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What Am I Writing – or Did I Forget My Meds?

by | March 24, 2018 | General | 0 comments

What Am I Writing? Or Did I Forget My Meds?

By Larry Archer

Caution, this is another long post so get a fresh cup of coffee before starting.

This is my third blog post for ERWA, and I’ve been conflicted as DropBox calls it. You know when you forget to close a DropBox document on one computer then you open the document and edit it on another computer. DropBox raps you across the knuckles like the nun in third-grade with her ruler.

While I’ve never had the pleasure of going to Catholic school and feel they failed miserably with my wife. Maybe the fact that she skipped out and went to public high school that she now has a rekindled desire for little school girl outfits but hey, who’s complaining? Those white thigh socks, black shiny buckle shoes, and ruffled white ankle socks are so neat. It’s just hard to find Mary Janes with 6-inch spike heels.

I’m writing this on my new MacBook Air and trying not to choke my chicken when I see her lying there, all opened up like a beautiful woman, who’s begging me to touch her with my fingers, the MBA that is.

Like the guy sitting on a park bench, in his raincoat, clutching a bag of candy with greasy fingers waiting for school to be over, the MBA loves me, but we have to be careful because my wife’s getting suspicious about our “alone time” in the bathroom.

I’ve always been a Windows kind of guy and not like my friend Jack who likes to stand outside and watch his wife through the bedroom window. Like everyone else, I bought into the theory that Apple people had drunk the Kool-Aid else why would they spend a bunch more money for a laptop with a half-eaten apple on it?

Going on six years or 3-raincoats ago, I was frustrated with my then Windows laptop. Sort of like Ray Charles, I could close my eyes and let the fevered scene play out between my ears as my fingers tried desperately to keep up with the action.

Then I’d look down and realize that I’d written a page of garbage because I’d mistyped some prose with my fingers on the wrong keys. Mr. Rogers my high school typing teacher would rip the yellow sheet out of my Underwood and scream, “Archer, all you’re good for is writing shit they keep behind the counter in a brown paper bag!”

As we all know, when you’ve tried everything else to solve a problem, throw money at it! By this time, I’d been through three laptops, and Wifey was getting suspicious about the fact my credit card statement was starting to smoke when you pulled it out of the envelope. In desperation, I bought a 2012 MBA, and it was love at first sight. Open her up, and she would instantly light up like a drunk college girl, ready for action and no foreplay required. She never told me no and never had a headache. To touch her was exquisite, your fingers fall naturally on the keys, and the touch is like a mechanical keyboard, without all the clicking noises.

To be able to type with one-tenth the level of mistakes and a battery that never went down on you. I was hooked and wanted more, much more until I got seduced by a new line of Windows laptops.

Since the MacBook Air’s seemed to lose favor with their CPU’s slipping further and further behind, I jumped ship and bought a high-end Windows 10 machine with the top box checked in every category.

My wife being a Luddite and who struggles to understand how to operate a light switch, it only seemed natural to re-gift my trusted MBA to her. I was surprised to see how quickly she became adept with the 3-pound marvel.

I, on the other hand, started to beat my head against the wall. My new machine’s touchpad had a mind of its own and apparently didn’t need any help from me to make mistakes. I spent hours with tech support and even had the touchpad replaced to no avail. Others on the vendor’s website were similarly upset.

Foxy said that she’d give me my Air back, but I couldn’t do that and just struggled in silence. Certainly, my new machine was cool, huge hard drive, bunches of memory, fast i7 processor, but using it always managed to piss me off.

One day she asked me to help to do something on her computer, and as soon as my fingers touched the keyboard, I was back in love. It’s kind of like when you’re doing the neighbor’s wife and will steal little touches when no one is looking, but that’s a whole different post.

After that brief illicit moment, I went right down and bought a new MacBook Air with a 3-generation old CPU but no matter, I’m back in love again. Of course the day my new MBA was delivered, I read that Apple is going to bring out an updated Air in the next few months!

I know that you’re telling yourself, this post is supposed to be about what I’m writing and not about my forbidden love affair with my machine, sort of like Wifey and her LeLo vibrator, except without all the buzzing.

My latest story, “Crashing a Swinger’s Pajama Party,” is rapidly coming to a finish and I thought I’d share a little with you about the story as it’s been a real hoot to write.

Lisabet Sarai and I converse a fair amount off-list about writing and story ideas. I mentioned to her that we’d had a straight couple crash one of our New Year’s Eve Pajama Parties and she suggested that we create a story based on it.

We keep trying to write a story together, but our styles of writing bump heads and we can never seem to get our stories straight, “Fake News!”

But I’m slowly getting the impression that we’re starting to rub off on each other. I’m learning to type with my little finger stuck out, and she seems to be getting more comfortable with her mind wallowing in the gutter. Sort of like that little sailboat and the clown in the sewer drain.

Anyway, I was telling Lisabet about the time we had one of our straight neighbors crash our annual New Year’s Eve Pajama Parties. For some years now we’ve hosted a pajama party to welcome in the new year. It gives kissing under the mistletoe, a whole new meaning.

The PJ party is typically 50-60 couples plus an assortment of unicorns that we run with and 2-3 single guys thrown in for good measure. There are always people from around the country that we’ve met in our travels, for flavor. So by midnight, there are well more than one-hundred naked or semi-naked people in our house. Victoria Secret is proud of us!

We carefully select the invitees and make sure that no one is invited that could cause a problem. Most of the people are professionals, doctors, business owners, and a handful of elected officials, not including the cops. Cops, doctors, and nurses are some of the most perverted when they let their hair down. We have to be really careful who we invite as some of our party animals are also on the social pages and being outed would not be a good thing.

One morning after a New Year’s party, I was reading the paper and on the society page was a couple who’d also come late to our party. The woman was wearing an exquisite dress cut down almost to where the crack of her butt started. The society editor was buzzing about what a knockout she was and how that dress was scandalous. I laughed as I remembered that dress lying in a pile on the family room floor after my wife had pulled down her zipper and let it slide off. 

Anyway, after midnight, the doorbell rings and me being the idiot I am, answer the door. Standing in front of me is an attractive couple dressed to the nines. It was the couple, we somewhat knew from down the street, and I’m standing there with a short bathrobe on and nothing else.

It was somewhat embarrassing, but they asked if they could join our party as theirs was a snooze fest. Not knowing what to do I invited them in. Foxy joined me, and she was wearing her typical New Year’s outfit of an adult sized pair of kid’s long johns with bunnies on it. Except she wears it with all the buttons undone and so is open down to her bellybutton.

You can imagine their shock to see an orgy going on in the living room and all the people running around in teddies or much less.

We invited them to stay, but I think the shock value was too much for the husband. His wife looked like she wanted to stay. This is where the story Lisabet and I are working on diverged from reality.

She fired back with a suggested list of chapters, and we were off to the races.

With our sick minds, it was easy to suck the new couple in and throw them to the wolves. Greg, the dominating always in charge husband quickly discovered that he really wasn’t in control at all, courtesy of Foxy and her assortment of painful toys. Greg’s new word for the day was “pegged.”

Samantha, the otherwise “normal” housewife, was quickly divested of clothes as she realized that she was at an all-you-can-eat buffet or maybe the main course, depending on which end was up.

My stories are always HEA, but I keep getting told that a story needs conflict and resolution, yet mine always seem to lack conflict as everyone is too busy getting laid to fight. So it only seemed natural for Samantha to give Greg his walking papers and move in with the swingers down the street. She quickly discovered that it was a lot more fun to play, “hide the weenie,” with the neighborhood perverts.

But poor Greg was sent home with our real life cuckold – Hotwife couple, Pam and Jack, who proceed to take him within an inch of his life while giving him a sunburn with studio lights. If you look up nymphomaniac in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of our friend Pam, who is one of our resident MILFs. Jack is typically hiding in the closet watching or behind his movie camera.

