Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Patrick Califia Likes Rude Mechanicals

(from M.Christian's Technorotica)

This is a very special treat: a blurb from the legendary Patrick Califia - a great writer and an even greater friend. Thanks, Pat!

Here is the latest collection of M.Christian's insightful and original work. Fabulous! I have yet to read anything Chris has written without feeling that my own assumptions were challenged, and I was pushed to think about sexuality, politics, gender, and literature in a whole different way. There aren't enough people who can write from the polymorphous perverse perspective that he seamlessly adopts. He is a genuine ally of sexual minority communities and has walked the walk and talked the talk in dozens of different erotic and edgy experiences. If you'd like to expand your horizons and spread your wings (or your legs, or somebody else's legs), you couldn't have a better guide than the wise, wry, irreverent, and twisted M.Christian.
-Patrick Califia, author of Mortal Companion, Hard Men, and Macho Sluts.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Orson Scott Card Should Not Be Writing Superman

(from M.Christian's Queer Imaginings)

I don't touch on politics ... much on my blog, but the idea of a homophobic bigot like Orson Scott Card being paid to write Superman - a symbol of liberty, trust, and justice - is completely offensive.

Here's a hyperlink to a petition to get Card fired ... and if you doubt his bigotry just click here (and here's a tease):
According to science fiction author Orson Scott Card (pictured above), recent court decisions in Massachusetts and California recognizing same-sex marriage mean “the end of democracy in America.” As such, he advocates taking down our government “by whatever means is made possible or necessary." 
It’s all there in a truly frightful — and brazenly dishonest — essay that Card published in last Thursday’s edition of the Mormon Times.
I can’t think the last time I’ve read something so offensive and bigoted written by a major media figure. Overthrowing the government because of same-sex marriage? As far as I know, even Pat Robertson doesn’t advocate this. We’re talking Fred Phelps territory here. 
And Card is definitely a major figure in the science fiction community, a three-time winner of both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, and a winner of both the World Fantasy and Locus Awards. His novel, Ender’s Game, is considered a classic, one of the best-selling science fiction novels of all time. A major movie version is in the works with a screenplay written by Card himself. Wolfgang Petersen and Warner Brothers had both been involved, though it’s unclear if either still are. 
Additionally, at this month's Comic Con in San Diego, Marvel Comics announced that this October they are publishing a six issue miniseries based on Ender's Game. 
Some of Card’s arguments against same-sex marriage are straight from the far-right conservative playbook: for example, that marriage is, and must always be, synonymous with procreation. Infertile heterosexual couples are okay because they affirm “the universality of the pattern of marriage” — at least if they adopt. Card seems to grant no credence or respect to heterosexual couples who are childless by choice. 
And Card clearly seems to detest gay people. 
“When gay rights were being enforced by the courts back in the '70s and '80s, we were repeatedly told by all the proponents of gay rights that they would never attempt to legalize gay marriage,” Card writes. “It took about 15 minutes for that promise to be broken.” 
I have absolutely no idea what Card means by this spiteful comment. As long as I’ve been alive and working in gay activism, we gay people have been quite clear about our long-term agenda: liberty and justice for all. It's really not that difficult a concept. 
Card spends a lot of time arguing that the availability of same-sex marriage and the open acknowledgement of gay people is destroying the “family,” but our families definitely don’t count. At no point does Card acknowledge, even tacitly, the legal and psychological burden we gay people bear when our relationships are literally made to be illegal. He certainly doesn’t see us as equal citizens and doesn’t even seem to think of us as human.

Monday, February 11, 2013

My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out Was A Treat!

(From M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)

Thanks so all the great people who came out for My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out it was a thrill to get out and read ... especially for such a great audience.

For all you poor suckers ... I mean 'unfortunate people' who couldn't make it ... here's the story I read: It originally appeared in my fun Renaissance E Books/Sizzler editions anthology BondageBy The Bay Tales Of BDSM In San Francisco 

(hint, hint)


I shouldn't have so many. I mean ... hell, I only just turned fifty- one. A few, maybe; but when I think of them there always seems to be far too many.

Far too many.

And they all were in San Francisco ... and if they hadn't then they certainly lived in San Francisco: the city where everything always seems to have happened.

Emphasis on seems to have happened.

I can't pick a favorite – and even if I could I wouldn't. Each one, each time, each frozen-flash-memory-moment of time stands unique and still, coming and going depending on all kinds of irrational and almost whimsical cues: the smell of a certain brand of soap, the way this-or-that kind of fabric feels, the unique flavors of ... well, unique flavors.

Sunlight, for instance: not just light-from-the sun but when it comes through big windows. Big, but very dusty windows: the way the warm brilliance reveals little eddies and currents of stuff caught in the air. Back when I was living in San Francisco, when all of these memories were made, I seemed to wake up many time in that one front room in that one special house out in the Sunset.

