as damaging as the rumor that was also spread that some of the gay pirates were converting to Islam -- a more accepting faith (at least at the time): religious intolerance obviously being a greater motivator than simple queer sex.
In more rough-and-tumble pirate societies, such as among the famous South China sea pirates, sex and love between men became a political force as well as a sexual one. Kidnapped as children from raided ships, the boys would often form long-lasting sexual relationships among themselves as well as their captors that later helped hold together the scattered pirate tribes.
While women were always a question, at best, or a big problem, at worst, on ship there was a long-standing tradition of sexual release in the form of the cabin boy. For many years, the position of cabin boy required duties that weren’t on the usual cook/captain/first mate’s job description. Often, however -- especially for those ‘boys’ with experience -- the other requirements were pretty obvious, in other words to sexually service either the officers or the entire crew.
For those not familiar with these duties, the crew had a special tradition to ‘enlighten’ a new cabin boy. What makes this tradition interesting is the masking they used to lure the young lad into the bowels of the ship. The story they told was of an ancient maritime tradition (presumably concurrent with keeping women off-ship), where each and every ship -- when it’s keel was laid -- was given a special, good-luck, gold rivet.
It’s taken thousands of years, but finally women are serving without a problem on ships -- both civilian as well as military (well, depending on the country). But if you’re on-board an get an invitation to view the lucky golden rivet I would still think twice -- unless you’re into that kind of thing, of course.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Dark Roasted M.Christian
Here we go again: another article for the always-great Dark Roasted Blend. This time it's about underground cities. Enjoy!
The whys shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. After all, when Mr. and Mrs. Neanderthal tut-tutted about the sorry state of the neighborhood, what with all those Homo Sapiens moving in and all, they did it around a nice warm fire – in a cave.
What is surprising is that even though early man lived in caves for a very, very long times we’ve pretty much abandoned having granite floors and ceilings, homes hewn – or simply found – inside stern mountains.
Pretty much, though, isn’t everyone – and even though most of now live above ground a few very back-to-basics people have returned to living below ground: out of necessity in many cases, and, a rare few, because they simply liked it.
One town that bridges below ground and above ground is the charming Spanish city of Setenil De Las Bodegas. While a lot of the elegant town is above ground, many of it is also tucked in a wandering network of caves under its sheltering cliffs. Because Setenil De Las Bodegas has been a living city for centuries it also lacks the dust and decay that sometimes haunts a lot of ancient underground settlements.
If you want to talk about an almost mystical kingdom that lived as much under the ground as on it then you have to talk about the Cappadocians. So in tune were these ancient Turks (who were there long before there was a Turkey, actually) with the earth when they carved entire towns and cities into like natural outcroppings they did it so elegantly as to look as flowing and natural as … well, nature. Sure, time has ruined a lot of their work but still today you can see hints of their craftsmanship and geological architectural skill in what of their cities and tunnels still survive.
What’s also fascinating about underground cities is how they can hide, right under out feet, for centuries. Another Turkish underground city was discovered in 1972 when a local farmer noticed his water supply was going somewhere it shouldn’t – that somewhere turning out to be a massive underground city, called Özkonak, that – at it’s height – could have been home to (wait for it) over 60,000 people. Yes, you may whistle.
There’s not enough space here to go into every ancient underground city – mainly because, like with Özkonak, some of them have no doubt yet to be found – especially if we decide to be generous and stretch the definition of what a city might be. After all, sometimes underground chambers and tunnels never planned to be cities have become makeshift ones, like with the catacombs of Paris and the Resistance during the Second World War.
It gets even fuzzier if you include man-made underground structures and not just cities carved by hand into stone. If you use that definition the world is honeycombed by modern underground cities, especially in congested cities like Tokyo, Singapore, London, and New York.
Putting aside the questions of what is or isn’t a real underground city there’s one that has to be mentioned. Yes, it’s ancient, but it was also a living subterranean community up until very recently.
What’s also odd about it was that it was carved not from stone but from salt. Started sometime in the 13th century (again, you can whistle), the Wieliczka Salt Mine in Poland has been in almost continuous operation until 2007. Stretching over 300 kilometers long, it goes as deep as 327 meters. Okay, that’s impressive, but what’s really staggering is that the mine was home to generations of workers and their families, who transformed their simple mine into a cathedral of brilliant and awe-inspiring art.
Purely a labor of love, the miners carved the salt into statues, a chandelier, and even into a chapel. But that’s not all: the mine also features a movie theater, an underground lake, a café … all the amenities of life on the surface but rather deep in the living earth.
As with narrow houses we talked about before, as the population rises and living space shrinks, its looking more and more likely that many people will be living as their great, great, great ancestors did: below the ground – though at least this time when we complain about the neighbors it’ll be by the light of something much more sophisticated than a roaring fire.
The whys shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. After all, when Mr. and Mrs. Neanderthal tut-tutted about the sorry state of the neighborhood, what with all those Homo Sapiens moving in and all, they did it around a nice warm fire – in a cave.
What is surprising is that even though early man lived in caves for a very, very long times we’ve pretty much abandoned having granite floors and ceilings, homes hewn – or simply found – inside stern mountains.
Pretty much, though, isn’t everyone – and even though most of now live above ground a few very back-to-basics people have returned to living below ground: out of necessity in many cases, and, a rare few, because they simply liked it.