So now I’ve gotten the neighbors split up, but so far they’ve not realized that they are the conflict part of my story. Greg has figured out that there is truth to the story of being screwed to death but is trying to soldier on. He’s afraid of coming back to our house as the last time Foxy and our redheaded Amazon Chrissy took turns pegging him. But he seems to be a good sport about everything, well except for the beatings!

Naturally, we didn’t want his wife to feel left out as she seemed to be enthralled by the idea of a gangbang and pulling a train. Why should we let her miss that experience? Now every time she hears a train whistle, she feels a tingle between her legs!

The story now stands over 40,000 words, and I’m trying to get the estranged couple back together again so the story can end up HEA. Lisabet and I are planning on co-releasing two stories in the next couple of months, so I should have time to finish it up. I’m looking at this blog post’s word count, and it’s at 1,700 words, and I’ve been trying to hold my posts down to under 1,000 words but not having much success.

Since I’ve blown it again, I’ll throw in an excerpt from “Crashing a Swinger’s Pajama Party,” at least that’s the current working title.

Scene Setup

Greg and Samantha have returned home from their first taste of forbidden fruit and trying to deal with their emotions. Coming home from a swinger’s party is kind of like being on your honeymoon when there is only one thing on your mind. You’d think people would have gotten enough of it at the party but for some reason, afterward, your sex drive is set to warp 10.

Excerpt – Contains gratuitous NSA bareback sex scenes, with nudity, explicit descriptions, and other smut. You’re warned! It’s probably best if you turned back now.

* * * Excerpt * * *

Greg had never been so conflicted in his life, they had just left a party that was so far beyond anything he had ever imagined or could have possibly fantasized about. On the one hand, his dick was so hard that it was aching yet he struggled to not be mad at his wife as he could see her slut side coming out.

Shocked would not come close to describing his emotions as they had walked into a house full of nude or semi-nude people. Standing in the entry foyer, the first thing he noticed was the orgy going on in the living room.

There must have been fifteen or twenty people all having sex. It was like an erotic Conga Line as one girl was on her back sucking some guy’s dick while another guy plowed her. Two girls were in a sixty-nine position, while two guys were fucking each of the girls. A couple of guys were sitting on a couch, jerking off as they watched. Greg wondered if they were watching their wives, but he was afraid to think of that possibility as it was too close to home.

He looked at Samantha, expecting her to be shocked and disgusted but what surprised him was the look on her face. She had a half smile as she surveyed the room, but it was her eyes that frightened him the most. They were partially-closed, and he could tell she was far beyond excited and he shuddered to imagine what she was thinking.

While this could be his fantasy come true, he still hadn’t come to grips with what was going to happen to his wife. The thought of screwing all these women turned him on immensely, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted his wife to be fucked in return.

She had sort of mentioned her interest in Foxy’s husband, but surely she would not want to break the bonds of marriage, or would she? He still couldn’t believe that he had caught his wife on her knees with Larry’s dick in her mouth.

As he yanked her to her feet, he was shocked to see the expression on her face and the cum running out of her mouth. She had a glazed and vacant look on her face as if every brain cell in her body had been fucked out.

Samantha had grabbed at Larry as Greg tried to pull his wife’s mouth off the neighbor’s cream covered cock. Greg was furious that his wife seemed to want the pleasure of his company rather than her own husband. He had watched in horror as Larry’s creamy rod was sliding out of his wife’s mouth. The whole time, she kept trying to force her mouth back down on his joint.

His slut wife was trying to get that big dirty cock back into her mouth, Greg had thought he had a big dick, but Larry was considerably bigger.

Greg was confused, mad, and afraid of what might be happening to his wife. She kept looking over her shoulder as they walked home as if she wanted to run back and rejoin the party.

As soon as the front door closed, Samantha threw the bra down, she was carrying and started ripping off what few clothes she had left. She headed to the bedroom, “You better hurry or my vibrator is going to take your place in line.”

Take my place in line? What the fuck? Greg asked himself as he headed towards the bedroom.

Walking into the bedroom, he was shocked to find his wife with her legs spread and two fingers buried deep in her wet hole. “Don’t say anything and screw up my fantasy. Just get in bed and fuck me!” she demanded.

She had her eyes tightly closed as he got in between her open legs. As soon as she felt him in position, she pulled her wet fingers out of her pussy and started sucking them. He couldn’t believe she was actually tasting her own juices and started to tell her that she was disgusting but she had told him to keep his mouth shut.

Sam had cum all over her face and lips which on the one hand infuriated him yet was strangely exciting. How could she suck off a total stranger yet she would not do the same thing to me?

Sam grabbed his dick and guided to her wet love hole, and as he sank into her, she pulled her fingers out of her mouth and exclaimed, “Foxy, your cunt tastes so sweet, and I’ll finish the job as soon as your husband finishes fucking me!”

She dug into Greg’s ass cheeks with her fingernails and yelled out, “Fuck me, Larry! Shove that big dick of yours deep in my cunt and pump me full of cum so I can make your wife suck me clean!” Then she howled, “Larry, make me your bitch!”

Greg was furious that his wife was fantasizing about fucking someone else and if that wasn’t bad enough, she was going to fuck the guy’s wife next! But as her outburst shocked him, Greg started to pound his dick into her as she begged for her neighbor to fill her up.

Samantha’s pussy was boiling hot. He had never felt her pussy like this before, and even though he was beyond pissed that his wife was dreaming about another guy drilling her lights out, it was so erotic that his wife wanted to fuck another guy.

At the party, he’d watched Foxy take her whip to a big guy and beat his ass until it was covered in red stripes. She’d taken off her long johns and put on a bustier that stopped right under her boobs and perfectly highlighted them along with a tiny black thong. But what excited him was the thigh-high leather boots with six-inch spike heels, not to mention her nipple rings with the gold chain between them.

She had made the guy lick her boots clean and then she pinned him to the floor with a heel in the middle of his back as she lashed him with a cat o’ nine. It wasn’t play acting either, he could see the muscles in her arm clench as she laid into her slave.

The guy had on a choke chain, and she seemed to delight in yanking it to cut off his air. Then she made him get up on his knees, and Greg could see his dick was hard as a rock as she continued to beat him.

Foxy switched to a riding crop that she kept in her boot and started to lightly tap his balls as she taunted him. “Would you like to cum?” she asked, “Do you think you deserve it?”

“Please, Mistress,” he begged. “I’ll do anything you want. My cock aches so bad.”

Pointing her crop at a naked attractive older woman, who wore a dog collar, she ordered, “Get your ass over here and grab this worm’s dick for me.” The woman quickly crawled over and asked, “Mistress, what do you desire of me?”

“I want you to hold his cock and stroke it but you better not let him cum without my permission if you know what’s good for you!”

“Thank you, Mistress,” the woman said as she grabbed the guy’s dick and started to rub it.

In a lightning quick move, Foxy laid the crop across the woman’s bare ass, and Greg could hear her gasp, but she bit her lip and didn’t say a word. The red bruise swelled almost instantly on the woman’s ass, and Greg flinched as he wondered what it would feel like to be whipped like that.

“Remember, do not let him cum unless you want to taste my whip again!”

“Yes, Mistress! But you may punish me if I displease you or accidentally let him spray his load!”

Samantha’s fingernails digging into his ass made it hard to concentrate on fucking his wife but easy to think about Foxy’s whip marking his ass. Greg wasn’t sure, but he was willing to let the big-haired brunette put a collar on him and beat him.

At first, he had thought he was going to get laid, but she’d taken him upstairs and let Greg watch her punish some guy. The whole time Greg was afraid that Foxy was going to switch her attention to him and while he fantasized about what it would feel like to be whipped, he was afraid yet disturbingly excited.