Lisa, my wife at the time, and I had made a lot of friends while we were together. Some of them were vanilla, but most of them understood the other flavor of that word, vanilla, means. If you don't, then you should probably – especially since you may not understand the rest of this.

The biggest shock I felt after dipping my toes and then (ahem) other body parts into this particular pool was how remarkably normal everyone there was. Larry, the lawyer who worked for the city, might have liked to get dressed up as a young girl – pinafores, pink hair bows, stockings, precious little shoes, and all that – but he was also the friend who liked French comedies and sushi. Marty, the chubby programmer, may have been into being beaten – quite severely sometimes – by a cane but he was also one of the best friends I'd ever had, who told the best stories and had the best laugh. Sally, well- tanned and lithe teacher, was certainly a vicious dominatrix with whip, cane, paddle, clothespin – and anything else within reach – but she was also there, with her arms around me, that day when my usual blues were far too deeply blue for me to see the sun.

That house in the sunset, then. That special house in the sunset: the one with the dusty windows; the one I always seemed to wake up in. That one. It wasn't just after a party or such, though there were a lot of those. Sometimes Lisa and I would just be there, watching movies, resting after some parade or event or such. It was one of those places that as familiar as our own home.

Todd worked for the city, though I forget the details of what exactly he did. Not important. But what I do remember is: Todd was a teddy bear, a great laughing ball of a man. In his basement there had been parties, a space he had created and gave to all of his friends to use, but the best memories I have of him are just sitting on the couch in that front room. Women, sometimes topless, sometimes not, and men, sometimes bottomless, sometimes not, stroll past in my memories, stroboscopic flashes of various erotic adventures and sticky orgasms (from me) and loud ones (from women) flicker in and out, mixing up what was real, what wasn't, and how even to tell the two of them apart. But though them all Todd was always there: a sweet and happy smile on his face, a warm hug always there when needed.

Diabetes was his end. Shamefully, memories of my own father's passing too loud and strong in my mind, I was too cowardly to see him in the hospital.


Beth comes, now and again, as well: the memories of her not really

tied to any particular flavor, texture, or scent. Maybe that means she was ... different from Todd. I don't know. But I do know that Beth was special. They all are, to stay with me. But she really was that and more.

We began to flirt ... but then everyone in the scene does. It's just what the people in that world do: a part of the game, a part of the life but most importantly part of the play. But in her case there was an extra dimension to it. I think she knew, and I think I knew, that we were very similar in a very deep down way: that, sure, we could have just played, only whipped or chained or bound or gagged or pierced or whatever together but no matter what we'd done together it would have become something more than just that – play partners naturally and wonderfully becoming lovers.

We didn't, but we came close many times. She was a big girl, a brightly grinning woman round in all the right and happy ways. One time shines a bit more than the others: her, glowing like a cake from the oven, on Lisa and I'd big bed in our little house, her immense breasts out for fingers and lips, the deep moans of her excitement echoing back and forth in the tiny room. It had been a treat, a special birthday surprise for this bottom to be the center of attention for several of her friends. They were there with me, and they each had things to give her – a little of this, a little of that, and much of what she liked, but afterwards, when the other party-goers had left to go into the kitchen for drinks and snacks, we had cuddled together and half-slept.

Cancer was her end. Guilt there as well; that I didn't find out about her passing until it was far too late to be there for her.


Shelly comes to me often. This is not the time, place, pages, for

me, but let me say that I was a late bloomer ... a very late bloomer. Because of this sex is a sacred thing, every contact a tap on the head of a very lonely young man who wanted, more than anything, for a girl, a woman, to want him. Shelly wanted me, and because of that she was special.

Lisa and I were breaking up, each of us stepping into different parts of the San Francisco scene. I had never gone to a party by myself and really didn't know what to expect. I had hopes, of course. But never thought that someone Shelly would happen.

We connected, like something from a badly written porn story: as the organizers held a little pagan-ish ritual to raise the party's sexual energy she looked at me and smiled. Then she moved closer to me.

She was big, but not round or plump but instead was a giantess: proportionally big in all directions. After the sexual energy was raised, we were free to wander, and do, whatever we wanted.

Odd, but even though we wanted to we didn't. A stranger stuck his nose, literally, into our business and as we kissed and I caressed her firm and beautiful breasts he licked her. But our times did not stop there. We became lovers and had a lot of good times together.

Then she called me, telling me something dark and frightening: afterwards she asked me, her voice cracking and faint, if what she'd learned from her doctor would change us. I told her it wouldn't: meaning every word.

Unfortunately, my own life went one way and hers went another. I am still here, to write about the kindness of her soul, the light of her smile, the beauty of her passion and the music of her joy, but she is not.

Cancer was also her end. Again, I was not there to see her off; again, guilt that I wasn't holding her hand when it happened.


