Pauline Likes Painted Doll

Another wonderful review from my great friend, Pauline:

In M.Christian's futuristic story, THE PAINTED DOLL, we never learn how the world has got to this point. But it doesn't matter, we know that this is the future, a chaos has taken place, the world has been turned up-side-down; the priority of the West is over, and there is an exodus to the East.

In a time of spiritual and emotional drought, memories are all that Claire has left. The perfect love that she shared with Flower, her only love, her soulmate, is told through electronic mail. Claire is also the alluring Domino, the Erotist, the expert in sexual desire and manipulation. We watch her as she delicately dips her brushes, and seductively applies her arrousing chemicals to her clients bodies; an unbearable, yet pleasurable torture. But Claire despises what she has become; the mask of the chalk faced painted doll is cracking.

M.Christian's irresistably poetic story is told through more than one narrative voice. An anonymous tourist, a killer, prowls the red light district. Christian is an expert weaver of tales and tells the story of THE PAINTED DOLL, with panache and confidence. Claire's story can speak to us all of an emotional awakening; a lament; the sacrifice we wished we'd made. The door we should have opened, into the rose-garden.There's resonance here with the best of stories; Christian's style is lyrical, he loves words and how he places them. THE PAINTED DOLL is a wonderfully crafted book to read for all those who love language.

Amos Lassen Likes Painted Doll

Amos Lassen on amazon:

I started reading the fiction of M. Christian about this time last year and I am slowly making my way through his works. I have read four of his books so far and each is completely different from the others. “Painted Doll” is the most different of them all. This is a novel about the art of seduction and deals with Domino, an erotist (a professional who paints her client’s bare skin with neurochemicals that bring about sensuality. An erotist can provide landscapes of “ecstasy, pain, joy and delight” and few can afford this).

“Painted Doll” is a noir tale which deals with the future and it is an erotic adventure that is completely imaginative as it explores the nature of man and sexual awakenings that arise when we take on someone else’s identity. M. Christian has such a way with words that it is pure pleasure to read his work. He dares to tackle stories that other writers will not touch. He takes erotic tales from the privacy of the home and rubs our noses in them and we love it. He is not what some might consider post-modern but rather creates a whole new form of literature that can be pure fun. He writes across borders and genres and creates something new with everything he writes and he surprises me every time.

“Painted Doll” is erotic and another new kind of book for Christian. It features a dominatrix unlike any other and the book is set in a world we do not know. Christian has the ability to deal with the senses in a way that the reader feels the perception. Everything in “Painted Doll” is in living color and the action never stops---the imagery is unexpected and the prose is sheer perfection. The book is totally unpredictable and totally provocative and above all gives the reader a sense of pleasure.

Magnificent Ruins

If you want to see some groovy ruins - the old military bunkers in the Marin Headlands - check out these shots I took last weekend when cruising the area with my bro, s.a., and my mom.

More Dark Roasted M.Christian

Take a look at Dark Roasted Blend if you want to read my fun little article about Isambard Kingdom Brunel and his greater-than-great ship, The Great Eastern.

Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker: The Name's The Thing

(the following is part of an ongoing series of columns I did for The Erotica Readers & Writers Association on the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs of writing good smut)

Erotica or pornography? To be honest, how I answer that question really depends on who asks it - though I have often thought about the distinction. Personally, if it's a fellow writer asking if what I is erotica or pornography, in other words high literature or low smut, I have a tendency to answer with 'erotica' for obvious reasons. If it's someone who rings my doorbell late at night, or at some other obnoxious intrusion, I snarl that I'm a pornographer, and I have to really get back to writing nasty stories about equally nasty sex - if just to get rid of them.

This playful ducking of the issue aside, some people really do take the idea of a different between the two very seriously. A common definition between the two is that pornography is 'just' sex, in other words the author appears to be doing nothing that just arouse the reader, while erotica is aiming for a higher purpose. The problem with that though is that one man's erotica is another's pornography: that the reaction to a story is completely subjective. Besides, who knows what the intent of any writer really is?

Another attempt at definition is that erotica is refined, while pornography is course, rough, ham-handed. The idea behind this is that there is some kind of vocabulary litmus test that can be made against a work to see if it passes or fails. This also falls flat because a lot of sexuality simply is course. An honest story, talking about someone's real sex life, can sometimes use language as salty as the crustiest sailor's.