One town that bridges below ground and above ground is the charming Spanish city of Setenil De Las Bodegas. While a lot of the elegant town is above ground, many of it is also tucked in a wandering network of caves under its sheltering cliffs. Because Setenil De Las Bodegas has been a living city for centuries it also lacks the dust and decay that sometimes haunts a lot of ancient underground settlements.
If you want to talk about an almost mystical kingdom that lived as much under the ground as on it then you have to talk about the Cappadocians. So in tune were these ancient Turks (who were there long before there was a Turkey, actually) with the earth when they carved entire towns and cities into like natural outcroppings they did it so elegantly as to look as flowing and natural as … well, nature. Sure, time has ruined a lot of their work but still today you can see hints of their craftsmanship and geological architectural skill in what of their cities and tunnels still survive.
What’s also fascinating about underground cities is how they can hide, right under out feet, for centuries. Another Turkish underground city was discovered in 1972 when a local farmer noticed his water supply was going somewhere it shouldn’t – that somewhere turning out to be a massive underground city, called Özkonak, that – at it’s height – could have been home to (wait for it) over 60,000 people. Yes, you may whistle.
There’s not enough space here to go into every ancient underground city – mainly because, like with Özkonak, some of them have no doubt yet to be found – especially if we decide to be generous and stretch the definition of what a city might be. After all, sometimes underground chambers and tunnels never planned to be cities have become makeshift ones, like with the catacombs of Paris and the Resistance during the Second World War.
It gets even fuzzier if you include man-made underground structures and not just cities carved by hand into stone. If you use that definition the world is honeycombed by modern underground cities, especially in congested cities like Tokyo, Singapore, London, and New York.
Putting aside the questions of what is or isn’t a real underground city there’s one that has to be mentioned. Yes, it’s ancient, but it was also a living subterranean community up until very recently.
What’s also odd about it was that it was carved not from stone but from salt. Started sometime in the 13th century (again, you can whistle), the Wieliczka Salt Mine in Poland has been in almost continuous operation until 2007. Stretching over 300 kilometers long, it goes as deep as 327 meters. Okay, that’s impressive, but what’s really staggering is that the mine was home to generations of workers and their families, who transformed their simple mine into a cathedral of brilliant and awe-inspiring art.
Purely a labor of love, the miners carved the salt into statues, a chandelier, and even into a chapel. But that’s not all: the mine also features a movie theater, an underground lake, a café … all the amenities of life on the surface but rather deep in the living earth.
As with narrow houses we talked about before, as the population rises and living space shrinks, its looking more and more likely that many people will be living as their great, great, great ancestors did: below the ground – though at least this time when we complain about the neighbors it’ll be by the light of something much more sophisticated than a roaring fire.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Pornotopia: Losing It
The following is just one of a bunch of pieces I’ve been working on for a project tentatively titled Pornotopia: The Ins and Outs and Ins and Outs of Sex and Erotica. Enjoy!
Part of my writing life used to be answering teenagers' questions about sex. I liked answering those questions; one, because I loved feeling the righteous fury of educating kids on sex - when so many have this mad-ape delusion that if you don't teach them, they won't do it; two, because it fascinated me to hear what kids were up to, and what their level of ignorance/knowledge was; and three, it was a way of making sure that at least a few of them wouldn’t have to go through the hideous morass of outright lies and twisted, embarrassing myths that flying around the schoolroom, playhouse, or network news show.
Very little came up in those years that flat-out punched my buttons. Sure there were a few abuse cases (“talk to your teacher, a policeman, an adult you trust.”), a few coming out heartbreakers (“you are not alone”), and a few just plain obnoxious ones - like the 'kid' who sent me 500+ messages in a single day (I got him kicked off his ISP) - but nothing that's really made me froth at the mouth. Until, that is, I got my 501st virginity question.
“My boyfriend licked me, am I a virgin?”, “My boyfriend fucked me in the ass, am I a virgin?”, “A girl touched my special area, am I a virgin?”, “My girlfriend blew me, am I a virgin?”, “I had cybersex with a mouth-breathing, VD infected, Mormon traffic cop - am I a virgin?”
The one thing I couldn’t say during my stint in that in that polite venue I can finally say now: WHO THE FUCK CARES!?
Sex, in this day and age, can kill you. Forget HIV, Hepatitis that can kill you faster, and nastier. Even if you're not gonna die, you can still spend the rest of your days in pain from something like genital warts, or herpes - and don't forget those old favorites, crabs, gonorrhea, syphilis, and many, many more. Of all things kids should be worrying about VIRGINITY AIN'T ONE OF THEM!
I have one thing to say to anyone out there who wants to give me a hard time for giving these 'sweet, innocent kids' a hard time: FUCK YOU!! What do YOU think should be more important to kids: virginity or DYING?! And before you start slinging that bullshit about abstinence, get this through your thick skull: In all the years I answered those questions only a bare dozen were “I’m thinking about” or “what if I?” Every other one was after the fact: there's this poor kid sitting there on his/her bed after they’ve and the first thing you’ve taught them to think is “Am I still a virgin?”
But I shouldn't be so pissed at them: they're just kids after all, just young sprouts trying to grow in the poor light and weak soil you’ve give them. Nah, I don't really blame them for their ignorance and misguided priorities.
I BLAME YOU!