Dora arrives with when the sun goes down, stepping into my mind

when the shadows grow so long they mix and merge into the ink of warm night. But not because of her skin, that would be too much of a clich̩ ... even for me. No, Dora comes because that's when we saw each other the most: visits to Рmy heart beat-beating with excitement, a firm erection of anticipation Рand then from Рmy mind furry with post-bliss natural chemicals, the tug of bed after a wonderful roll of orgasms Рone of the rent-by-the-hour hot tub places in the city.

One memory hangs over them all. Y es, her glorious smile. Y es, her so-sweet soul and her sparkling laughter. Yes, the times that is wasn't just about pleasure of naked skin (mine white, hers black) and sharing bliss and pleasure and sweat and the sounds we make when it gets very good ... very, very good.

This memory was one special night when the stars in that ink warm sky were in just the right step in their dance from dusk to dawn: she had been on top, a slow, musical, magical, magnificent rhythm of hips and body that could have just lasted a few minutes or could have been for hours on end.
I never used to think that sex could be magic. But then Dora came into my life and changed how I thought, and changed my heart as well.

But then I went one way and she went another way.

A heart attack was her end. Not there, of course, to help or just hold her hand. I don't believe it anything beyond this world but that doesn't stop me from looking up at those dancing stars and hoping that somewhere, somehow, she knows that she is still here, in my mind, my soul: a precious jewel of times together, sparkling even after all these years.


Too many ghosts – but not just the spirits of people gone past. A

city, after all, is not just made of bricks and boards and asphalt and steel and wire and pipe and all the rest of it that separates it from the natural world, but it's more than that. I really do feel that certain cities – certain special places – are as alive as the human beings working, living, and traveling through it.

San Francisco is no exception, and it has more than a few dearly- departed landmarks that also drift in and out of my mind. Though in the case of these addresses the bodies of their previous lives is a little more ... well, concrete: what they were overlaid with their modern incarnations.

South of Market, for instance (SOMA to Bay Area people): it's a lithograph stop now, but when I was putting on my tight black pants, cinching up my waist cincher and stepping out to a Links, Society of Janus, QSM, Black Leather Wing Fairy, or this, that, or other group or event or simply a party With No Name, that place was stale cement, the lingering perfume of mold and maybe even urine. It was hardly elegant but it was still a place that holds some primordial memories: friends naked, friends moaning or shrieking in orgasm, friends with their arms around me, me with my arms around my friends.

Then there was that one special Society of Janus panel. My wife had been the Program Director, picking and choosing this-friend or that-friend to step up and demonstrate a kinky talent or expertise.

That night was cutting, and one of those volunteers had been the Program Director. The cutting had been of a Kris, the undulating Indonesian knife: chosen because of its similarity to my name.

The place is gone, and my marriage ended. But she still has that mark on her back: the literal scars of an old relationship.

In the same area, another place – though I can't remember what it is now I have fond memories of what it once was: a playspace full of leather-this and leather-that, swings and slings and St. Andrews' crosses and even a stock or two. It was in one of those slings where I gave up my anal virginity to my strap-on wearing wife, while a pair of bountifully buxom friends bent over me, nipples dangling in my face and mouth during the whole bout of play.

Over in the Mission is another space, though I've heard that while it still lives and breathes it is closed to the casual, the everyday players: shut to everyone but a select few. It is the Shangri-La of spaces, the wonderland everywhere else is measured against. From the Pink Floyd inspired bathroom to the bubbles of a hot tub set in the middle of a lushly green garden, to the catacombs of its leather-fest dungeon, it's a space that – no matter how old it ever gets – will forever glow and sparkle from the energies raised there.

I can't begin to say how many times I'd been there, how many orgasms and experiences had been enjoyed in the framework of its walls. I do know that, even after my first marriage, it stayed in my life – even beginning another long term, and much happier, time in my life with a new partner.

There are other architectural ghosts, of course: the parade of offices that San Francisco Sex Information occupied, the storefronts that hid spontaneous sex parties, the bash secretly held in a massive public storage place downtown, the galleries that went up at night and down with the morning light, and even the play that happened beyond the walls of a house or a home. The legendary Folsom Street Fair, for instance, will always be in my mind – though it is hardly a ghost as it still lives and breathes to this day.

But to me my favorite times are as invisible and intangible as long- lost lovers or repurposed sex clubs: the Amazonian girl I'd played with for a new months, both of us half-naked, both of us dancing to so techno-or-other and then, when the steam between us grew too steamy, a quick trip to a sacred alley next door to orgasm with mouth and hands between two parked cars; the on-again, off-again partner pressed against me in the swelling crowd, laughter and giggles all around as I playfully unzipped her latex catsuit, laughter and giggles more when she unzipped it more, pulling my head to an already erect nipple.