A classic way of telling one from the other is the old favorite that pornography is "without any redeeming social importance." Again, this falls flat as who can say what impact anything artistic will have - either today or hundreds if not thousands of years from now. I'm sure a lot of contemporaries of Beethoven, DaVinci, Shakespeare, Rodan, and so forth looked on their works and wrinkled their noses in disgust. Not that I think something from Hustler will seriously be hanging in the Louvre someday, but who knows what folks will someday find artistic.

What I think is even more alarming that censors and social commentators trying desperately to find some simple way of differentiating between smut and art, is that many writers are trying to separate the two as well. In other words, the same folks who are trying to keep it out of 'inappropiate' hands have intentionally or unintentionally, have joined forces with the people writing it.

Erotica has changed a lot in the last twenty or so years. Once the mainstay of the desperate writer, people are now actually either pursing erotica writing as a respected and fairly well-paying job or are using it as a stepping stone to bigger things. I wouldn't be writing this column, and having my stories, published in magazines like this without erotica. I even have books - four collections, edited over a twenty anthologies, written five novels - because I write about sex. That's quite remarkable, especially considering the stigma sexual writing used to have.

But as with many things, success has a price. Some writers are desperately trying to draw a line in the sand, if only so they can feel just a bit better what they do by elevating themselves through lowering others. "You," they say, "write pornography, while what I do is erotica." Their reasons are understandable, for the first time sex writing is getting respect, some money, and has been opening some otherwise closed doors. In their eyes, it doesn't do then any good to be grouped together with course, "just sex," or works "without any redeeming social importance." The problem is their criteria are just as nebulous as those who want to be able to prosecute for one, while grudgingly permitting the other. The problem is they are both have the potential to be very dangerous.

As I said, there is no absolute definition between literary erotica and pornography. A classic case of this was the quote from Justice Potter Stewart: "I know it when I see it." In other words, it's all a matter of opinion. The problem is, while some writers who are part of this new form of sex writing are looking for a way of telling apples from oranges simply to preserve their new-found self-respect, there are others who are trying to tell the two apart to send the writers of what they consider to be 'pornography' to jail. What better way, they are beginning to say, to draw the line than to use the rules that writers themselves are using?

Allowed to continue unchecked, puritans and hysterics who want to protect the world from what they see as the 'evils' of sex writing will be using these attempts to discriminate between high and low, art and "just porn" to draft laws, ban books, and possibly even fine or imprison authors.

My name is Chris, I write under the name "M. Christian." I am a writer. I write many things: essays, columns, reviews, articles, novels, short stories, and a lot of pornography - and, no matter who asks or why, I'm very happy doing all of it, including writing pornography. Sex writing is daring, risky, innovative and touches on something that most everyone on this world has experienced, something that makes us human.

I'm a pornographer, and proud of it.

Pornotopia: So You're A Writer?

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!


"So, you're a writer?"

Oh, boy, here it comes: the question. I really should think up a nice, eloquent response - some way of saying I write smut, but somehow conjuring up the fun, the magic of it. Some day .... "Yep."

"So, what do you write?"

"Oh, all kinds of stuff: fiction, non-fiction, editor of anthologies, collections, novels." So lame - did Hemmingway have to go through this? What really irks is if I mentioned something from the airport newsstands they'd be impressed.

"What kind of stuff do you do?"

That's the question I really hate. The smart ones recognize the (fairly) impressive credits, nod, and go back to their Wall Street Journal or Monster Truck Special, but others ... they want qualifiers, as if certain sales are more important that others. The 'I hate' part is that they're right: a sale to The New Yorker is just a tad better than one to, say, Truckstop Bimbos Monthly - even if you've written, like I have, a lot of Truckstop Bimbos Monthly stories. "Oh, all kinds of stuff: some mysteries, some noir, some non-fiction, some science fiction, some horror -" sigh "- lots of smut."

Now the fun real one: "You write from life?"

Oh, yeah, like Truckstop Bimbos Monthly is a page from my diary. I don't put myself into my stories - they come from the same place my science fiction or my horror stories come from, and certainly haven't hacked someone to death or visited other worlds. Still, I sometimes wonder: can a virgin really write smut? I've had a good sex life: did some porno movies, had some group sex, some orgies, did some S/M, some gay-play, some cross-dressing - not De Sade but sure more than Buchanan. Did that add to my stories? I don't know - but saying that opens the door to looking like having something to hide, and in this culture I might as well as be screaming YES! So: "Not really, no. But I certainly need to know a bit about what I'm writing about."