I tried to do my part to get those kids to realize that sex is wonderful, special, damned lots of fun, and - if you’re not careful - potentially fatal. The least you could have done was back me up on this: talk to your kids about condoms and safe(r) sex, try to teach them that even if they aren't planning on having sex they should still know how to do it safety. Teach kids about love, trust, respect - and what you can catch by dirty toilet seats (crabs) and what you can't by kissing (HIV). Teach them that virginity is dogshit compared to life, and how to live to a ripe, and randy, old age.
They're YOUR kids, after all - I just answered their questions. YOU raise them.
Part of my writing life used to be answering teenagers' questions about sex. I liked answering those questions; one, because I loved feeling the righteous fury of educating kids on sex - when so many have this mad-ape delusion that if you don't teach them, they won't do it; two, because it fascinated me to hear what kids were up to, and what their level of ignorance/knowledge was; and three, it was a way of making sure that at least a few of them wouldn’t have to go through the hideous morass of outright lies and twisted, embarrassing myths that flying around the schoolroom, playhouse, or network news show.
Very little came up in those years that flat-out punched my buttons. Sure there were a few abuse cases (“talk to your teacher, a policeman, an adult you trust.”), a few coming out heartbreakers (“you are not alone”), and a few just plain obnoxious ones - like the 'kid' who sent me 500+ messages in a single day (I got him kicked off his ISP) - but nothing that's really made me froth at the mouth. Until, that is, I got my 501st virginity question.
“My boyfriend licked me, am I a virgin?”, “My boyfriend fucked me in the ass, am I a virgin?”, “A girl touched my special area, am I a virgin?”, “My girlfriend blew me, am I a virgin?”, “I had cybersex with a mouth-breathing, VD infected, Mormon traffic cop - am I a virgin?”
The one thing I couldn’t say during my stint in that in that polite venue I can finally say now: WHO THE FUCK CARES!?
Sex, in this day and age, can kill you. Forget HIV, Hepatitis that can kill you faster, and nastier. Even if you're not gonna die, you can still spend the rest of your days in pain from something like genital warts, or herpes - and don't forget those old favorites, crabs, gonorrhea, syphilis, and many, many more. Of all things kids should be worrying about VIRGINITY AIN'T ONE OF THEM!
I have one thing to say to anyone out there who wants to give me a hard time for giving these 'sweet, innocent kids' a hard time: FUCK YOU!! What do YOU think should be more important to kids: virginity or DYING?! And before you start slinging that bullshit about abstinence, get this through your thick skull: In all the years I answered those questions only a bare dozen were “I’m thinking about” or “what if I?” Every other one was after the fact: there's this poor kid sitting there on his/her bed after they’ve and the first thing you’ve taught them to think is “Am I still a virgin?”
But I shouldn't be so pissed at them: they're just kids after all, just young sprouts trying to grow in the poor light and weak soil you’ve give them. Nah, I don't really blame them for their ignorance and misguided priorities.
I BLAME YOU!
I tried to do my part to get those kids to realize that sex is wonderful, special, damned lots of fun, and - if you’re not careful - potentially fatal. The least you could have done was back me up on this: talk to your kids about condoms and safe(r) sex, try to teach them that even if they aren't planning on having sex they should still know how to do it safety. Teach kids about love, trust, respect - and what you can catch by dirty toilet seats (crabs) and what you can't by kissing (HIV). Teach them that virginity is dogshit compared to life, and how to live to a ripe, and randy, old age.
They're YOUR kids, after all - I just answered their questions. YOU raise them.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
The Romance Studio Likes Licks & Promises
As some of you folks might know, I have a brand new collection of my 'straight' erotica coming out very soon from the fantastic folks at Phaze Books, as both a print as well as an ebook, called Licks & Promises.
I'm happy to say that, thanks to my pal Lisabet Sarai, I just got an early review from The Romance Studio:
Licks and Promises takes the reader across the country and back in a series of erotic vignettes about love in its many aspects. In House of the Rising Sun, Amina finds both a reason to live and a new kind of lover. Dust observes a couple’s lovemaking in the midst of crisis against the background of a desert pool, and In Control questions who is really in charge in a sub/dom interaction.
These three are just a sampling of the nineteen stories in this collection. This was my first M. Christian book and I will definitely read more. The depth of sensuality in each story, the attention to each sense, sight, sound, taste, takes the reader right into the room with the characters. His imagery is simply breathtaking.
Although the stories are brief, they are very complete, each is worth liking on its own. Jasmine the sexually active disembodied hippie in The Tinkling of Tiny Silver Bells, Randolph and Juliet, the devoted roleplaying couple in Dead letter, the fat man in The Naked Supper, each a fully developed person with a different, and usually intriguing, way of achieving satisfaction.
I recommend this book to anyone who likes a sexy story with substance. Particularly if you don’t mind a little laughing and crying while reading a great book.
Getting A Grip
I'm flattered and very pleased to be a guest blogger for the very fun, and wonderfully thought-provoking, Get A Grip site run by Lisabet Sarai, Kim Dare, Jude Mason, Jamie Hill, Helen E. H. Madden, and C. Sanchez-Garcia.
My own humble contribution to their theme of "love & lust" is a piece about ... well, love and lust. Here's a teaser. For the rest click here.
My own humble contribution to their theme of "love & lust" is a piece about ... well, love and lust. Here's a teaser. For the rest click here.