These places, those times, are still there even if they are not really there: a drive through the streets of San Francisco turning me into a tired, old tour guide, pointing over there with a wistful commentary: "Right over there this or that happened..."


Far too many. Yes, it feels like far too many of them: phasing in

and out of my mind when I think about those years in San Francisco. Both the spirits of sadly past friends and lovers, plus the lingering memories of spaces and events having been replaced by chain-stores or locked away behind private and respected accesses.

Far too often the city I knew, the city that seemed to flow as easily and warmly through my body as my own blood or other, stickier, fluids, seems to have gone, died as well. San Francisco, when I move through it now, seems instead to be a place of plastic arrogance, a hipster paradise of hundred dollar t-shirts, obvious and loud non- conformist conformity, without a trace of true creativity, free- spiritness, or the perilous risks of showing true love, lust, or even the glorious stickiness of an orgasm.

Alive or dead, though, I still have my ghosts and while they sometimes drift into my mind unexpected and unwanted, I wouldn't give up the memories, the people who made them: with each visit they remind me of how many of them changed how I see the world, San Francisco, and – most of all – myself.

Thank you, all of you: thank you for reaching out and touching me. Thank you for caring for me. Thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you for being there.

I will never, ever forget you.

*All names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, the fortunate, the unfortunate ... they are all missed

Friday, February 08, 2013

Yet More Philosophy

Reminder: I'm Teaching For FantasyMakers Academy

(from M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)

Here's a reminder that this Sunday I'll be presenting a wonderful class for the celebrated FantasyMakers AcademyMaking A Scene: How To Create Fun – and Most Of All – Hot S/M Play Encounters

Here's the info and links for how to register for the class:

February 10, 2013
1pm to 4pm
Doors open at 12:30am
Making A Scene: How To Create Fun – and Most Of All – Hot S/M Play Encounters
with: M.Christian
Donation: $20

You've got the kinky toys, you've taken classes in how to use them, you have a willing participant ... so what happens next? How do you take your skills and weave them together into a safe, sane -- and even better – a wonderfully erotic S/M scene?

In Making A Scene, participants will learn how to take the technical skills they've learned (from caning to impact play, bondage to edge play) and take the next step and actually put together a complete S/M play experience.

Beginning with the basics of physical and emotional safety then onto negotiation, safewords, then how to structure a scene with a beginning, middle and happy ending that'll give both the submissive and the dominance/the masochist and the sadist not just a great, fun, time but one that will include not just erotic excitement but also the roller-coasted thrill that can come from well-constructed theater.

Among the subjects that will be covered in Making A Scene will include:

Safety, safety, and more safety ... of every kind
What's hot in fantasy – and what doesn't, and does work, in reality
How to leave them not just satisfied but wanting more
Handling problems – and learning to improvise
How to hear your play partner ... even when they aren't saying anything
Expanding your limits as a top, as you explore the limits of your bottom
The important of aftercare – for everyone

Making A Scene is a class about technique, certainly, but its also about the important philosophies that separate a good S/M interaction from a truly memorable one ... the kind of scenes that go from being simply, wonderfully steamy to touching on a deeper, even more profound, level.

About the Presenter:

M.Christian has been an active participant in the San Francisco BDSM scene since 1988, and has been a featured presenter at the Northwest Leather Celebration, smOdyssey, the Center For Sex and Culture, The National Sexuality Symposium, QSM, San Francisco Sex Information, The Citadel, The Looking Glass, The Society of Janus, The Floating World, Winter Solstice, and lots of other venues. He has taught classes on everything from impact play, tit torture, bondage, how to write and sell erotica, polyamory, cupping, caning, and basic SM safety.

M.Christian is also a recognized master of BDSM erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many other anthologies, magazines, and other sites; editor of 2t anthologies such as the Best S/M Erotica series, Pirate Booty, My Love For All That Is Bizarre: Sherlock Holmes Erotica, and more; the collections Dirty Words, The Bachelor Machine, Love Without Gun Control, Rude Mechanicals, and more; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Finger's Breadth, Brushes, and Painted Doll. His site is, View his Amazon Page.

Please RSVP to Atheris if you wish to attend this class or if you have any questions.

Reminder: I'm Reading At My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out!

(From M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)

Just a reminder that I'm going to be one of the featured readers at My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out.

Here's the basic info - with more coming soon!

My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out!
Saturday, February 9, 7pm – 10pm
The Center for Sex and Culture
1349 Mission St. San Francisco, CA 94103

For an anti-Valentine's event of epic proportions, two of San Francisco's most celebrated erotic literary events join forces! On February 9, the Center will host the collision of Perverts Put Out and My Sucky Valentine! Come hear some of SF's favorite erotic authors read and tell stories about dirty love, dirtier lovemaking and the train-wreck delights of romance-gone-wrong!