“Hey! Just who are you fucking?” Sam stopped and asked as she looked deep into his eyes.

“I wasn’t fucking anyone, I promise. I thought I was supposed to wait until Larry finished with you,” he answered.

“Good thinking but you were thinking about something. What was it?”

“I was wondering what it would feel like to be her slave and have her whip me. But what I want to know is what you were thinking about?”

“All those people were naked,” Sam answered. “I have never been so horny in my life!”

“I know, I could tell. Who all did you fuck last night?”

“I don’t know really, nobody told me their name and I didn’t think I really needed to know. Except of course Foxy and Larry, they were last.”

“You know that you are just fantasizing, don’t you?”

“Don’t fuck up my dream, I don’t bitch at you for jerking off to porn on your computer! Let me have my fantasy.”

“Okay, I’ll play along. How many were in your gangbang?” Craig asked.

“Maybe five or six, I started to lose track after a while. One guy would just pull out, and the next one would take his place.”

“Did they kiss you?”

“No, why would they want to kiss me? They only wanted to stick their dicks in me.” Sam got this dreamy look on her face and continued, “I’ve never been used before like that.”

“How could you just let those guys fuck you and then roll off for the next guy?”

“Once they’d pumped their load in me, I needed the next guy while I cleaned up the first guy.”

“You sucked everybody’s dick afterward?”

“Of course, that’s what the girls do, and you would not want the guys to go back to their wives with a dirty cock.”

The feeling of his wife’s pussy as she dreamed of another guy fucking her was starting to feel more and more exciting. He had just watched people fucking right in front of his eyes, and now his wife appears to have become one of them.

The look on his wife’s face as she demanded to be fucked, made him drive his dick deep into her hole and pound her unmercifully. Sam’s eyes were unfocused, and it was plain that she was someplace else. More than likely she was down the street riding their neighbor’s pole.

He tried to picture what it would look like to watch his wife being fucked by another man. He could still remember Sam with a big dick in her mouth as she swallowed as much as she could.

The shock of his wife being a complete slut initially had disgusted him, but now he was starting to admit to himself that it was actually a turn on. Could she really fuck another man? He asked himself as he tried to satisfy her insatiable lust. But that was a stupid question as she didn’t have any qualms about sucking another guy’s hard cock.

Greg fucked his wife as hard as he could and watched as his wife’s eyes slowly rolled up in her head. She was climaxing almost constantly as she kept crying out for Larry to fuck her harder. She had rarely come more than once for him, but for Larry, she was a regular come machine.

Greg couldn’t wait any longer as he felt his balls tighten up and rammed his cock into her as his dick exploded into his wife’s cunt.

“Oh God, thank you, Larry, thank you, Larry,” his wife babbled over and over as Greg pumped rope after rope of cum deep into his wife’s cheating pussy.

Exhausted, Greg rolled over and gasped for air as he lay alongside his wife.

Slowly, Sam came down from outer space and started to realize what she’d said and the possible damage to their marriage.

“Greg, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’ve got to believe that I don’t really want to fuck Larry,” Sam told him quietly as she stroked his leg, knowing that she had screwed up big time.

“Sam, I’m having trouble believing that you’re sorry after the show you just put on. All this time you’ve been telling me what a big dick I have, and yet it doesn’t seem like you had any problem taking Larry?”

“Greg, you know that I really didn’t fuck Larry and it was only a fantasy on my part. True he has a really big dick, and while I’m not sure that I can take it, I wouldn’t mind trying just to see.”

“So you want to let him jam that big cock in your hole, while I have to take his wife’s abuse. That doesn’t seem fair to me?”

“What do you mean, abuse Greg?”

“Didn’t you realize that she’s a Dominatrix and gets off beating people?”

“No, I got stuck on those pierced nipples and kept wondering what they would feel like in my mouth. Foxy’s nipple rings are solid gold; can you imagine what they must cost? And that pair of long johns she had on without any underwear at all, not even panties. You could easily see her camel toe, not that I really noticed.”

“Well while you were on your knees with your mouth stuffed full of cock, I was watching her whip some guy until his ass was beet red.”

“But Greg, she’s only a woman, and he couldn’t stop her?”

“He was a big guy, and I think a cop, but he did everything she asked without hesitation. I think he was afraid of what would happen if he disobeyed.”

“Did she let you fuck her?” Samantha asked.

“No, she only whipped me.”

“She beat you also? Didn’t that hurt?”

“I’ve never had anything burn like my ass did when she popped me with her riding crop.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I guess it was like you with Larry’s cock in your mouth. It started to feel really good, and I didn’t mind her punishing me.”

“So you liked it?”

“The first few lashes hurt really bad but the pain kind of morphs into something completely different. Plus, I was getting jerked off by some attractive MILF, who was getting whipped also.”

“She jerked you off?”

“Yes, until Foxy felt sorry for me and told the woman to suck me off?”

“Wait, you got sucked off, and you have the nerve to complain about me taking Larry down my throat?”

“But that was different!”

“I was starting to feel sorry for you up until the time some MILF started sucking your dick!” Sam retorted. “Did you like it? Did she spit or swallow, isn’t that what all guys want to know?”

“If she would have spit, I’d hate to have seen what Foxy would have done to her. She got into trouble for swallowing too much cum as it was.”

“She swallowed too much? Isn’t that the whole idea?”

“Kind of but apparently if you’re with another woman, you are required to share, and she was greedy, which pissed Foxy off to no end.”

“What was she supposed to do, kiss Foxy?”

“Exactly and I watched as the girl’s kissed, then Foxy’s face got dark, it was scary as she fished around in the woman’s mouth with her tongue and was coming up empty. Then Foxy told her to get on her knees, and while she was beating the woman’s ass, I slipped out of the room before it was my turn to get disciplined again. So let that be a lesson to you, the next time you suck Larry off, you better not swallow too much of his jizz before sharing it with his wife. She apparently loves cum kisses.”

“Don’t worry Greg, I’ll make sure and give Foxy at least half of his spunk,” Sam said as she touched the dried cum on her face and lips. Greg could see the trembling of her body as she touched the dried sperm of her new lover.

“Was it that good, sucking Larry off?” Greg asked as he watched his wife’s face. “You never suck me off.”

He could see the dirty little smirk cross her face and she licked her lips while reliving what she’d just done. Turning to him, Samantha kissed him, and he could taste Larry’s cum on her lips and smell it on her breath. “Greg, I still love you,” she said, and he could feel the “But” coming.

Greg saved her the trouble by asking, “But?”

His wife giggled and replied, “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, let’s see somewhere between getting hit by a bus or a 2×4, I would think!” Greg replied, but then he burst out laughing. “I love you too!”

“It was fun, wasn’t it?” Sam replied as she flipped his limp dick back and forth.

“Yeah, I know, Larry would still be hard wouldn’t he?”

“You know that I’m going to have to buy a completely new wardrobe?” Sam said as she pictured herself in a bustier with thigh-high leather boots like Foxy. She could picture how it would feel to have a tiny black thong on with just the string between her ass cheeks. “Do you think Foxy would help me pick out new clothes to seduce her husband in?”

“Why don’t you just wear your birthday suit? I’m sure he’d like that!”

Getting out of bed, she pirouetted in front of the mirror, “Do you think my rear is too big?”

“I don’t think he’s interested in your ass,” Greg said as exhaustion slowly took over.

“I would certainly hope so since you haven’t butt-fucked me in ages,” Sam answered with a giggle as she thrust her hip out and tried to examine her behind. She remembered Larry’s fingers in her hair as he pumped her mouth full of his cum a couple of hours ago. Sam closed her eyes and tried to imagine those fingers digging into her hips as he drove his big cock deep into her back door.

“Greg, do you think Larry would like to ass fuck me?” Sam asked.

“Un huh,” Greg mumbled almost sound asleep.

