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Well, Excuse Me!

I read a blog post on a reviewer’s website that made me rethink online courtesy. This woman went on a rant about authors who aren’t considerate enough to say “thank you” when she reviews their books, often at their request. She held the opinion that after she spent “hours reading and reviewing” a book, the least the author could do was “take a few minutes” to send a follow-up e-mail, especially if it was a good write-up.

Wow – I thought we were all on the same page! I know a lot of authors who don’t communicate with reviewers because they don’t want it to look like they’re sucking up, and I’m one of them. I do write to people who give me free exposure, especially bloggers who have featured me as a guest or interview subject. Oftentimes it results in a return invitation, and it’s common courtesy. I was raised by a generation that believed in sending “thank you” notes, so it’s a habit. The one time I received a terrible review on a blog, I actually wrote to the reviewer to thank them for their honest opinion. I didn’t like what they said about me or my book, but I chose to take the high road and show them that I wasn’t bothered by their negative comments.

I used to write book reviews for a romance site and I didn’t expect flowers when I reviewed someone’s book. That isn’t why I did it and I can count on one hand the times an author reached out to thank me or question my parentage. If they did drop a line, I appreciated it, but it wasn’t what I lived for. Often, I’ll hold contests and offer a book as a prize. When I send it to the winner, I always ask them to let me know what they thought of it. I don’t ask them to post a review on Amazon, but just give their opinion so I’ll know if I’m reaching my audience. This is something else I don’t count on because people say they will, but usually don’t. It’s all part of the game and no, I don’t take it personally.

The remarks I mentioned earlier gave me cause for pause. The person referenced “hours spent reading and reviewing” books, but I wonder if she has any idea how much time and effort an author invests in getting that book ready for her to read. We agonize over every word, detail, revision and rewrite. We worry that the cover might not convey what the story is about. We sweat out a release date then become sleep deprived from promotional activity once it’s released. We anxiously await feedback and when we get it…we’re chastised because we didn’t say “thank you?”

As I said, it’s all part of the game and there is no right or wrong approach. Some people express themselves beautifully through the mouths of their characters but fumble when it comes to speaking from the heart. I fall into that trap myself at times. I suppose that’s why we choose to write, to express ourselves through words, and that’s a great thing.

For what it’s worth I don’t expect a “thank you” note for this post, either. Just buy one of my books.

What are the ethics of writing about historical figures?

 by Ashley Lister

I came across this woman in a car park, crying because she’d just lost £2,000 of savings that she was going to use for a family holiday. I tried to console her, and by way of comfort, I gave her £100. I don’t normally do that kind of thing but I’d just found a purse full of money so I could easily afford it.

I reiterate this joke as a forerunner to saying I don’t consider myself to be an ethical person.

Admittedly, if I found money, I’d like to hope I would turn it over to the appropriate authorities and make sure it was returned to its rightful owner. But the truth is I’m a writer, and we don’t come across money very often, so it’s not a certainty that I’d do the right thing.

However, this lack of personal ethics only stretches as far as financial windfalls. In every most other areas of life, I try to uphold high standards of ethics. Which is why, when I came across the above question, I thought I would share my thoughts on my ethical approach to writing about historical figures.

A long time ago, way back in the early noughties, Mitzi Szereto put out a CFS (call for submissions) for short stories that eventually became the book Wicked: Erotic Tales of Legendary Lovers. The idea was to produce erotic fantasies featuring real life figures from history. I read the requirements for the anthology and, whilst a great part of me wanted to contribute, I had some ethical reservations.

Justine (de Sade novel) - Wikipedia

 

Is it acceptable to create an erotic fantasy story based on a real-life person? Well, since Mitzi was asking for such stories, and I know she’s a decent person, I didn’t doubt it was acceptable. But I felt a personal twinge of unease at the thought of writing about the intimate life of a famous figure.

It’s always been a personal mantra to never write erotic content that goes outside my comfort zone. I know this is not something that troubles many other writers. Chuck Tingle’s most recent release, My Macaroni And Cheese Is A Lesbian Also She Is My Lawyer, is undoubtedly as well written and entertaining as the rest of his opus. But Tingle is clearly comfortable writing about the intimate sex life of lesbian macaroni-and-cheese lawyers, whilst it’s something I don’t write because I fear, if I try, I’ll likely get it wrong.

I’m aware that, as writers, we should push boundaries and experiment in lots of different ways. But I was (and still am) reluctant to write about aspects of sex and sexuality about which I’m personally ignorant. And when it comes to the sex life of most celebrities and historical figures, my ignorance is legendary.