Okay, “love and lust” ... well, let’s take the last one first.
I’m lucky, I guess, that I don’t have a lot of sexual baggage. My parents had more than their fair share of faults … okay, a LOT more than their fair share of faults … but at least they spared me from the sexual guilt and religious shame a lot of other folks seem to have been saddled with.
Because of that lack of sexual Samsonite, I’ve always been very much in touch with my erotic identity: in short I know what I like and that’s okay with me. In many ways, especially considering the tiny corner of literature I’ve found myself working in, I’m a very simple sexual critter. Sure, I might write about queer bondage, lesbian domination, and all kinds of outrageous and outré fetishes and kinks for the straight folks, but when I turn off my versificator (look it up, it’s from Orwell’s 1984), switch off the lights, and head home, it’s to simple and sweet sexual fun.
Not that I’m dull, you understand. It’s just that compared to my writing life, my nighttime antics might disappoint the two people who read my erotic stories. No whips, no chains, no safe words, no leather, no latex, no appliances, no lingerie (at least not for me), no feathers, no personas, no spikes, no pudding … no kidding.
Sure, I have a few interesting quirks. Part of the reason I think I sympathize so much with queer life is that while I’m comfortably heterosexual, the object of my desire is not exactly common.
[More]
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Pornotopia: How Much?
The following is just one of a bunch of pieces I’ve been working on for a project tentatively titled Pornotopia: The Ins and Outs and Ins and Outs of Sex and Erotica. Enjoy!
The Editor sends the story back, No one comes like this. It’s obvious she’s faking it and I realize he’s right: she was faking it.
The Director leans in, hot lights burning my legs: Just can’t get the lighting right, your cock still looks too small. I frown, thinking of all the wankers from San Francisco to Boston feeling good that the stud in their whack-off vid is smaller than they are for once.
She never calls me back. Six months later, I run into her on the street. I read that story you wrote for Warped Perverts, she says, scanning for a quick escape route. It scared me.
The Photographer tells me to smile, damn it, smile as I lift my leg into yet another impossible position. I miss the gallery opening because of a cramp so bad I can’t get out of bed.
Losing my virginity gets published in a book called Cherry Bombed about horrible, embarrassing, first times. I am supposed to get paid $15 and two copies. The check bounces and the book never appears.
I can’t sleep for three nights running, the plot of Truck Stop Transsexuals bogged down in a morass of motivation, character development, and a flawed narrative. I almost miss the deadline, and waste five bucks on Fed Ex changes getting it to the editor in time. When the magazine comes out, I see that he completely butchered the ending, losing the wonderful sense of pathos I had so carefully worked into it. Then I lose four more nights of sleep, shocked wide awake that I actually cared.
Where do you get your ideas? she asks in a breathy voice tinged with a boiling horniness as she strokes my cock. I can barely get hard, most of my brain being diverted by my thoughts of she stroked him like a fireman cleaning his pole: diligently, professionally -- as if trying to work a gleam out of it ....
My spell-checker has grown unwieldy from the words I have stuffed in its tight, resistant, pulsing, memory: cocksucker, cunt, mons, asshole, pubes, motherfucker, testicles, dildo, lube, S/M, she-male, latex, faery, jerk-off, cunnilingus, felatio, flagellation, flogger, Saran Wrap, cunt-licker, assfucker, and on and on and on, etc., etc. I run it through a letter to my landlord and broken mail slot becomes she-male slut. Now he looks at me funny and the damned thing never gets fixed.
The party is full-swing and banging away: in the sling, guy fists guy - foaming Crisco plopping to the floor. In one corner two dykes are taking turns kicking each other in the butt. Over there a latex dom is turning her slave’s ass into maximus tar-tar. Next to me a grinning piercer expertly punctures some guy’s dick, then feeds steel rings through the holes -- and all I can think is poor plot development, crappy characterization, no motivation ....
She’s a fan. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, she says. Jerked off to all of them. Talked other playmates into even reenacting some. Raves about me all the time. Box Lunch, Sailors At Sea, Yeeha!, The Bang Gang, TV Repairman ... her favorites each and every one. I take my pants off and she’s disappointed. We fuck and she’s disappointed. We each come and she’s disappointed. I tell her, don’t get any rewrites in life, sweetie.
The book, magazine, movie comes out. I burst with enthusiasm: I did this, I did this! I become annoying, showing it everyone. Then someone also bursts, and shows it to my mother ....
Am asked to write about the most degrading, insulting, humiliating, sex act you can imagine and the first thing that comes to mind and out of my mouth is How much?
The Editor sends the story back, No one comes like this. It’s obvious she’s faking it and I realize he’s right: she was faking it.
#
The Director leans in, hot lights burning my legs: Just can’t get the lighting right, your cock still looks too small. I frown, thinking of all the wankers from San Francisco to Boston feeling good that the stud in their whack-off vid is smaller than they are for once.
#
She never calls me back. Six months later, I run into her on the street. I read that story you wrote for Warped Perverts, she says, scanning for a quick escape route. It scared me.
#
The Photographer tells me to smile, damn it, smile as I lift my leg into yet another impossible position. I miss the gallery opening because of a cramp so bad I can’t get out of bed.
#
Losing my virginity gets published in a book called Cherry Bombed about horrible, embarrassing, first times. I am supposed to get paid $15 and two copies. The check bounces and the book never appears.