* * * End of Excerpt * * *

That’s just a taste of “Crashing a Swinger’s Pajama Party,” and you’ll have to wait a few weeks to see how the story comes out. Will Larry write his first non-HEA story, will Greg learn to love the sound of the whip? Or will Foxy sell Greg’s wife to a German Goo Girls movie producer? Click here for updates on the story or for more ramblings from my perverted mind.

I promise Lisabet, my next blog post will be shorter!

Red Ink

by | March 21, 2018 | General | 4 comments

Although I don’t try to make my living through my writing, I consider myself a professional author. The Internal Revenue Service agrees. Every year for the last decade and a half, I’ve dutifully tallied up my royalties, subtracted my expenses, and reported my income on Schedule C.

Every year, I’ve managed to make a small profit—until 2017. When I finished the computations for this past year, I discovered that for the first time ever, my writing business is in the red. I spent more on promotion and publicity than I received from sales.

Strangely, I’m not upset by this. For one thing, I know that independent authors everywhere are seeing their incomes decline. Plus I haven’t had as many releases as I’d like, mostly due to outside demands on my time.

Also, I realize that I’ve been less than frugal in my expenditures. For instance, I spent over $200 on gift certificates and books used as prizes for my fans and blog followers. What can I say? I get joy from giving things to people who take the trouble to read my stuff. Next year I plan to cut back on this. I’ll offer free books that don’t cost me anything as prizes where I can. I will also reconsider some of my advertising choices. This past year I devoted quite a bit of cash to promoting two major releases. It’s not at all clear that the costs justified the benefits. I’m sure that with more judicious management of my funds, I can turn my red ink to black in 2018.

The main reason I’m not depressed, though, is that I’m having more fun writing than I have in years. My main difficulty is finding the time to write, given my real world responsibilities. When I do manage to sit down with a work in progress, my stories seem to flow—perhaps not effortlessly, but with far less friction than a few years ago. I’m writing in a variety of styles, each one aimed at a different audience. My intuitions are stronger. I revel in my sense of control over my craft. I’m not sure whether my readers would agree, but I feel as though I’ve become significantly more skilled as a writer.

I’ve moved almost entirely to self-publishing. Why not? The work I’ve released in the past through established publishers has never done particularly well, and I have sufficient editing and graphics skills to either do things myself or barter for editing and art services. Of course, the profits are higher on self-published books, as well, and the turnaround time a lot faster.

Meanwhile, I can now write what I want, even if my books don’t fit neatly into the established genre categories. I find this freedom truly exhilarating.

No longer do my lusty heroines need to restrict themselves to only one lover—even if they ultimately end up in a committed “romantic” relationship. No longer do I need to worry that an editor will object to my mixing lesbian or gay or even transgender content in with straight sex. I can write dark sex, taboo sex, silly sex, or deeply meaningful sex, depending on my mood. Not every reader will be comfortable with my erotic visions, but that’s okay. At least what I’m producing now is genuine, not a compromise based on genre “rules”.

I never planned to be an author. When I published my first novel, almost as a lark, I didn’t expect I’d become addicted to the thrill of sharing my fantasies with the world. Sure, the money is nice, a concrete validation of my talent, but the real payoff is the occasional rapturous reader email or breathlessly enthusiastic review.

I can’t afford to treat writing as an expensive hobby. If I started to lose a lot of money, I’d have to stop. As long as I can break even, though—or close—I’ll do it for the joy.

(My latest releases, in case you’re interested, are Butterfly: Asian Adventures Book 4, and Hot Brides in Vegas. The former is romantic literary erotica with a transgender theme. The latter is a light-hearted, smutty romp with very little redeeming social value, set in the world of swingers created by Larry Archer.)

The Ultimate Sexual Conquest for the Twenty-First Century

by | March 18, 2018 | General | 8 comments

If your sexual partner didn’t have an orgasm, would you want to know?

It probably depends on who you are. If reports from the high school and college heterosexual hook-up scene are any indication, mutual satisfaction is not the focus in most encounters. In Unscrewed: Women, Sex, Power and How to Stop Letting the System Screw Us All, Jaclyn Friedman reports that men are three times more likely to have orgasms than female partners in a casual college hookup (p. 194). She describes a Saturday night liaison where the woman gave the man a blowjob and he reciprocated with one lick of her labia.


Anecdotal evidence suggests that many young men believe a woman feels the same level of pleasure from vaginal intercourse that he does, and given the abysmal state of sex education, the blame is not all on them. But you’d think anyone would realize there’s an imbalance between a blowjob and a single flick of the tongue. Is it ignorance or indifference? Neither speaks well for a man, but then again by the traditional rules of heterosexual male conquest, only his pleasure matters. She has been “conquered” no matter what she feels.

In a long-term relationship, add fear to the reasons for the pleasure imbalance, from fear of wounding the lover’s ego to worse. Friedman tells how her beloved first boyfriend, Andy, “taught me about my clitoris and threatened to rip out my uterus and shove it down my throat if he ever discovered I’d been faking orgasms with him” (p. 50). Friedman loved Andy, but, faced with evisceration, just never get around to telling him that she’d never had an orgasm, not even with herself. Unfortunately for Andy, wherever he may be, he may have known about the clitoris in theory, but his prowess was built on lies.

Women might hesitate to offer the truth even when the threat is less explicit or dire. The first partner I was truly in love with thought my genuine moans of pleasure meant I was climaxing over and over. I wish! I didn’t have the nerve to tell him the truth either. Fortunately I figured out how to have real orgasms with him before the lie by omission became too uncomfortable. The first time with was oral sex, but one fine day, by being on top, it happened during intercourse, too. Ironically, he commented that I came very quietly that time, but I didn’t set the record straight. My joy at achieving the “right kind” of orgasm was mine alone. After we broke up a few months later (officially I broke up with him, but as is often the case, he made it easy by having a fling with another woman), I vowed I would always be honest about my orgasms with my future lovers. And I was. Who says anger can’t have a positive result?

Beyond the hook-up scene, Friedman reports that straight men are almost 50% more likely to have an orgasm with a partner than straight women are (p. 3). Every sex survey I’ve read claims that one-third of women have orgasms every time they have sex, one-third have them sometimes and one-third never do. There may be reasons for the latter situation that are beyond anyone’s control and there may be no easy solution.

But it also might be true that if a man makes a point to ask about what gives his partner pleasure—and is willing to listen to and act upon her/his answer—this will lead to more intimacy and hopefully more pleasure. At least it would cut back on the lies. And again, wouldn’t any responsible, self-respecting adult want to know the truth?

I’d also like to humbly suggest that if you know you’re having orgasms, but it’s unclear if your partner is, it’s on you to do the asking.

Friedman puts it well:

“Those of us who sleep with men pay every time we encounter a man who treats us like interchangeable vending machines that will dispense to him sexual pleasure if he inserts the secret coin. Because these men think they know What Women Want, they pay little attention to the needs and desires and boundaries of the individual woman in front of them, and women’s sex lives suffer for it. And if we have the temerity to refuse to play along with the script in his head, we know we’re risking him reacting with violence or abuse” (p. 51-52).

I wonder how many men are afraid to even ask? Talking about sex, particularly your own “performance,” is scary. We’re too busy admiring the players to recognize such courage publicly. So I’d like to do just that right here and now.

If you ever asked, with sincerity, what you could do to please your partner and listened to the answer, you are awesome! Really awesome!

If you ever had the guts to explain what you need even though everything you ever learned tells you to shut up and do it like they do in the movies, well, I think your courage in communicating honestly and your respect for your partner’s pleasure—because sexual pleasure includes the pleasure of giving pleasure—is equally awesome!

While we’re on the topic, here’s another question for you:

When did you lose your virginity?