Ordinarily I would have thought it best to not submit to Mitzi’s anthology but I wanted to contribute because the idea was genuinely intriguing. And it was whilst I was discounting likely subjects for my story (Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, Arch

 

duke Ferdinand) that I realised I would be better placed writing about a celebrity who had already published intimate details of his or her love life.
Which is why I wrote about the Marquis de Sade. I had fun with the idea and made the Marquis a political writer who is urged to spice up the content of his pamphlets with racy scenes. The person doing the urging, an anachronistic editor with a focus on the market, takes the lead in the story and, I was delighted when the story was accepted under my pseudonym Lisette Ashton.

All of which is my way of saying, in response to the question, ‘What are the ethics of writing about historical figures?’

1. Don’t break the law.
2. Don’t write outside your personal comfort zone.
3. Have fun with what you create.

Character Voices

A recent article from The Guardian noted something that many writers are already familiar with – most writers hear the voices of their own characters. I’ve been able to hear my character’s voices ever since I was a child. I had imaginary friends like many children, and they had distinctive voices and inflections. Those voices carried over to the characters I created in fiction.

Researchers from Durham University found that 63% of writers interviewed listen to their creations. 61% feel they have their own agency. 56% indicated visual or other sensory experiences of their characters when they are writing. 15% said they could even enter in dialogue with their characters.

How well do you know your characters? Do you have their voices, smells, and desires inside your head, or have you written down a detailed grid what makes your character tick? I’m sure many writers know their character’s favorite color or favorite food. Those kinds of exercises are good practice for getting to know your characters. Here are some examples of questions to ask yourself about your character:

  1. What do you look like?
  2. Do you have any tattoos?
  3. Do you like coffee or tea?
  4. Dark or milk chocolate? (or do you not eat sweets at all)
  5. What’s your favorite holiday and why
  6. What’s your least favorite color?
  7. What is your favorite season and why
  8. What is your least favorite season and why
  9. What is your greatest fear
  10. What do you think of the other characters in the book?

Those are only ten examples. Writing down the answers helps to gel the character properly developed in your mind. I get to know my characters as I create them, but creating lists like this one helps me learn more. I’d ask things I normally wouldn’t ask, and when I get answers the book becomes more real for me.

What do you do to make your characters seem more real to you? How do you flesh them out? While plot is important to a story, character is equally important. Whether your story is character-driven or plot-driven, the characters need to be fully rounded for the story to have proper impact. Don’t make your characters empty shells since that risks creating a stereotype or caricature rather than a fully-fleshed person. The better you know your character, the better you are to hear what that character is trying to convey to you. In the end, you get a good story. And that’s how it should be.

———

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 three cats. Her LGBTQ paranormal erotic shifter romance novel “Full Moon Fever” is now available for purchase at Amazon and other book distributors. Her collection of erotic fairy tales, “Happily Ever After: Twisted Versions of Your Favorite Fairy Tales”, is also available at Amazon.

Web site: http://elizabethablack.blogspot.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/elizabethablack

Twitter: http://twitter.com/ElizabethABlack

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/elizabethblack

Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/b76GWD

 

Music in the Genes

Last week, I learned something interesting and unexpected about myself. Ancestry.com announced that they had refined their ability to determine the ethnic affiliations in DNA. I logged into the site, and learned that I apparently hit the jackpot at conception. According to their research, I have every kind of Celtic blood: Irish, Scottish, and Welsh.

Some backstory would help put this in perspective. I knew about my Irish ancestors long before I spit into a tube and sent the results off to be analyzed. Someone in my mother’s family discovered that her family name, Ward, originally came from Ireland with the bards who carried it. I had also been told about some Irish blood in my father’s family, although they could trace their arrival on American soil back much farther than could my mother’s relatives, who were mostly working-class English.

My grandma on my father’s side told me about Mrs. O’Leary, whose cow supposedly kicked over a lantern in a barn in 1871, thereby causing the Great Chicago Fire. (Chicago seems to have been less urban then than it became later.) I was told that she was Irish and distantly related to me, though I would have preferred to be descended from someone more heroic or at least romantic: Maud Gonne or Dierdre of the Sorrows.

What I was innocently unaware of at the time is the way prejudice discourages people from admitting their “roots” until time and a changing zeitgeist make it more acceptable to identify as some flavour other than white-bread.

Classes in U.S. history don’t usually explain the intensity of anti-Irish prejudice, especially as the starving Irish came to New York and Boston in the 1850s, wearing what little they had. They were guilty of being poor, and most were Catholic, bringing crucifixes into a predominantly-Protestant country in which schoolchildren were encouraged to revere the “Pilgrim Fathers” (exiled English Puritans of the 1600s). In the mid-nineteenth century, Irish accents were not considered cute. They were the speech defect you had to overcome to get a decent job.

Were other Celts more acceptable? Not really.