Our three-way of hosts will be Carol Queen, Simon Sheppard and Thomas S. Roche; expect filthy heartache from Bay Area luminaries Charlie Jane Anders, M. Christian, Daphne Gottlieb, Philip Huang, Allison Moon and horehound stillpoint. This event is a benefit for the Center for Sex and Culture and the St. James Infirmary.

Wednesday, February 06, 2013

Taste of "The New Motor" From Betty Came: The Mammoth Book of Erotica Presents The Best of M. Christian

(from M.Christian's Technorotica)

Here's a teasing taste of my steam-punky erotic story "The New Motor" from both The Bachelor Machine as well as the (very flattering) Betty Came: The Mammoth Book of Erotica Presents The Best of M. Christian.

The New Motor

It is not our place, via hindsight, to say what exactly happened that one particular night. It’s easy to dismiss, with scorn or even a kind of parental, historical, fondness, that he was just visited by vivid dreams, a hallucinatory fever, a form of 1854 delusion (after all, we smile, frown, grimace, laugh or otherwise, this was 1854), or some hybrid kin of them all: a vision 1/3 unresolved traumas, 1/3 bad meal of steak and potatoes, 1/3 19th century crippling social situation. What we cannot dismiss—because it’s there with minuscule precision, in detailed blocks of blurry type in rag pulp sidebills, in the fine-filigreed pages of the genteel or just the skilled—was that John Murray Spear, a spiritualist of some quite personal renown and respect, did indeed depart Miss August’s Rooming House for Gentlemen of Stature (near the corner of Sycamore and Spruce in Baltimore, Maryland), and go forth to tell anyone who would listen—and some did, as those news- papers reported and those diaries told—about his visitation by the Association of Electricizers.

Close your eyes, metaphorically, and envision the images that might have fluttered through the expansive and trained consciousness of Mr. Spear as he lay, barely waking on a cheap mattress more tick than stuffing, the too-warm embrace of a humid Baltimore summer morning pouring through the thin gauze of the window. Amid the jumble and clutter of a day’s thoughts, they walk—as contemporary A. J. Davis expressed: “spirits with a mechanical turn of mind”—into the far-reaching mind of John Murray Spear. Perhaps gears lit with fairy energies, they turn and tumble through his waking, shining metal honed with eldritch tools, playing inadvertent peg-toss with his sheet- raising morning priapism. Maybe a great churning clockwork con- traption whose complexity echoes Medusa’s curse of knowing equally insanity or death. Or they might have taken the form of a Con-Ed employee in bedazzling ethereal refinements, in a saintly pose of divine grace while the animated logos and mascots of every power company that was, is, and will be flitted around his nuclear halo—commercial cherubs to His crackling, humming, arcing, power.

Their form was something that even escaped Spear himself, for when he spoke of their visitation—and he did, oh yes, he did from his own mount and other less spiritual soapboxes—a 220-watt gaze seemed to consume him and his articulations became less detailed and more abstract: “Their form,” he said to his breakfast companions and, often, for many weeks thereafter to any stranger on the street, “is fast and incorporeal. I don’t possess the mind to express their appearance in words, but their message, dear—” Sir, Madam, Officer, Friend “— is clear and ringing in my ears: Go forth, they spoke, go forth and with these two simple hands bring into the world a machine, a great work of engineering, that would take motive power from the magnetic store of nature, and therefore be as independent of artificial sources of en- ergy as this, our own the human body. Go, this conglomeration of spirits pronounced, and build the Physical Savior of the Race,The New Messiah... the New Motor!”

John Murray Spear did, indeed, say these words: from that rea- sonably expensive boarding house in summer heated Baltimore, to the swampy humidity of the capital, then upwards towards the cooler en- virons of the Northeastern states. He spoke of the visitation of the Elec- tricizers to a shocked and tutting crowd of theosophists in Providence, his hypnotic description of the coming glory of the Motor and how it would bring about a new Age of Man Through Machine ticking out of synch with their slowly shaking, disbelieving heads.

He spoke of the Motor in Boston before a hall not as packed as it had previously been for the spiritualist of some repute, and answered with complete sincerity questions of the Motor’s construction (“things of this earthly sphere coupled with the energies of transcendent mo- tion and ethereal force”), creation (“for a small donation you can speed its manifestation and arrival here, to us”), method of operation (“can one envision a locomotive, some new machine of human use and creation, that might come during the new millennium? The works of the Motor may be visible to some of us with the enriched spiritual vision, but the true powers of it will be as unseen as that machine of ages undreamed”), and patentability (“if the material servants of this, our Government of Country, should grant me the license of its man- ufacture then I see no reason not to accept”).

Coal-and-snow beard, hair wild with his feverish retellings, sup- ple (for a man of his forty summers) body bending wildly with each description of the glory of the Motor and his saving of mankind through its mechanical enlightenment, Spear made himself a sight as he traveled. For some he was a sight that brought smiles, frowns, or sadness at his state of affairs. But as he slowly, town by town, street by street, meeting by meeting, told his tale, made his claims, his en- treaties, he gathered people who listened earnestly to his description of the Mechanical Savior of the Race, the New Motor...