Now suppose the official definition of “losing your virginity” changed. You could only claim graduation to the status of the sexually experienced if you were not under the influence of alcohol or drugs in any way and your partner definitely had an orgasm because you could trust him/her to be truthful.

By that definition, does your answer change?

The time difference between the first and second definitions for me is two-and-a-half years.

For those sexually active years, I was pretty excited just to be desired by men, and I was having plenty of orgasms on my own, so don’t feel too sorry for me. However, it does make me sad for all of us that such an amazing aspect of the human experience is silenced, sometimes by directly saying “don’t talk about this, it ruins the mood” and sometimes because we just don’t have the examples, the practice, and the knowledge that it can be different or better if we just express what’s really going on.

We don’t have to reserve sex talk for our lovers. While always keeping a sense of what’s appropriate in any given relationship, I wish we could talk about it honestly with friends of every gender. I’ve had the honor of doing so, although I wish I’d done it more. How much could we all learn if we share our experiences, our joys, and our confusion about sex and listen to what they have to say about theirs? What if we all treated sex as a complex and important part of the human experience, not as a dirty joke or a shameful thing to deny?

I remember as a child giggling with my friends about the meaning of “knowing” in the Biblical sense. Now as an adult, I think reviving the verb “to know” about our sexual encounters is a pretty good idea. In the twenty-first-century sense, everyone would know if their partners are experiencing pleasure, and everyone would know how to express it and receive it on their own terms, not those of the media or anyone else.

For me, this is the ultimate sexual conquest of the twenty-first century: vanquishing our society’s fear and loathing of sexuality by talking honestly and respectfully about this very important part of the human experience. I believe erotica writers are well-positioned to take the lead.

What do you think?

Writing Exercise – Point of View: First Person

by | March 6, 2018 | General, Writing Exercise | 4 comments

By Ashley Lister

It was Johann Wolfgang von Goethe who said, “There is nothing insignificant in the world. It all depends on the point of view.” These thoughts were echoed by Harper Lee who noted, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view.” And, it is following these thoughts on the importance of point of view, that this month’s writing exercise looks at this most vital subject in the craft of writing.

There are four distinct points of view that a fiction writer can use. These include first person, second person, third person and omniscient narrator. There are some people who will tell you that there are disparate types of third person narrator – suggesting there are objective, omniscient and limited third person narrators – but these nuances are more academic than practical, and these writing exercises are all about practicality (which is my way of saying I’m going to ignore them here).

I’m going to tackle one each of these over the next four months, starting with my favourite: first person.


We’d been drinking vodka…

Isn’t vodka brilliant? The best stories I’ve ever told always start with the words, “We’d been drinking vodka…” and this one is no exception.

We’d been drinking vodka. Mel had found the bottle in the kitchen cupboard of my third floor apartment. It was next to a mouldering loaf of bread and a rusting tin of spaghetti in tomato sauce. The bottle wasn’t anything special – one of those made up Russian names (Glasnost, Prada, Kevorkian, or something) that are meant to make it sound authentic and as though it has been shipped direct from behind the Iron Curtain. The main thing I remember is that it was cheap, the aftertaste wasn’t too unpleasant, and it mixed well with the dregs of the Dr Pepper Mel had brought to our impromptu girl’s night in. The washing-up situation meant we had to drink from clunky coffee mugs rather than elegant glasses but neither of us was in a mood to be concerned by such trifling details. We had more important things on our agenda.

“Here’s to becoming lesbians, sweetie,” Mel toasted.
She raised her mug.

I clinked mine against the side and we both drank greedily.

I wasn’t sure if we were genuinely going to become lesbians, or if the toast was meant to signify that we were both pissed off at our boyfriends. Mine had elected to spend the night with drinking buddies, playing pool and watching the game on a fifty-inch screen at the local bar. Mel’s latest boyfriend had clearly upset her in some serious way because she had scoured the house like a bloodhound in her search for the vodka. When she found the bottle she had whooped in delight, made some disparaging remark about booze being better than blokes, and popped its cap with unseemly haste.

“Are we really becoming lesbians?” I asked doubtfully. “What does that involve?” I sat next to her on the settee and warily sipped my mug of vodka.


These lines are from the opening of my novel Once Bitten – an erotically charged tale of vampires and sexual intrigue. I decided to use first person for this particular story because I liked Tessa’s voice. She sounded carefree, not particularly bright with her obvious sexual naivete, but sufficiently savvy to know her own mind. I thought it would be fun to hear her tell the whole story. 

The first person narrator, as we all know, is a character-narrator who is telling a personal story. It’s easily identified because we recognise the use of personal pronouns (I, we, my, me, etc.) and the viewpoint shows us the world through the eyes of a single person. As a bonus, this allows us to get to know the character-narrator in more depth than other characters because we (the readers) are inside that character’s thoughts.

This is a point of view commonly seen in diaries and personal exposés and it is this sense of being told secrets that makes it an ideal voice for a narrator of erotic fiction because, what could be more arousing than the idea of being inside someone’s thoughts?

As always, it would be good to see a few lines from your first person narratives in the comments box below.

Ooh, Shiny!

by | February 28, 2018 | General | 0 comments

Elizabeth Black writes in a wide variety of genres including erotica, erotic romance, horror, and dark fiction. She lives on the Massachusetts coast with her husband, son, and her two cats. Visit her web site, her Facebook page, and her Amazon Author Page. 

Her m/m erotic medical thriller Roughing It is a sexy cross between The X Files, The Andromeda Strain, and Outbreak. Read her short erotic story Babes in Begging For It, published by Cleis Press. You will also find her new novel No Restraint at Amazon. Enjoy a good, sexy read today.


It’s been a bit of an adventure for the past three weeks. I was sick with a nasty head cold for two weeks. Then, going into the third week, the car died. While my husband and I were driving on the highway. In traffic. At 60 MPH. I’d never been so scared in my whole life. Our old Honda Civic Esmerelda served us well but we needed a new used car. Fast.

We bought a 2004 VW Bug. I’ve always wanted a Bug and now we have a blue one we named Zhaan after the big blue bitch on the Australian TV show Farscape. This car is very nice and we’re blinging it up. I have crystals hanging from the rear view mirror. We bought a bud vase! You can’t have a Bug without a bud vase although the newer ones don’t include it. That’s a sacrilege in my opinion. I bought fresh flowers for the house and put one in the bud vase. Here it is, on the dash.

We have veteran’s plates, but if we ever get vanity plates I want one that says “Bugasm”. Or one that says “Feature”. Get it? It’s a Feature, not a Bug? LOL

So this got me to thinking about new beginnings. It’s the beginning of the year so I wanted to see how I could change this year so that it is better than last year. 2017 sucked. I’m going to make 2018 better. So far, I’ve submitted five short stories to submission calls. They’re about equal between erotic fiction and horror. Six if you count the one that I submitted two years ago and it’s still under consideration. I’m not pulling it because this particular horror anthology is like Ahab’s White Whale and I really want to be in it. It’s just delayed. The book isn’t getting published until 2019, but I’m very patient.

I’m working on a seventh short horror story right now as well as my collection of erotic fairy tales. I plan to release the fairy tale book during the summer. I need someone to create a Table of Contents (I don’t know how to do that for a Kindle book) and I need a book cover. I also need to do some pre-release marketing. Hopefully this book will sell better than the two books I released a couple of years ago. They tanked. I need some good news. Fairy tales do well so I have great hope for this book.

I also just received my final edits for a mystery/suspense novel I’m working on. I have a lot of work to do on it yet, but I have confidence I can finish it in a month or two. Then I submit that book to agents and a few very good top notch indie publishers. I’m very proud of this book and I have great hope for it.