My mother was born about two weeks before the Armistice that ended the Great War in 1918. She and her mother were both successfully isolated from the flu pandemic of the time, in Scranton, Pennsylvania, the town with the biggest Welsh population outside of Wales. Scranton was coal-mining country, and I’ve been told that some of my mother’s earliest memories were of hearing Welsh coal miners singing in four-part harmony on their way to the mine at dawn. Singing was an expression of their hwl, (hool? Hoyle?), a hard-to-translate word that means soul or creativity.

My mother was descended from dour coal-miners from the north of England who apparently kept to themselves and didn’t sing, except maybe in the Methodist church they attended every Sunday.

Sometime after the Armistice, a predictable scandal happened: Thelma, my mother’s youngest aunt, began sneaking out with a Welshman named David Evans (of course). Thelma’s family, the Ainsleys, disapproved of this alliance with the wild, the disreputable, the non-English.

So David and Thelma eloped. To this day, there is a family line of at least four generations of descendants from this original “mixed” couple. Presumably, all those Evanses could have inherited some hwl, but since I’m not in that line, I’ve always felt deprived of it.

I’m the granddaughter of Blanche, Thelma Ainsley’s older sister. Just to clarify how she felt about Celtic types, consider this. I had heard Grandma, known in her youth for her flaming red hair, mention her Geordie ancestors. These were people from Newcastle, near the Scottish border. I asked her once if anyone in her family could have been Scottish. “No!” she said firmly.

Possibly not, I thought, but that reaction seemed uncomfortably similar to the way white Americans have traditionally responded to any suggestion that they might have a drop of African or Indigenous blood.

So apparently now the secret of my family is out. Not only Irish, but also Welsh AND Scottish! I could have hwl mixed with blarney, balanced by some Scottish stalwartness and general northern practicality. And that doesn’t even include various ingredients from outside the British Isles.

It seems that the forces of bigotry have never been enough to keep human beings neatly within rigid categories, and this tickles me. I like to think that lust is stronger than disapproval and ignorance. I know that mass rape during invasions also accounts for a lot of “racial” mixing, but please humour me while I’m on a roll. I prefer to imagine the romance of lovers like Thelma and Dave as a model for social change.

If I inherited a trace of hwl, that means I’ve always had it. I have no guarantee that any of this information is reliable, but in this unsettled time, I keep my antenna out for any good news I can get.

Whatever was passed down to any of us through microscopic eggs and wriggling sperm cells is exactly what we need to keep ourselves going and leave some little sign on this earth.

———-

Women as the Sexual Aggressor

Spit or Swallow?

Generally speaking, males are raised with the belief that you should spread your seed far and wide. Women, on the other hand, are taught to keep their knees together and avoid being thought a slut.

The United States was initially founded in part by the desire for religious freedom, but we could not escape the effects of morality imposed upon us by the church. As a fallen Episcopalian and one-time altar boy, I’ve certainly been guilty of that.

In high school, the preacher’s daughter was typically the wildest girl in school. Proving the point that repression breeds a backlash in the opposite direction. You only have to look at prohibition, which resulted in organized crime.

As a typical horny youth, I was always trying to get “it,” but the girls were determined to keep me at arm’s length. As such, I considered myself as the aggressor in the never-ending battle to propagate the world.

When we got into the Lifestyle (a.k.a. Swinging), our initial encounters were with small groups, and then we joined a large association of like-minded individuals. I think we’d been partying for about three months before we went to our first social.

The social, held at a hotel, was attended by two or three hundred couples. There would be so many people that they could reserve entire floors or, in some cases, the whole hotel. When we had the hotel to ourselves, it was easier to avoid interactions with straights. “Straights” are those who have no idea what is going on around them.

Foxy and I are seated at this 8-top table for supper. Everyone was well dressed, most of the men were in suits, and the wives vied for the one who could show the most skin while spending the most for their outfits.

I have to admit that I was somewhat nervous as I knew no one we were sitting with. My wife, who has never met a stranger, and has no such problem. As my mother always says, “She’d talk to a fence post.”

Directly across from me was an Italian woman, mid to late thirties, beautiful with dark hair and olive complexion. We’d said nothing beyond introductions. At the end of dinner, everyone was having a drink and casual conversation, when the woman looked at me and said, “I’m going to crawl under the table and suck your cock!”

That sentence was the longest string of words she’d ever said to me and was like an ice pick to my brain. I was dumbfounded and had no idea what to do except listen to everyone laugh. She folded her napkin and laid it on the table, then proceeded to drop down and give me one of the best blowjobs of my life!

I can’t speak for others, but performing in a crowd seems to befall all of us males. Getting head while you’re sitting at a table with others talking around you was bizarre beyond belief. My Italian princess took care of business and didn’t get anything on my pants. The first time people watched me get sucked off at the dinner table was a memory I’ll never forget.

Afterward, she crawled out from under the table and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. She winked at me and then kissed the woman sitting next to her. When she resumed conversation with everyone was another forever moment.