Hehehehehe "I bet your stories are pretty hot."

I think so, but frankly I don't really think of men and women jacking or jilling off to my prose. I try my best, putting in the good and juicy details, but there's no way to meet everyone's needs. Hell, the fact that anyone reads what I write is a compliment - let alone someone getting hard, wet, or wanting to buy the next book. "I hope so - that way I can keep selling stories."

"Do you - " ahem "- get excited when you work?"

One of my favorites. If you don't write from life then you must get a screaming hard-on when you click and clack out those filthy stories. This one I have no question answering - no pondering, second-guessing or hesitation. "Nope. It's all up here - " I tap my head for emphasis "- don't get turned on at all. For me, it's all writing: and what I'm writing doesn't really matter, a scary story or a sexy one. I get all lost in the words, in putting them together in fun combinations. From Mr. Happy, not a tickle."

"Why do you do it?"

I write smut, horror, non-fiction, mysteries, EVERYTHING because I'm a writer. It's fun - more fun that sex sometimes. It's an addiction, a trip, a high. I don't know what's going to come from my dancing fingers from one moment to the next, and that's a joy. So I answer, truthfully:

"Because it's fun."

San Francisco Teaching Space Needed

I've been thinking of doing my Sex Sells: Erotica Writing Class/Workshop again but I need a space. So I've been putting the word out:

Teaching Space Wanted

Convenient and safe space wanted for a writing class. Should be able to hold a maximum of 30 people, be equipped with chairs, and -- ideally -- have a bathroom. Needed for either two weeknights or one, all-day, weekend class to take place in late Sept or early October. Can't afford to pay more than $50 per night, $75 for Saturday or Sunday.

Please email zobop@aol.com if you have, or know about, a space.

Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker: Commitment

(the following is part of an ongoing series of columns I did for The Erotica Readers & Writers Association on the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs of writing good smut)


I don’t believe in talent. Sure, I think some people have a touch more hardwiring in their brains that lends them to be artists, musicians, scientists, and even lowly writers but I think that having this turn of mind never guarantees being able to utilize this towards a satisfying pursuit. When someone uses that word, ‘talent,’ I think of something that makes a person have a kind of special dispensation, a phenomenal leg-up on everyone else. I use an analogy to explain this supposedly hypocrisy: just because you’re a good driver doesn’t mean you’ll be a great driver – and not all great drivers started out being good drivers.

Maybe it’s because I think of myself as a Liberal -- that everyone is created equal, or at least have equal access to making themselves a better person – but I don’t like the idea of someone by luck (good or bad) having an edge. I also think the idea of talent is what a lot of people use to give up on something. They put pen to paper and when it doesn’t work out perfectly the first time they toss it too the floor, saying, “What’s the point? I just don’t have it.”

There is one thing, though, that’s true of great drivers as well as great writers: commitment. To do anything well you have to practice, you have to get up and do it even though you’d rather do anything else in the world. It’s easy to lock onto stories of first story sales, first book sales, and think that’s common, expected. But the fact is they are alarmingly rare. For every one phenomenal success there are thousands of other writers who sit in front of their machines every day and work, work, work. Sure, those flashy first timers often deserve their praise and fat checks, but they often vanish as fast they appear. Without determination, a willingness to be there for the long haul, they suffer from expecting the next project, and the next project, and the next project, to be as easy as the first. Someone whose battered and beaten their way up, however, knows that for every five stories, only one will be any good: its part of the game.

But there’s here’s something else to remember ... back to analogies: if you go out and just circle the track, drive the same car at the same speed, over and over again you may be a better driver but you’ll never be Tazio Nuvalari. Writing the same story over and over, never stretching, never trying new things, will have the same affect. Same with writing page after page after page but not taking the time (sometimes very painful times) to sit down with your work and really, honestly read what you’ve been writing. Determination and commitment is one thing, useless thumb twiddling is quite another.

You have to look really had at what you’re doing, to look at it and face the fact that sometimes what you’re going to write is going to be crap. Some stories deserve to be thrown in the trash, but what separates the casual dreamer from the person really in pursuit of their destiny, is when you can look at what you’ve written and go: this is crap, but I know how to make it better.