I think I’m off to a good start. A handful of short story submissions and two books. As these works get published, I’ll write to tell my readers where you may find them. Keeping my fingers crossed I’ll have more good publishing news very soon.


by | February 26, 2018 | General | 1 comment

by Jean Roberta

“Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote/The droghte of March hath perced to the roote . . Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,/And palmeres for to seken straunge londes.” –
(When April’s sweet showers have demolished the drought of March . . . then people want to travel, and religious pilgrims want to visit strange lands.)

– Geoffrey Chaucer, Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, circa 1380s.

I’m currently making plans to go to Eroticon (annual conference of the erotic arts) in London, England, with my spouse on the weekend of March 17-18, 2018. This will require several plane rides through different time-zones because we live in the middle of Canada. I can’t afford to spend more than a week away from the classes I teach, even with capable grad-student substitutes.

There are too many writers’ cons held every year throughout the world for one writer to attend. Most of them, as far as I know, are held in the U.S., but I’ve heard scary stories about how hard or at least unpredictable it has become for people from other countries—even Canada—to be allowed in under the current regime. So I decided to go to England instead. I’ll probably go to more writers’ cons in the U.S. in the future, after the regime has changed.

Why go to a writers’ conference? Here are some obvious reasons:

– To network with other people in the publishing world, preferably with those who write, edit and publish in one’s own genre,
– To learn more about the crafts of writing, promotion, and negotiation, and to get first-hand news about calls-for-submissions, contests, jobs, and to get a feel for different publishers, trends, and writing groups.
– To promote a personal project.
– To add experience to a resume or CV. (This especially applies to academics.)

Here are some less-obvious reasons:

– To take a trip away from home! Why not?
– To socialize in person with on-line friends.
– To check out a particular city as a possible place to live.
– To breathe polluted air for a weekend, the better to appreciate the fresh air of the Canadian prairies when one comes home. (This reason probably only applies to me.)

Of course, there are downsides to writers’ cons. I consider myself very lucky not to have experienced the kind of drama I’ve heard about from other writers. Here are some disadvantages of going to a con, in ascending order of importance:

– Expense!! It often seems that those who need the most financial help get the least. Academics, especially those who teach literature, composition, or creative writing in some form, can often get a trip to a writers’ con subsidized by their employers, and the more socially-conscious writers’ cons offer their own subsidies, but those who work outside the Ivory Tower and don’t know anyone who could take them in during a con can pay a considerable amount for travel to the site, accommodation, food, city transportation, conference fees, entertainment, and impulse shopping. The cost of a trip can cut into a writer’s writing profits, if any, without producing any quantifiable return on the investment.

– Isolation. This can take various forms, depending on the circumstances. Writers tend to be introverts, and newcomers can find it hard to connect with those who seem successful and connected.

– Ostracism, rejection, sarcasm, confrontation, turf war. This is the stuff of nightmares, and possibly the inspiration for one’s next horror novel. (When given lemons, writers often find ways to make lemonade.)

Writers in some genres vehemently reject other genres. Sex-writers, in particular, have been sneered out of rooms. Romance, which seems like erotica’s closest cousin, is both widely popular and still widely rejected by writers and institutions which claim to be intellectual, avant-garde, or unflinchingly honest about the hell of this world.

Professional rivalry and political in-fighting (of the more-woke-than-thou variety) are additional obstacles that have caused some con-goers to say they will never return.

– Unforeseen disasters. What insurance companies define as “acts of God” (extreme weather, plane and train crashes, accidental fires, epidemics) are more likely to happen to travellers than to folks who follow a routine at home. Deliberate sabotage in the form of bombings and shootings tends to happen more in large cities than in less-populated areas. (Where I live, “terrorist threat” means the possible contamination of the wheat crop.) I assume that writers who already live in large cities have developed a tough-enough shell not to find writers’ cons any scarier than everyday life. And again, lemons can be the raw material for lemonade, as long as one survives.

So there it is. I find the lures of writers’ cons to be more compelling than the possible drawbacks, especially since the university where I teach encourages “professional development” in the forms of readings and attendance at cons. I’ll probably keep going to them as long as I’m able to board a plane.

Chaucer would probably be amused.

Self-Publishing or Are You Sure This Won’t Hurt?

by | February 24, 2018 | General | 6 comments

Greetings fellow writers of smut, Larry Archer here. For this post, I’d like to talk a little more about the self-publishing game.

A lot of authors have mentioned the concern they have of the self-publishing mechanics which may be holding them back from taking the plunge.

I realize that it’s easier to just type up your manuscript and send it off to the publishing house and let them deal with all the dirty work, but you may be leaving a lot of money on the table when you do this.

From what I can see, sending in your manuscript for possible inclusion in an anthology results in about a $50 payment plus a copy of the book. Certainly, you may be offered more or less, but typically you will be given a fixed amount of money for your labor.

Think about a possible alternative, divide the money you could potentially receive by two and that’s roughly the number of stories you would have to sell to break even. Then once you break even, it’s all gravy after that.

Assuming that your sales ranking for the story is between 500,000 and a million which is a decent figure for an erotic story that captures the reader’s eye. This ranking should result in sales of 5-10 copies per month at Amazon or $10 to $20 per month income and the same from SmashWords. Personally, I normally make two or three times as much from SmashWords, but let’s assume the same sales.

Before you start rolling your eyes, consider this. A sales ranking of 100,000 should result in the sale of 30 to 40 copies per month or $60 to $80 per month profit per published story.

When your ranking drops into the top one-hundred, you could easily be selling thousands of copies per month and be waited on hand and foot by nubile scantily clad servants who are busily stuffing grapes into every one of your orifices.

Rank To Sales Estimator from David Gaughran estimates your sales as follows:
#1 to #5 = 5,000+ books a day (sometimes a lot more)
#5 to #10 = 4,000–5,000
#10 to #20 = 3,000–4,000
#20 to #50 = 2,000–3,000
#100 = 1,000+
#200 = 500
#300 = 250
#500 = 200
#1,000 = 120
#2,000 = 100
#3,000 = 80
#5,000 = 40
#10,000 = 20
#25,000 = 10
#50,000 = 5
#100,000+ = fewer than 1 a day

From what I’ve seen, this estimate is relatively close. A 100,000 sales rank should return sales in the 30 – 40 per month bracket, but your mileage may vary.

But let’s not get carried away here, the cold, cruel truth is that assuming you are a decent writer of material other people want to read, you’ll likely have a sales ranking around a million. At least that’s what you need to shoot for initially.

My point is simply that if you take the plunge and try self-publishing, then it is possible that with a number of stories published you could be pulling in a few hundred dollars per month. This would easily vault you past the single payment you receive when publishing in an anthology.

In an upcoming post, I’ll talk more about tools that can help you determine where you stand in the various rankings but I just want you to consider self-publishing.

Another benefit of self-publishing is that you have complete control over your story. When you deal with a publisher, then you have to first convince them to accept your work, and often beyond that point, there is a limited amount of control that you can exert.

A good example is search keywords to allow your readers to find you. Often these are determined by someone who may or may not have read your story and realized what a wonderful writer you are.

We all have a fear of the unknown, especially when it involves whips and chains, but that’s a whole different post. It’s sort of like a guy sitting at the bar, two stools over from a woman who is drop-dead gorgeous.

While he’s trying to build up his courage to talk to her, another guy slips in between them and sits down. The new guy leans over to the beautiful woman and asks, “Would you like to fuck?”

To which, the woman slaps the guy as hard as she can, calls him an asshole, and walks away.

While the cad is rubbing his cheek, the first guy says, “I bet you get slapped a lot with that line?” To which, the other guy replies, “Yeah, but you’d be surprised at how often I get laid!”

The moral of the story is you don’t get if you don’t ask. Your customers are not going to bang on your door and beg to buy a copy of your latest story.

For those who are hesitant about self-publishing, ask yourself this question, “What’s the absolute worst that can happen to me?”