On a weird side note, the tale of the New Motor is based on reality - and you can read about John Murray Spear and his spiritual contraption in my non-fiction collection, Welcome To Weirdsville

Monday, February 04, 2013

I'm Teaching For The Center For Sex And Culture!

(from M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)

I'm thrilled to be able to announce that I'm going to be teaching three special classes for the fabulous Center For Sex And Culture!

Thinking Outside Your Box: Creative Adult Marketing
Tuesday, March 19, 7:00PM - 10:00PM
Let's face facts, folks: the adult business world has totally, completely changed – marketing and advertising tricks that used to work simply don't anymore ... which is why, more than ever, thinking outside the box is key to raising above the rest.  Twitter?  Tumblr?  Live Streaming?  Facebook?  While there are a lot of options, many of the techniques that a lot of gurus and experts say only really work for experts and gurus ... and not for most people.  In this fun and provocative lecture you'll learn to learn the differences between what other people say you should do and what actually works – including when to play by the rules and when not to, how to rise above the rest, and how to manage your marketing time and dollars.

Sex Sells: How To Write And Sell Erotica
Saturday, April 13th from 10:00AM to 1:00PM
The market for erotic fiction and nonfiction is booming! There actually is a secret to writing great erotica - and you'll discover just what that is in this fun, hands-on workshop with well-known erotica writer and teacher M. Christian.  For the beginning writer, erotica can be the ideal place to begin writing, getting published, and -- best of all -- earning money. And for the experienced writer, erotica can be an excellent way to beef up your resume and hone your writing skills. M. Christian will review the varieties of personal and literary expression possible in this exciting and expanding field. He'll also teach you techniques for creating love and sex scenes that sizzle.  Plus: current pay rates, how to write for a wide variety of erotic genres, where and how to submit your erotic writing, and more.

How To Create An Effective Online Profile – And How To Write Messages That Will Get Good Responses
Friday, May 10, 2013, 7:00PM - 10:00PM
The world is the now the Internet ... and if you don't know how to use it then you are at a serious disadvantage in making any kind of connection: employment, social, artistic and – most of all – erotic. This class will not just explore how to use the Internet and various sites as a resource to explore your own sexuality – in any form – but also how to create an effective and alluring online profile. But creating a digital 'self' is only part of it: participants will also get tips on how to reach out in imaginative ways that will get a positive response, the important things that are too often forgotten and other social niceties that can be the difference between frustration and disappointment and having a wonderful – and best of all – sexy time online!

Sunday, February 03, 2013

Creative Sex Play For Dr. Amy Marsh's Sexuality Salon

(from M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)

This is going to be a LOT of fun: I just agreed to lead a group discussion on the future of sex for the fantastic Dr. Amy Marsh's Sexuality Salon on February 22nd.

Here's a quickie write-up on the event ... hope to see you there!

Creative Sex Play

"Even the most experienced sexual adventurer may run short of ... shall we say 'inspiration'? In this wild and provocative seminar participants will not just learn al kind of new techniques and sexual worlds to explore – and do that exploration safely (both physically as well as emotionally) but they will also have lots of fun with various techniques to expand their basic imagination muscles: picking up new and enjoyable games to help them add a lot more to their lives – and not just their bedroom play."

About M. "Chris" Christian:

"As M. Christian I am - among many things - an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and other sites. I'm the editor of 25 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, Pirate Booty, My Love For All That Is Bizarre: Sherlock Holmes Erotica, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, The Mammoth Book of Future Cops and The Mammoth Book of Tales of the Road (with Maxim Jakubowksi) and Confessions, Garden of Perverse, and Amazons (with Sage Vivant) as well as many others. I'm also an Associate Publisher for Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions (premier publisher of BDSM erotica). I'm the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises, Filthy, Love Without Gun Control, Rude Mechanicals, and Coming Together: M. Christian; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Finger's Breadth, Brushes, and Painted Doll. My professional site is at"

Don't forget to purchase food and drink from the Cafe, which is so generous in providing this space for us!

Saturday, February 02, 2013

Reminder: I'm Reading At My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out!

(From M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)

Just a reminder that I'm going to be one of the featured readers at My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out.

Here's the basic info - with more coming soon!

My Perverted Sucky Valentine Puts Out!
Saturday, February 9, 7pm – 10pm
The Center for Sex and Culture
1349 Mission St. San Francisco, CA 94103

For an anti-Valentine's event of epic proportions, two of San Francisco's most celebrated erotic literary events join forces! On February 9, the Center will host the collision of Perverts Put Out and My Sucky Valentine! Come hear some of SF's favorite erotic authors read and tell stories about dirty love, dirtier lovemaking and the train-wreck delights of romance-gone-wrong!