#
I can’t sleep for three nights running, the plot of Truck Stop Transsexuals bogged down in a morass of motivation, character development, and a flawed narrative. I almost miss the deadline, and waste five bucks on Fed Ex changes getting it to the editor in time. When the magazine comes out, I see that he completely butchered the ending, losing the wonderful sense of pathos I had so carefully worked into it. Then I lose four more nights of sleep, shocked wide awake that I actually cared.
#
Where do you get your ideas? she asks in a breathy voice tinged with a boiling horniness as she strokes my cock. I can barely get hard, most of my brain being diverted by my thoughts of she stroked him like a fireman cleaning his pole: diligently, professionally -- as if trying to work a gleam out of it ....
#
My spell-checker has grown unwieldy from the words I have stuffed in its tight, resistant, pulsing, memory: cocksucker, cunt, mons, asshole, pubes, motherfucker, testicles, dildo, lube, S/M, she-male, latex, faery, jerk-off, cunnilingus, felatio, flagellation, flogger, Saran Wrap, cunt-licker, assfucker, and on and on and on, etc., etc. I run it through a letter to my landlord and broken mail slot becomes she-male slut. Now he looks at me funny and the damned thing never gets fixed.
#
The party is full-swing and banging away: in the sling, guy fists guy - foaming Crisco plopping to the floor. In one corner two dykes are taking turns kicking each other in the butt. Over there a latex dom is turning her slave’s ass into maximus tar-tar. Next to me a grinning piercer expertly punctures some guy’s dick, then feeds steel rings through the holes -- and all I can think is poor plot development, crappy characterization, no motivation ....
#
She’s a fan. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, she says. Jerked off to all of them. Talked other playmates into even reenacting some. Raves about me all the time. Box Lunch, Sailors At Sea, Yeeha!, The Bang Gang, TV Repairman ... her favorites each and every one. I take my pants off and she’s disappointed. We fuck and she’s disappointed. We each come and she’s disappointed. I tell her, don’t get any rewrites in life, sweetie.
#
The book, magazine, movie comes out. I burst with enthusiasm: I did this, I did this! I become annoying, showing it everyone. Then someone also bursts, and shows it to my mother ....
#
Am asked to write about the most degrading, insulting, humiliating, sex act you can imagine and the first thing that comes to mind and out of my mouth is How much?
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Masquerade, A Teaser
Here's a preview of a very special project: Masquerade was illustrated by my great pal, and a fantastic artist, Wynn Ryder, from a story by ... well, me ... for an upcoming graphic novel anthology called Legendary.
I'll be putting up pages from the final over the next few months ... or you can read the entire thing on Wynn's Deviantart pages.
I'll be putting up pages from the final over the next few months ... or you can read the entire thing on Wynn's Deviantart pages.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Dirty Words, An Excerpt
Here's a teasing taste of my newly-reprinted collection, Dirty Words, currently available from the always-great Lethe Books.
Btw, "How Coyote Stole The Sun" was originally in Michael Thomas Ford's anthology, Happily Ever After, and then in Susie Bright's Best American Erotica 1997.
Btw, "How Coyote Stole The Sun" was originally in Michael Thomas Ford's anthology, Happily Ever After, and then in Susie Bright's Best American Erotica 1997.
How Coyote Stole The Sun
The bus dropped to its knees, yawning open its door. The day was burning: the sun angry at something it wasn’t sharing and the wind was scared to come out.
Dust swirled, friendly and clinging, around Dog as he left the cooling bosom of the Interstate Lines bus. Satisfied that it’s friend was out and walking safely away, No 47--Albuquerque to Taos--closed its door and left with a belching cloud of exhaust.
The trees must have had issues with dog, because as he approached them they shuffled and fluttered their leaves to flash pieces of the too-hot sun down on him.
But Dog was used to that kind of treatment from trees--he paid them no mind and just kept on walking along the dusty road.
After a time of walking, (precisely how long being difficult to say because time wasn’t something Dog really understood and because watches, as a group, refused to speak true to him even if he bothered to ask) Dog saw some signs of man: the broken teeth of a old picket fence, the rusting mesh of its chain-link brother, the stumps of telephone poles, and, distantly, the regularity of a small house.
A few steps later, details filled his eyes: it was a small house. Clapboard painted red. A porch that was a mixture of rotting and rotted old boards. Glassless windows with torn curtains like pale moss. A screen door with more holes than screen.
It took Dog a few seconds to really see them, they were so faded into the grasses and the shadows: The two little boys were brown and furtive from running with the rabbits and the squirrels. Their eyes were as blue as the sky when it was in a good mood, and about as tame as wild foxes. They were naked and tanned from the stern sun--dirty and scuffed and uncaring, unworried. Maybe nine Summers, maybe ten. Not twelve. They could have been brothers or just kin who had been playing outside together too long.
Dog watching them, doing nothing for a while, then he dropped down onto his haunches, feeling his old blue jeans creak and stretch against his thighs. Putting two fingers on the ground, he gave the boys the gift of thinking that he needed them for balance--when Dog could have stayed there for many nights without moving.
After a time, the two wild boys decided that he wasn’t a hunter, or at least wasn’t a hungry one. Cautiously, the came out from the high grasses in front of dead house and looked at him.