Personal confession time. Does ten years sound like a long time? Sure, it might be an eternity if you’re in a prison cell sometimes, but maybe only the blink of an eye if you’re a parent watching a child grow up. For me, ten years is what it took for me to become a published author. I started writing very seriously just out of high school and ten years later I sold my first story. Putting aside that I honestly do feel that selling something is not the signpost of quality for writing, this was a defining moment in my life. Ten years of trying.

Nine years after that I have a pretty respectable resume of projects. Sometimes I think I took to long to get where I am, but other times I think that maybe it would have taken much longer – or never happened at all – if I’d never sat down and done the work: word after word, page after page, story after story. But it wasn’t just those words, pages, or stories that pushed me along, that made me as good a writer as I am today. Sure, that was part of it – but I really think that I always tried to be better, tried to improve what I was doing, and was willing to look at what I was doing.

I really do believe dreams can come true, despite the Saccharin sentiment usually tagged to that philosophy. It can happen, but if too often means a huge amount of very difficult, time-consuming, heart-breaking work.

Is it worth it? Ten years is an awfully long time, true. But when I think of the stories I’ve written, the fun I’ve had, the things I’ve learned about myself, and the world, I would do it all again in a second.

The choice is yours. But it’s better to really, truly try, then pass on regretting you never even made a first step.

Dark Roasted M.Christian (again)

Head over to Dark Roasted Blend if you want to read about men and their obsession with the size of their ... guns.

Painted Doll: An Excerpt

If you want a little taste of my new novel, Painted Doll: An Erotist's Tale, head straight over to Cecilia Tan's Circlet Press site:

Chapter Two

On the banister going up, winding down the paired columns at the top, lizards were marching in a tightly twisting single file, preceding tails barely touching the tips of a following hissing tongue. Round and round, up and up, each lizard behind the other. Under her fingers, sliding smoothly along the silken lacquer, scales, dagger teeth, and clawed toes, were almost too precisely carved, too excellent. Their realism a soft whisper of perhaps, maybe, could-be movement.

Claire didn’t like the walk up those carpeted stairs, another parade of tiny reptiles woven into the border in careful golden thread, because of that banister. Didn’t like putting her hand on the smooth pillars on the upper landing, either; that long dead Malay, Indonesian, or Chinese wood carver’s art too haunting, ghostly shivers up her arm.

One step, a pause. Another, and then another, and another of each: closer to the top with each careful, controlled, ascent, each cool hiatus. Hand out, holding the railing with each rise, the wood carver’s art was just a decoration, the thing that gave the Salamander Room its name. Domino, not Claire.

Vaulted in an upward sweep of beams that seemed transported from somewhere else, the room was warm, looming to be even hotter later in the day. But that was a long time to come, and the client had only paid for any hour. Two pieces of furniture, one piece of baggage: an opium bed, frayed fabric from generations of smokers, trim and tassels missing or discolored. Next to it, a high octagonal table, rosewood glowing from different generation’s use. On it, a leather satchel, low and square, showing early signs of wear at the corners but otherwise anyone’s carry-on, containing almost anything.

As Domino reached the top, the man on the bed rolled to one side; he looked back at her, she saw him.

“K-Konichiwa,” he stammered, with a sharp dip of his chin, eyelids lowering. Young, but not a boy. Dark hair in a corporate apprentice pudding bowl, growing out in a soft bristle around the ears meaning an approaching graduation to junior salariman. A few months before a move from the dormitories to a single men’s building. Student larva cocooned before emerging as a fully-formed and valued worker.

Flowing slowly into the room, the hushing of her kimono was her only answer. A celebration then. A promise to himself, a reward for memorizing the company manual, no doubt standing in the rain, pattering ice water on his bare shoulders, and singing their anthem until his voice had cracked, then broken.

Naked then, more than likely; naked now, clearly. Hairless and smooth, with nipples the color of his bloodless lips. Between his legs, no sign of a penis. Tucked between his thighs in a reflex of Japanese decorum. He could have been as sexless as a bee.

[More]

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Order a copy today!