Our three-way of hosts will be Carol Queen, Simon Sheppard and Thomas S. Roche; expect filthy heartache from Bay Area luminaries Charlie Jane Anders, M. Christian, Daphne Gottlieb, Philip Huang, Allison Moon and horehound stillpoint. This event is a benefit for the Center for Sex and Culture and the St. James Infirmary.

Friday, February 01, 2013

M.Christian ... Science Fiction Reviewer?

(from M.Christian's Technorotica)

I'm thrilled to be able to announce at the reviews I wrote for the always-excellent Dark Roasted Blend just went up! To start, here's some quickie capsule reviews of some classic cyberpunk titles ... with others going up very, very soon.

(right image credit: Huxtable)

Neal Stephenson
Snow Crash

Considered by many to be the ultimate cyberpunk novel (or second only to Gibson's Neuromancer), Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash has everything the genre requires: high-tech toys and low-life characters, a flash and dazzle style, a noir beat, enough concepts and ideas for a dozen other novels, and heaping helpings of bad boy attitude.

Set in a run-down LA in an archetypal "not too distant future," the novel is basically the story of Hiro Protagonist (wink, wink), the "Last Of The Freelance Hackers And Greatest Swordfighter In The World" and ex-pizza delivernator for the mafia; and Y.T., a nimble and nubile adolescent "kourier."

In the course of trying to survive a world run by corporations, and where the endless suburbs are lit by the omnipresent loglow of franchises like Mr. Lee's Greater Hong Kong, and CosaNostra Pizza, Hiro and Y.T. stumble into a plot by billionaire villain L. Bob Rife to... well, rule the world using a special brand of information warfare with its roots in ancient Sumerian mythology. Along the way, Hiro and Y.T. meet characters such as Ng, the technofetishist weaponeer, and Raven Ravinoff, the nuclear bomb-connected Aleut harpooner and assassin whose preferred weapons are molecular-sharp glass knives.

Snow Crash, when it rocks and rolls, which it often does, is like strapping yourself in for a dose a blisteringly fast anime: a near-chaos of cyberdelic images, methamphetamine-fueled concepts, quick bursts of characters and characterization, along with flights of pure digital fantasy. For those new to cyberpunk, reading a chapter of Snow Crash is like taking a shot of science fiction espresso.

Luckily, Neal Stephenson also knows when to put on the brakes, to pull over by the side of his roaring information superhighway of a novel and let the rest of us catch up a bit. For all its flash and dazzle, Snow Crash also has some great moments of humanity. The scenes, for instance, with Y.T. and Uncle Enzo, CEO of the American Mafia and Hiro's ex-boss as head of CosaNostra Pizza, are charming without feeling cornball. Other characters, some of them only featured for a few paragraphs, manage the same.

Some have criticized Snow Crash as a perfect example of style over substance, sarcastically saying that it's cyberpunk's purest form. Sure, the book has some serious flaws – like when it slams on the brakes to lecture Hiro, and the reader, about Sumerian mythology's relationship to linguistics and human information processing. But what saves Snow Crash from being bubblegum and instead makes it a satisfying literary meal is the inescapable sense that Stephenson is not taking himself, the book, or cyberpunk itself, very seriously.

Snow Crash is, in its heart, a cartoon: a laughing, giggling, fun time. The heroes aren't heroes. The villains – for the most part – aren't villains. The Metaverse – Stephenson's version of cyberspace – is a bold and colorful place full of animated characters, and the real world the stages and settings are too bold and outrageous to be anything but Stephenson's elbow to the reader's ribs with a chuckle of "Get it?"

To press the point, just look at Stephenson's other novels. Some have the same pop and sizzle -- like The Diamond Age -- but after reading Snow Crash it gets pretty clear when he's going for serious and poignant and when he's taking us along on a digital, cyberdelic, outrageous, dazzling, bizarre, animated, good-time ride.

(review by M. Christian)


K. W. Jeter
Farewell, Horizontal

Like most of Jeter's novels "Farewell Horizontal" is rich and vibrant, with amazing and engaging concepts, packed with imagination to spare, and populated with fascinating characters on bizarre yet human missions.

Set in a future where a large segment of civilization is living in – and on the outside of -- a monstrous building called Cylinder, Horizontal teases and tantalizes with a lack of detail, making the book seem more like a surrealist exercise than a traditional (quote) science fiction (unquote) novel. Still, there's enough intimate details present to draw you into Ny Axxter's strange world.

A graffex (which are sort of/kind of digital tattoos or markings) artist, Ny longs for the big time, a serious score that will lift him up – literally – from being a scavenging freelancer. And like everyone else who calls Cylinder home, he knows that his fame will come by not staying in the building, by being horizontal, but instead will come from what's on the outside, on the vertical.