Finally, the one with some echoes of being civilized, or just less of the music of the wild world, spoke: “What you doing here, Mister?”
Dog spoke, slowly and without threatening timbre: “Just passing.”
The boy who spoke, nodded, as if that was more than enough, or all he could understand.
Dog played a bit with the dust at his feet, careful to draw something without meaning. “Anything around here?” the drifter said.
The other boy, the one who didn’t speak, heard a sound and leaped into the weeds in pursuit. The other looked like he wanted to join his friend or brother but was still fascinated by the stranger. “Birds. Rabbits. Mice. Squirrels. Roc.”
“Roc?”
He jerked his head down the road. “He has more than anyone. Even stuff.”
“Stuff?” Dog said, standing and brushing some of the clinging dust from his denim jacket.
The boy looked confused for a moment, as if he didn’t have any other words. Another sound chirped from the high, brown grasses and he looked harder this time in its direction: the wild wasn’t calling--rather, it was screaming for his small attention.
He looked back at Dog once more, decided that either he didn’t have anything else to say, or the means to say what he wanted to, and bounded off into the grasses to make hunting and catching noises all his own.
Dog watched the grasses shake and shush a bit, then turned and walked down the road.
Roc?
[more]
Dust swirled, friendly and clinging, around Dog as he left the cooling bosom of the Interstate Lines bus. Satisfied that it’s friend was out and walking safely away, No 47--Albuquerque to Taos--closed its door and left with a belching cloud of exhaust.
The trees must have had issues with dog, because as he approached them they shuffled and fluttered their leaves to flash pieces of the too-hot sun down on him.
But Dog was used to that kind of treatment from trees--he paid them no mind and just kept on walking along the dusty road.
After a time of walking, (precisely how long being difficult to say because time wasn’t something Dog really understood and because watches, as a group, refused to speak true to him even if he bothered to ask) Dog saw some signs of man: the broken teeth of a old picket fence, the rusting mesh of its chain-link brother, the stumps of telephone poles, and, distantly, the regularity of a small house.
A few steps later, details filled his eyes: it was a small house. Clapboard painted red. A porch that was a mixture of rotting and rotted old boards. Glassless windows with torn curtains like pale moss. A screen door with more holes than screen.
It took Dog a few seconds to really see them, they were so faded into the grasses and the shadows: The two little boys were brown and furtive from running with the rabbits and the squirrels. Their eyes were as blue as the sky when it was in a good mood, and about as tame as wild foxes. They were naked and tanned from the stern sun--dirty and scuffed and uncaring, unworried. Maybe nine Summers, maybe ten. Not twelve. They could have been brothers or just kin who had been playing outside together too long.
Dog watching them, doing nothing for a while, then he dropped down onto his haunches, feeling his old blue jeans creak and stretch against his thighs. Putting two fingers on the ground, he gave the boys the gift of thinking that he needed them for balance--when Dog could have stayed there for many nights without moving.
After a time, the two wild boys decided that he wasn’t a hunter, or at least wasn’t a hungry one. Cautiously, the came out from the high grasses in front of dead house and looked at him.
Finally, the one with some echoes of being civilized, or just less of the music of the wild world, spoke: “What you doing here, Mister?”
Dog spoke, slowly and without threatening timbre: “Just passing.”
The boy who spoke, nodded, as if that was more than enough, or all he could understand.
Dog played a bit with the dust at his feet, careful to draw something without meaning. “Anything around here?” the drifter said.
The other boy, the one who didn’t speak, heard a sound and leaped into the weeds in pursuit. The other looked like he wanted to join his friend or brother but was still fascinated by the stranger. “Birds. Rabbits. Mice. Squirrels. Roc.”
“Roc?”
He jerked his head down the road. “He has more than anyone. Even stuff.”
“Stuff?” Dog said, standing and brushing some of the clinging dust from his denim jacket.
The boy looked confused for a moment, as if he didn’t have any other words. Another sound chirped from the high, brown grasses and he looked harder this time in its direction: the wild wasn’t calling--rather, it was screaming for his small attention.
He looked back at Dog once more, decided that either he didn’t have anything else to say, or the means to say what he wanted to, and bounded off into the grasses to make hunting and catching noises all his own.
Dog watched the grasses shake and shush a bit, then turned and walked down the road.
Roc?
[more]
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Pornotopia: I Masturbate
The following is just one of a bunch of pieces I’ve been working on for a project tentatively titled Pornotopia: The Ins and Outs and Ins and Outs of Sex and Erotica. Enjoy!
Sure, I masturbate. Yeah, I jerk off. Damned straight, I yank it, pull it, stroke it, rub it, and jerk it. Lube, soap, shampoo or split. Left hand, right hand, frotage (look it up), other’s hands, sheets, and gizmos (manual, electric, and even diesel). Like it, love it -- do it a lot.
Let’s get this straight -- we all do it. Sure, yeah, right: “not me” someone says. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. We all do it. Nuns do it, dogs do it, cats do it, bees do it, Newt Gingrich and Jessie Helms do it (god, what a thought!). You say you don’t do it, you mean it when you say you don’t do it. Well, who leaves the wet spot on the bed, a topless Tinkerbell?
I masturbate. Come on, let’s say it together, enunciate those syllables: “I” -- rounding chorus of self identification. Come on, belt that fucker out -- “I” -- mean it now, say it true -- “Mast-ur-bate.”