Perfect Paperback: 196 pages
Publisher: Lethe Press (July 21, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1590211251
ISBN-13: 978-1590211250

Pauline Likes Brushes

This comes from my very sweet friend, Pauline:

Through a variety of protagonists M Christian explores the character of the enigmatic and charismatic Artist, Escobar. The story is a step away from Christian's futuristic erotic fantasies, which were a delight in THE BACHELOR MACHINE and another new novel from Christian, THE PAINTED DOLL.

In BRUSHES we are taken into a new and succulent territory which is overwhelming with its elegant prose. The characters are exotic, strange but familiar too, with the reader relating to each protagonist's confusion, as he or she tries to unravel the mystery that is Escobar. Set in France, there is no doubt that Christian cherishes and knows that country well; in fact his style is worthy of travel writing at its best, being worth a comparison with Paul Theroux. As with Theroux's work you see the country in the prose. Christian's France isn't always beautiful, sometimes it's downright dirty; but it's always what can always be expected from M Christian; very, very sexy!

Brushes: An Excerpt

Here you go: a little taste of my new novel, Brushes:

Finger slipped carefully into the handle, heat passing through the delicate ceramic from the recently boiled drink, losing degrees of temperature to become comforting warmth, she brought the cup up gently, carefully. One inch. Another. Another. The ritual of a sip, the elegance of patience: finger in handle, cup up to mouth, a pause of fragrance, then lips touched gently to rim. Taste. Savor. Taste again to compare.

The British used it as the cornerstone of a lion-emblazoned empire. The Japanese had made it a religion. Sitting in the lounge of the Pont Royal Hotel--immaculate linen tablecloth, Lennox kettle and cup, silver service, velvet drapes parting the view of the Saint Germain district of Paris, a waiter at the door prepared to do whatever was needed to ensure the pleasure of her stay--Constance could believe that tea was, indeed, something to fight wars over, to pray to.

Steady and refined, careful and graceful, charming and poised, it was ballet with a cup and saucer, opera with a kettle, chamber music with sugar and cream. Tea, especially tea in the lounge of the Pont Royal Hotel, was perfect, or as near to it as anyone could come.

Then the waiter wasn't waiting by the door. Passing between her table and the window with its rich maroon drapes, he gestured to a corner table. Behind him, moving slower through the linen islands--having less of his skill in navigating the room--came the man, followed by the woman.

He was young, his body lithe and fluid, yet with the hesitation and stumbling that comes from some uncertainty in life. His hair was brown, but not common. His was a mixture of many shades, making it changeable with every turn of his head, every shift of his muscled body. His face was expressive but not comedic, handsome without being cut from cold marble. Like his shifting hair, his eyes also became many kinds of brown as he looked around the room.

She was young, her figure tight, supple, and limber, but with the hesitancy and awkwardness that came with trying to understand her own body. Her hair was blond, but not from a bottle. Hers was true shine that glowed with every movement of her lissome form. Her face was animated but not loud, pretty without being from a mold. Like her bright hair, her eyes glimmered and shone as she surveyed her surroundings.

Watching them come in and sit down, Constance swallowed hot tea--through a cold and tense frown.

* * * *

Finger slipped carefully into warm, golden metal on a hot summer day. That sensation had lingered more than many other details. More than the perfume of roses. More than what her friends--or his, for that matter--had said to her before or after the priest heard the vows. More than the butterflies that had fluttered in her stomach. More than the champagne in a flute, with its jeweled bubbles streaming up from the bottom.

Other things were long forgotten, but the ring sliding onto her finger had remained--a faithful memory of her wedding day.

Hot tea to her lips again, she scowled at the tan liquid in her cup. The beverage was excellent--as only something served in the lounge of the Pont Royal Hotel could be--but the remembrance wasn't. Faithful, yes, because it remained close at hand, even when not wanted, but its flavor was bitter.

On her left hand, on that meaningful finger, she still had her ring. On days like today, she wanted to pull it off, leave it behind as a generous tip for superb service, but she never did. Turn it, yes, around and around, but that was all. Tarnished and cold, it still meant something. Even if it was a tarnished and cold meaning.

It was different for her husband. Clearly, for Escobar, his matching gold meant nothing.

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Trade Paperback:
ISBN: 978-159426-815-1
$13.00

ebook:
ISBN: 978-159426-687-4
$6.00

If you're interested in reviewing Brushes please email M.Christian at the addresses below:

M.Christian
zobop@aol.com
mchristianzobop@gmail.com