The vertical is what makes Farewell Horizontal sparkle. Jeter has always had a brilliant imagination and with this novel, he lets it fly. Ny – and the rest of the outcasts and fringe folks of Cylinder – live their lives clinging to the building's staggering drop surface with a technofetish inventory of fun and interesting devices and technologies. It's when Jeter gets down – or up, as the case may be – with Ny and his life that the book really draws you in. You feel like you're there with him on the surface of the building, and when he sees what could be his score – a genetically engineered flying woman or 'angel' – you feel the exhilaration. The same goes when Ny is caught in a war between two warring gangs, a war fought on the same vertical he's trying to make his home. You are there alongside him as he tries to get through it all alive.

Unfortunately, Farewell Horizontal suffers from the feeling that it's just one part of a planned series, a series that was never completed: plot elements are left hanging, characters that are clearly meant to go somewhere go nowhere, and while the lack of details make the book refreshingly surreal (yet rich with cyberpunky elements), one gets the feeling that Jeter simply didn’t have the rest of the series he might have liked to set the stage and flesh out this fascinating world.

Still, Farewell Horizontal remains a very good book and deserves a read. While it might not be the perversely dark love poem to Philip K. Dick that his first book, Dr. Adder, was, or be a truly thought-provoking and sensitive book like The Glass Hammer, or – for that matter – a wickedly funny and strange thing like Infernal Devices, Farewell Horizontal is still more imaginative and vivid than many other books. If nothing else, it will change the way you look at skyscrapers … tripping your imagination into thinking what it would be like to live on the vertical and not just the horizontal.

(review by M. Christian)


William Gibson
Virtual Light

It's interesting that after he finished his masterpiece Sprawl Trilogy of Neuromancer, Count Zero, and Mona Lisa Overdrive, Gibson – the master not only of cyberpunk but of postmodern literature as well – would step back in time but remain in the future to write Virtual Light, the first of another three-part series, the so-called Bridge Trilogy.

Interesting, because Virtual Light is a fine and at times brilliant book that owes very little to science fiction, even though it has some elements in common. Set in a very near future, it follows the adventures of bike messenger Chevette Washington and disgraced cop Berry Rydell, who get caught up in a McGuffin chase when Washington impulsively steals a pair of special, high tech glasses. Their chase takes them all over California, most fascinatingly to a squatter city built in the decaying spine of San Francisco's Bay Bridge. Darkly comic, the novel has all of Gibson's trademark vividness and wickedly cool language but is much more of a noir novel with some surreal/science fiction elements than the ferociously dark and vicious Sprawl books.

Because of this, it's a much lighter and almost refreshing read, which threw a lot of Gibson's previous readers who may have been expecting something with a sharper edge. Still, when taken on its own or as part of the other Bridge books, Virtual Light remains a work by a master – a master who successfully took a different direction with a wonderful new book.

Review by M. Christian


Samuel R. Delany
The Einstein Intersection

As with all truly great science fiction novels, The Einstein Intersection is less about science and more about fiction – in this case, fiction told by one of the greats not just of science fiction but modern literature as well.

Surreal doesn't begin to describe the setting and characters of The Einstein Intersection. Ostensibly about aliens exploring and trying to understand human culture after mankind has either left the planet or died off, the book is much more about some of the more powerful human archetypes. From Lo Lobey himself, a goat herder based on the myth of Orpheus, to the subject of his quest, Billy The Kid (AKA death), the book is a literary stage, allowing Delany to explore the world of our myths, fables, legends and fantasies.

It's unfortunate that people often pick up the book only to be frustrated and confused by Delany's psychedelic style. But for those with imagination and patience, reading The Einstein Intersection can swing open a brand new universe of style, language, and story: it's a wonderful book by a magnificent writer, first, and a great science fiction author, second.

(review by M. Christian)


J. G. Ballard
Vermillion Sands

I want to live in Vermillion Sands. I want to wake up in the morning and look out my bedroom window at the hypnotic world J.G. Ballard has created.

A collection of short stories, Vermillion Sands is set, mostly, in a Palm Springs-type vacation resort. There are two kinds of people there: the rich and the people who serve the rich. More importantly, though, the resort is a way for Ballard – in these stories – to explore the artistic process via a whole plethora of new technologies, from cloud sculpting to sound jewelry and more.

But Ballard is Ballard, so just writing stories about a resort, the people enjoying it or working there, or even the arts, is not enough: each of the stories in Vermillion Sands is also laced with his trademark psychological depth and lyrical subtlety. Sure, the stories might not be as subversively perverse, emotionally enigmatic, psychedelically strange, or horrifically languid as some of his other books and stories, but these light and almost funny tales are still J.G. Ballard – and that means they will always be as a brilliant and elusive as the landscape outside of Vermillion Sands.

(review by M. Christian)