I masturbate. He masturbates. She masturbates. They masturbate. We all masturbate. That out of the way? Breathing maybe a bit easier now? Let me tell you this, the old cliché of imagining folks in their underwear has zilch over thinking of all of you sitting there rubbing stroking, jacking, jilling yourselves into a grazed euphoria of self-love. Makes saying that I do it real easy.
I masturbate. Bullshit on that “self-abuse” nonsense: think of them sitting on the toilet in some sleazy dive yanking their pull little wieners with two embarrassed fingers, groaning like taking a shit, popping off an eye-dropped full of fun cream, wheezing like an asthmatic marathon runner (oooooh, sexy!) then going out onto the pulpit to tell you that “it’s bad for you”, “it’s sinful”, “it’s detrimental.”
I do it. I’m proud that I do -- because I do it well (hell, I like it) and I do it often: horny, need to sleep, need to relax, wanna get off quick, wanna get off slow, got a cold, don’t got a cold, at home, at parties (the right kind of parties), driving, sleeping (“Yeah, Tinkerbell, yeah!”), for myself, for others -- available for weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, etc.
Been doing it for years (first time think something like twelve -- late bloomer), will do it for many more. Do it tonight, do it probably tomorrow, do it with my wife, do it with my playmates, do it for pay (if anyone’s interested), do it for free. Ask me to, go on, ask me.
You can see me do it, you can hear me do it (the movie’s out there somewhere -- sorry they never told me what the title was going to be) and I write about doing it ...
... stroking my long, proud self, feeling the soft skin and the ridges and bumps of the veins. Feeling the skin of my hand rise and squeeze around the thick head. The pressure, the wonderful feeling of the strong muscle that cranks me up and away. The strength in my balls, the pulse at the head as my hand cups then pulls back from it. The tiny pulls and tiny sharp plucks of my forest of pubic hairs getting caught in my hand. My asshole getting nice and tight. My grip getting tighter as my cock gets harder. When it’s good it’s very good and my cock is a iron putter wrapped in fine silk. My cock is a diving rod pulling my brain this way and that with images and sensations: entering, sucking, licking, biting, beating, feeling, touching, and more, much more.
I love to start the trip to see where it might detour. Start out with a fuck-film in your head, maybe the feeling of that one night, that one day (satin, silk, polyester, latex, leather, cotton, elastic waistbands -- ) and let my cock take me that way that this way through side-trips of past fucks: just that sensation, that picture, that image, that fantasy, that lover, that glimpse, that night (or day). I might start with the Standard Number Four (A) fantasy: big black tits in my face while she jumps on my rigid cock and might end up at in a mobile home somewhere below the Mason-Dixon with a scummy pre-teen (all zits and no tits and gum and smelling of piss and booze) on my face an some guy named Joe-Bob bathing my cock and balls in spit that’s mostly cheap beer.
It’s ain’t so much the destination as it is the trip.
I jerk off when I’m horny. I stroke it when I’m excited. I pull it when I’m turned-on. I also yank it when I’m bored, can’t sleep, have a cold, have a headache, or can’t think of anything else to do (or there’s nothing good on TV). I do it in bed, on the john, in my living room, at my computer (I give good email), in the backyard (that was a fun party), and everywhere in between. I’ve done it driving, in planes, in porno houses, on trains, and when I shouldn’t have been doing it and I’m damned lucky no one caught me.
Don’t act so fucking surprised, either, a lot of you have done a lot worse -- or a lot better.
Stigma? Masturbation should be prayer. It should be the way we show our love for the God/dess in ourselves (how better than to show him/her/it a really good time?). We should have it fucking institutionalized. No more of this bullshit white-haired old men yelling at us from inside their million dollar temples about a hateful god who doesn’t want you to yank it or jill it. Nah, we should tune in every goddamned morning to the right kind of prayer -- ”Put your hands where they belong, Brothers and Sisters, and give unto you the pleasure that is the God/dess’s gift to you -- your genitals. Rub them with me, dear people, and feel the rising power of prayer in you (and remember to clean up afterwards).”
Jerking off should be a fucking sporting event! “Live from the Superbowl the longest ejaculation, most powerful orgasm, most orgasms (women and men’s divisions), most female ejaculate, and quickest (longest takes way too much time for television).” Personally, I favor the San Francisco Queens (got ten bucks riding on them, too).
It should be taught in school, it should be continuing ed, it should be an extracurricular activity (“For today, class, we are going to examine the social, personal, physical repercussions of long fingernails -- ”). It should be part of the glee club (high notes), cheer leading, and shop (bookend, sailboat, coat rack, dildo, butt-plug ...). We should be told and shown how to do it well, safely and effectively.
Maybe it will. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But for certain it is safe, harmless, natural, comfortable common, and -- best above all else -- hellava lot of fun!
I know you masturbate. I know you do, because I do. A lot. So get off it, get on it and --
-- love thyself. Damnit!
Sure, I masturbate. Yeah, I jerk off. Damned straight, I yank it, pull it, stroke it, rub it, and jerk it. Lube, soap, shampoo or split. Left hand, right hand, frotage (look it up), other’s hands, sheets, and gizmos (manual, electric, and even diesel). Like it, love it -- do it a lot.Let’s get this straight -- we all do it. Sure, yeah, right: “not me” someone says. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. We all do it. Nuns do it, dogs do it, cats do it, bees do it, Newt Gingrich and Jessie Helms do it (god, what a thought!). You say you don’t do it, you mean it when you say you don’t do it. Well, who leaves the wet spot on the bed, a topless Tinkerbell?