Aside from the ones who write you and say, “You Suck!” or the old blue-haired lady who cancels your library card, that’s about the worst of it. It’s not like some guy with a broken nose is going to show up at your front door.

If you need further reassurance and cover, tell them, Larry, made me publish my drivel and then they can tell me that I suck! So now that you don’t have anything to worry about, dust off that manuscript and let’s see if we can make you rich.

After all, 50 Shades made millions and most of us would be ashamed to admit that we wrote crap as bad as that. Certainly, you can do better, can’t you?

Going forward, I’d like to help you with the process. Now, I can’t guarantee that I can help with your English, but I can help you package your story and get it out to your adoring fans.

See you next time and remember to stop stroking when you start needing glasses. Otherwise, you might find out that your Mother was right!

Now on a personal note, I’d just like to give a shout out to Lisabet Sarai, who I consider a good friend and inspiration. She and I published two stories concurrently at the end of last year, Hot Brides in Vegas and Nina, The Fallen Ballerina.

The two stories were well received and both were themed in Foxy and Larry’s world of swingers and strip clubs. It was fun and certainly interesting on how Lisabet portrayed the regular characters in my Foxy and Larry series.

I’ve published some 15 or so stories using these two characters whose roots grew out of our experiences swinging. Working with Lisabet taught me to make sure and flesh out your characters in every story to ensure your reader understands and can picture them instead of assuming they have read about the character in a previous story.

F&L series stories tend to flow from one to the other and characters are often introduced and built up from story to story. The whole chain of stories is sort of like a Roots or Godfather series except not on television. What I didn’t take into consideration was that readers may not have read all my books. Shame on you!

Another lesson in the road to becoming hopefully a better writer.

She’s helping me with one of my latest books based on an actual event where one of our neighbors crashed our annual New Year’s Eve party. While the actual event didn’t turn out quite as perverted as the resultant story, it could have. Lisabet has been instrumental in helping build a number of the chapters and helping to brainstorm the storyline. Thanks, Lisabet!

Wifey and I still laugh about that episode. We try not to make friends with our neighbors as bad things can happen innocently. But we had become friends with this straight couple, who live a couple of houses down from us. Our lots are pretty big and they were a little over a block in distance from us, so not like they are right next door.

After every New Year’s, they would always comment on the number of cars parked around our house and we would excuse not inviting them because they had said they were going to another party.

Then one year, sometime after midnight the doorbell rings and I stupidly answer the door. I find the couple from down the street, all decked out in a suit and fancy dress. Keep in mind that these people are really straight!

Not knowing what to do, I invite them in. At this point, there are over 100 people in various stages of undress or modeling Victoria Secret underwear with an impromptu orgy going on in the living room.

I’m wearing a bathrobe and Foxy is in long johns, unbuttoned down the front and with the back flap open. There is a picture of her with some of the girls here. Voyeurism at these parties is worth paying for. LOL

They were standing in the entry foyer with their mouths hanging open looking at the pile in the living room. After leading them to a quiet corner, we told them that they were welcome to stay but not to talk about what they saw or experienced. Anyway, our shocked neighbors soon departed except I got the impression the wife wanted to hang around.

That’s a thumbnail sketch of how the idea for the story got started and you’ll have to buy a copy to find out who did what and to whom. The title is still up for grabs, “The Neighbors,” “Our Nasty Neighbors,” or “Crashing a Swinger’s Party.”

See ya next month,

Larry Archer – for my blog or for the catalog of my stories –

P.S. If you have any topics you’d like me to opine on or any suggestions, email me: Larry <at> LarryArcher <dot> com. For a laugh, check out my Twitter ads:

Once Upon a Place

by | February 21, 2018 | General | 4 comments

In what city does Fifty Shades of Grey take place?

I had to look this up. The answer is Vancouver, Washington, but does anyone care? Does the setting matter at all in erotic fiction?

Many authors (and I suppose readers) might argue that it does not. Certainly quite a lot of the erotica and erotic romance I encounter is set in a generic urban or surburban environment without any distinctive geographic or cultural features. These tales focus entirely on the characters and the action, which apparently could be happening anywhere. The background is an undifferentiated blur.

Personally, I prefer stories that provide a strong sense of place. I guess that’s because I read erotica for the total emotional experience, not just for the sex. However, I also find that a specific, vividly depicted setting can heighten the erotic charge.

One time-honored technique in writing erotica is to use all the five senses. Our bodies are located in space, and our senses bring us messages from that space. So the roughness of the cheap blanket in the seedy hotel room—the fragrant fresh-mown grass clinging to our sweaty bodies—jazz, drifting in the window from Bourbon Street—the sticky sweetness of the ice cream we shared, before you dragged me into the cool shadows under the pier (which smells of rust and seaweed)—the distant orb of the full moon sailing above as I lie on my back with you pounding into my cunt— all these sights, sounds, scents, tastes and textures combine to bring an erotic interlude to life in the imagination.

Of course, you can provide sensory details without specifying exactly where it’s all happening. As an author, though, it’s easier to conjure these details if you have a particular setting in mind.

Setting complements and enhances both character and plot. Where you come from, where you live, strongly influences who you are. A person from Boston thinks, speaks and acts quite differently from someone who comes from Los Angeles (not to mention Marseille or Singapore). Even when I don’t mention it, I almost always know my characters’ geographic histories. Not infrequently in my stories the major conflict flows from background or cultural differences between the protagonists.

Meanwhile, certain events can occur only in certain places. For instance, a devastating landslide is pivotal in my MMF tale Monsoon Fever, providing a catharsis that pulls the characters into three-way sex. That story is set in hilly Assam, India. It just wouldn’t work in Bangkok, or Venice, or Minneapolis.

I guess I’m known for my evocative and varied settings. My novels take place in Thailand, in Boston, in London and LA, in Pittsburgh, in rural Guatemala, in Paris, in Rajasthan, in Manhattan, in Worcester MA, and in northern California. I’ve written stories set in Provence, in Newport RI, in Nebraska, and in Amsterdam. I do tend to return in my writing to places I’ve lived or visited often, as I can describe them with greater ease, but I certainly haven’t been to every location that shows up in my fiction.

I wonder if readers can tell which of my settings are based on real experience, which on research and imagination.

For me, the joy of reading is being pulled into a new world, rich in detail, intense and believable. So I want to know where a story is happening—even if that location is totally fictional. George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series has the strongest sense of place I’ve ever encountered in a book. That’s one reason why I love it.

I try to offer my readers the same joy. I know some of you don’t care. I’m writing for those of you who do.

(If you’re one of those people, check out my new Asian Adventures series—short erotic pieces set in different Asian locales. The most recent title, set in Thailand, is Butterfly.)


When Pleasure Was Against the Law: The Life of Pioneer Eroticist Ida Craddock

by | February 18, 2018 | General | 6 comments

Did you know, Dear Reader, that if you were writing erotica a hundred years ago, you could be sent to prison for sharing information about female sexual pleasure?

Of course, many still try to denigrate and silence our efforts in the twenty-first century, but we are, at least for the moment, allowed to practice our craft without immediate threat of arrest.

My historical research has introduced me to a woman who helped to make this freedom possible: Ida Craddock, a writer who dedicated her life to educating others about mutually satisfying marital relations. Since February is the month our culture has dedicated to romantic love–or at least lots of candy sales—it seems a fitting time to celebrate Ms. Craddock’s life and work.

Ida Craddock was born in Philadelphia in 1857 and raised in a strict, Christian fundamentalist household. According to her biographer, Vere Chappell, author of Sexual Outlaw, Erotic Mystic: The Essential Ida Craddock, Ms. Craddock rebelled against her upbringing first by advocating for higher education for women and then teaching and writing a textbook on stenography, the one profession in which young women could earn decent pay. In her thirties, she became interested in the occult and theosophy. She also became sexually involved with two men. Both relationships occurred outside of marriage, a very radical act in the late 1880s and early 1890s.