I masturbate. Come on, let’s say it together, enunciate those syllables: “I” -- rounding chorus of self identification. Come on, belt that fucker out -- “I” -- mean it now, say it true -- “Mast-ur-bate.”
I masturbate. He masturbates. She masturbates. They masturbate. We all masturbate. That out of the way? Breathing maybe a bit easier now? Let me tell you this, the old cliché of imagining folks in their underwear has zilch over thinking of all of you sitting there rubbing stroking, jacking, jilling yourselves into a grazed euphoria of self-love. Makes saying that I do it real easy.
I masturbate. Bullshit on that “self-abuse” nonsense: think of them sitting on the toilet in some sleazy dive yanking their pull little wieners with two embarrassed fingers, groaning like taking a shit, popping off an eye-dropped full of fun cream, wheezing like an asthmatic marathon runner (oooooh, sexy!) then going out onto the pulpit to tell you that “it’s bad for you”, “it’s sinful”, “it’s detrimental.”
I do it. I’m proud that I do -- because I do it well (hell, I like it) and I do it often: horny, need to sleep, need to relax, wanna get off quick, wanna get off slow, got a cold, don’t got a cold, at home, at parties (the right kind of parties), driving, sleeping (“Yeah, Tinkerbell, yeah!”), for myself, for others -- available for weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, etc.
Been doing it for years (first time think something like twelve -- late bloomer), will do it for many more. Do it tonight, do it probably tomorrow, do it with my wife, do it with my playmates, do it for pay (if anyone’s interested), do it for free. Ask me to, go on, ask me.
You can see me do it, you can hear me do it (the movie’s out there somewhere -- sorry they never told me what the title was going to be) and I write about doing it ...
... stroking my long, proud self, feeling the soft skin and the ridges and bumps of the veins. Feeling the skin of my hand rise and squeeze around the thick head. The pressure, the wonderful feeling of the strong muscle that cranks me up and away. The strength in my balls, the pulse at the head as my hand cups then pulls back from it. The tiny pulls and tiny sharp plucks of my forest of pubic hairs getting caught in my hand. My asshole getting nice and tight. My grip getting tighter as my cock gets harder. When it’s good it’s very good and my cock is a iron putter wrapped in fine silk. My cock is a diving rod pulling my brain this way and that with images and sensations: entering, sucking, licking, biting, beating, feeling, touching, and more, much more.
I love to start the trip to see where it might detour. Start out with a fuck-film in your head, maybe the feeling of that one night, that one day (satin, silk, polyester, latex, leather, cotton, elastic waistbands -- ) and let my cock take me that way that this way through side-trips of past fucks: just that sensation, that picture, that image, that fantasy, that lover, that glimpse, that night (or day). I might start with the Standard Number Four (A) fantasy: big black tits in my face while she jumps on my rigid cock and might end up at in a mobile home somewhere below the Mason-Dixon with a scummy pre-teen (all zits and no tits and gum and smelling of piss and booze) on my face an some guy named Joe-Bob bathing my cock and balls in spit that’s mostly cheap beer.
It’s ain’t so much the destination as it is the trip.
I jerk off when I’m horny. I stroke it when I’m excited. I pull it when I’m turned-on. I also yank it when I’m bored, can’t sleep, have a cold, have a headache, or can’t think of anything else to do (or there’s nothing good on TV). I do it in bed, on the john, in my living room, at my computer (I give good email), in the backyard (that was a fun party), and everywhere in between. I’ve done it driving, in planes, in porno houses, on trains, and when I shouldn’t have been doing it and I’m damned lucky no one caught me.
Don’t act so fucking surprised, either, a lot of you have done a lot worse -- or a lot better.
Stigma? Masturbation should be prayer. It should be the way we show our love for the God/dess in ourselves (how better than to show him/her/it a really good time?). We should have it fucking institutionalized. No more of this bullshit white-haired old men yelling at us from inside their million dollar temples about a hateful god who doesn’t want you to yank it or jill it. Nah, we should tune in every goddamned morning to the right kind of prayer -- ”Put your hands where they belong, Brothers and Sisters, and give unto you the pleasure that is the God/dess’s gift to you -- your genitals. Rub them with me, dear people, and feel the rising power of prayer in you (and remember to clean up afterwards).”
Jerking off should be a fucking sporting event! “Live from the Superbowl the longest ejaculation, most powerful orgasm, most orgasms (women and men’s divisions), most female ejaculate, and quickest (longest takes way too much time for television).” Personally, I favor the San Francisco Queens (got ten bucks riding on them, too).
It should be taught in school, it should be continuing ed, it should be an extracurricular activity (“For today, class, we are going to examine the social, personal, physical repercussions of long fingernails -- ”). It should be part of the glee club (high notes), cheer leading, and shop (bookend, sailboat, coat rack, dildo, butt-plug ...). We should be told and shown how to do it well, safely and effectively.
Maybe it will. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But for certain it is safe, harmless, natural, comfortable common, and -- best above all else -- hellava lot of fun!
I know you masturbate. I know you do, because I do. A lot. So get off it, get on it and --
-- love thyself. Damnit!
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