Her first lover was younger man who took the “normal,” male-centered approach to intimate relations. Ms. Craddock might not have found her calling had she married this man. However, her second lover was older and so devoted to female pleasure, he trained himself in the art of delayed ejaculation. This man changed her world forever. Ms. Craddock’s discovery of the joy of sex inspired her to help women whose partners ignored their sensual needs. She felt that the general ignorance of human sexuality led to great pain and suffering and set out to share her knowledge with others. She toured the great cities of the United States giving lectures and produced pamphlets to reach a wider audience, specifically those constrained from attending a public event by modesty.

Ms. Craddock’s work came to my attention when I was researching early twentieth-century sex advice resources that the husband in my novel might consult in order to prepare himself for the defloration of his virgin bride. Being a considerate fellow, he procured a copy of Ms. Craddock’s pamphlet “The Wedding Night,” which provides advice that surely benefits my heroine:

“The very first thing for you to bear in mind is that, inasmuch as Nature has so arranged sex that the man is always ready (as a rule) for intercourse, whereas the woman is not, it is most unwise for the man to precipitate matters by exhibiting desire for genital contact when the woman is not yet aroused. You should remember that that organ of which you are, justly, so proud, is not possessed by a woman, and that she is utterly ignorant of its functions, practically, until she has experienced sexual contact; and that it is, to her who is not desirous of such contact, something of a monstrosity. Even when a woman has already had pleasurable experience of genital contact, she requires each time to be aroused amorously, before that organ, in its state of activity, can become attractive. For a man to exhibit, to even an experienced wife, his organ ready for action when she herself is not amorously aroused, is, as a rule, not sexually attractive to her; on the contrary, it is often sexually repulsive, and at times out and out disgusting to her. Every woman of experience knows that, when she is ready, she can cause the man to become sexually active fast enough.”

There is not one word that rings false to me in this excerpt, although it was written in the 1890s. Granted, each of us has her own sexual preferences, and some women may adore immediate penetration without foreplay and dick pics from men they don’t know (not any with whom I’ve spoken, but it’s a big world out there). Still, there are a lot of men today who could learn a few things from “The Wedding Night.”

Alas, a villain enters our story. A crusading U.S. Postal Inspector named Anthony Comstock decided Ms. Craddock was a menace to society after she publicly defended the belly dance show at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago as an art by which married women could improve their sex lives. Comstock almost single-handedly restricted access to “obscene” information in America beginning with the eponymous laws passed in 1873. The Comstock Laws enabled him to prosecute offenders for sending their products through the mail. “Obscene” material included not just pornography but pamphlets on birth control and sexual advice for married couples.

Comstock brought Ms. Craddock to trial in 1902 for sending copies of “The Wedding Night” through the mail. The judge refused to allow the jury to read the pamphlet upon which they would be passing judgment because it was so offensive to morals. Without leaving the courtroom, the jury—all men of course–found her guilty. She was sentenced to the workhouse, a place that invariably ruined the health of its inmates with its cold, damp quarters and rotten food. Ms. Craddock refused an offer to escape the prison term by pleading insanity. She did not consider herself insane (and knew the madhouse was surely little better than prison).

Instead of serving her sentence, Ida Craddock committed suicide.

Her final note was meant for the public to read: “I am taking my life because a judge, at the instigation of Anthony Comstock, has declared me guilty of a crime I did not commit–the circulation of obscene literature. Perhaps it may be that in my death, more than in my life, the American people may be shocked into investigating the dreadful state of affairs which permits that unctuous sexual hypocrite Anthony Comstock to wax fat and arrogant and to trample upon the liberties of the people, invading, in my own case, both my right to freedom of religion and to freedom of the press.” In a long note to her mother, she wrote: “I maintain my right to die as I have lived, a free woman, not cowed into silence by any other human being.”

Comstock’s methods of entrapment and shrill dramatics had been privately losing him support for years. After Ms. Craddock’s death, he received a great deal of negative publicity. Biographer Vere Chappell saw this moment as a turning point for Comstock’s influence, although he lived on to torment other sexual progressives like Margaret Sanger. Few mourned his passing in 1915. The Comstock Laws were rescinded after World War I.

In 2018, Ms. Craddock’s goal of educating the public about pleasurable sexual relations has not progressed as much as one would hope. Speaking honestly about our sexual experiences—good and bad and from the perspective of any gender—still deeply threatens those in power. Our work as erotica writers still requires courage.

With that in mind, the next time you sit down to write a steamy story that will inspire and educate readers about this repressed, but vitally important aspect of our humanity, remember Ida Craddock. We walk in her shadow.

Where’ve I Heard That Before?

by | February 15, 2018 | General | 2 comments

Toward the conclusion of Costa Gavras’ 1969 political thriller ‘Z’, an array of high-ranking military figures being interrogated by the investigating magistrate describe the attacker during a political assassination as “lithe and fierce, like a tiger.”

From the low-life thugs who carried out the killing to the highest ranking officer who condoned it, they all utter the same phrase. The magistrate takes it that all of them were in on it and all of them have been coached.

I’m reminded of Gavras’ bit of satire whenever I hear another phrase that writers and editors have become fond of using: It took me right out of the story.

It’s a phrase that spurs the suspicious chief magistrate in me to ask, did it really take you out of the story, or did you think it should have taken you out of the story?

ITMROOTS is most commonly applied to lapses in POV. Beginning writers are schooled in keeping their stories, or at least individual chapters in a single point of view. To fail that is to commit the cardinal writing sin of head-hopping. This is sound advice, as sound as grounding oneself in the basics of grammar and maintaining a single tense.

But I worry that sound craft is being turned into dogma, because dogma, after all, hinders not only craft, but art.

I was born right smack in the middle of the twentieth century. I enjoyed books, of course, but the dominating art forms of my day were movies and television. Perhaps for this reason, supposed POV faults don’t bother me all that much. Because the camera, for the most part, when it pulls back from a scene, it appears all POVs are covered. True third-person omniscient. Great directors – Hitchcock comes to mind – then could slice into a scene and pare the POV down to one single character. Hitch, however, usually kept it in our POV, the audience.

 It bothers me when someone cites head-hopping that I just don’t see. How am I missing this?

ITMROOTS is also applied to other perceived faux pas in writing, and in all honesty I also have been taken right out of a story by any number of things, such as anachronisms in historical settings, a shift in tense, an action by a character inconsistent with what has gone before without explanation. That was a big problem I had with Gone Baby, Gone.

Then there’s just bad or mundane writing. A late and much missed friend of mine used to say of some writers, he or she writes perfectly, but with a tin ear. Hey, you know it when you read it.

I suspect ITMROOTS originated in a creative writing course. It sounded okay and spread through the writerly community. Like all once-glib phrases, with time it has become set in concrete. Editors use it frequently, and it always makes me cringe, because I wonder if the dogma is perhaps quelling a new style or innovation.

New fiction is emerging that employs different, or perhaps no punctuation. Right now I’m enjoying Sebastian Barry’s Days Without End, a western saga told in the manner of a rambling monologue without quote marks and what I can only describe as improvised punctuation.

I can also think back to Peter Matthiessen’s Far Tortuga, in which white space was deftly used to convey great interludes of silence, or just the sounds of a vessel plying the seas at night.

Still, I worry that the dogma is hindering creativity and experimentation. Particularly when an editor says something or other assuredly takes the reader right out of the story. Really? Because I’ve never heard a pure reader use that phrase, nor seen any study that proved readers are ever taken right out of a story by anything other than bad or dull writing. My experience has been that readers don’t get into a story in the first place and so never get to the point where they get taken right out of it.

We who have been schooled in writing perhaps need to sit back and ask this: Does it work? And if the answer is yes, decide for ourselves why.





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