That was my initiation into the fact that women swingers are different from normal people. At a straight party, the guys hit on the girls, but at a swing function, they are free to hit on us in return. For a guy, it was an adjustment for women to be the aggressor.

This taught me to appreciate what women go through when they are frequently being hit on and having to fight us horn dog men off.

I’m Larry Archer, and I write smut stories for the huddled masses. I don’t write erotic romance, just explicit tales of people getting laid but with a plot. Well, somewhat of a plot! If you’re interested, follow my blog at LarryArcher.blog or to look at my catalog of stories, click this link. You’ll find me on Amazon, SmashWords, Apple iBooks, B&N, and under the counter of your local 7-11.

See you next month, stay safe!

Indescribable

Photo by Jeremy Bishop from Unsplash

What does an orgasm feel like?

An explosion? A tornado? A bursting balloon? Electricity short circuiting your body and brain?

A violent but welcome sneeze? A deluge? A little death?

It’s well nigh impossible to capture an orgasm in words. Part of the problem is the fact that different people probably experience coming in different ways. (I say “probably” because I can, ultimately, speak only for myself.) Indeed, climaxes for a single individual vary from one time to the next. Some are more intense and sharp, others fuller and more muted. (At least, that’s true for me.)

Then there’s the question of anatomical gender. I’m pretty sure that female orgasm feels somewhat different than male orgasm. It’s more “inside” than “outside”. Also, it’s often more difficult to achieve. For me, coming almost always includes a sense of strain, of reaching for something just out of reach. And even in these supposedly enlightened times, between 10 and 40% of women claim to have never experienced a climax. How can they know for sure, though, given that your account and mine might diverge a lot – and any attempt at description can do no more than approximate the reality?

The sensations involved in orgasm often get mixed up with the emotions. To describe coming, you need to consider both. Emotions may actually be easier, so it’s tempting to ignore the physical aspects – yet those can be overwhelming.

As authors of erotica, we’re expected to describe the indescribable. It’s tough. I find myself falling back on metaphors, often related to the natural world: tidal waves, earthquakes, storms, lightning and the like. Explosions and shattering glass, plunges over a precipice, whirlwinds and a temporary release from gravity: I find myself using these images again and again.

After a while this starts to feel hackneyed and stereotyped. I really hope my readers won’t notice, that they’ll be so aroused, they won’t be thinking about how often I utilize some words and comparisons.

Here are a few female orgasm snippets from my recent work:

The climax was like nothing Annie had ever known, sensation so raw and strong she wasn’t sure it could be called pleasure. It tore her open, ripped her apart, turned her inside out. The world turned black, edge with red flickers of bliss. Her spasming cunt was the only reality.

~ from Babes in Bondage

It all combined to push her into one more climax: the knowledge of her own depravity; the incredible sensation of being full to the point of bursting; her partners’ moans and cries, the swelling of the cocks plugging both her holes, and finally, the heat of their cum, simultaneously flooding her cunt and her ass.

Pleasure exploded in her depths, so sharp that it cut her loose from her body. She seemed to hover near the ceiling, looking down at the three bodies entangled on the bed. The ruddy-headed man drew back, his cock emerging from the woman’s anus with an audible pop. White streams of semen dribbled from the stretched opening. The man below rolled the woman off him, onto her back. More cum streaked her inner thighs. He gathered some of the milky fluid and smeared it on her breasts.

~ from The Slut Strikes Back

Then his beautiful brown eyes snapped open and snagged mine. His cock swelled in my depths. I felt the shudders that rippled down the shaft. He released a strangled cry as wet heat bloomed inside my pussy, and all at once I was there too, teetering on the edge of climax then tumbling over into bliss.

My clit thrummed; my nipples throbbed; my quivering channel clamped down on Dave’s cock, triggering moans and fresh floods of jism. Rich, ripe pleasure swirled up and spilled over, drenching me in sweet delight.

~ from Cherry Pie and Mistletoe

She opened to them both, riding the pleasure they conspired to bestow. Again and again, Archie buried his massive prick in her bowels. Though she was sure he’d been fully erect when they began, he seemed to grow larger each time he impaled her, until she feared she’d be torn apart by his monstrous organ. The fear only multiplied her lust. Meanwhile Ian plunged his fingers into her channel and sucked on her clitoris, setting up a circuit of bliss between her front and rear holes.

A sudden climax rose from her depths, seizing her and flinging her about like a leaf in a whirlwind. On and on it swirled, bearing her upwards, to a breathless, dizzying height where her body dropped away, leaving only bliss.

~ from The Pornographer’s Apprentice (WIP)

And here are a few excerpts describing male orgasms. The imagery is definitely different, more external, more concrete and focused more on the expulsion of cum.

“Wait—no, we can’t— Mrs. Thomas, please—oh!” He choked back a cry as the bouffant bombshell swallowed him to the root. Her agile tongue danced along his shaft, teasing, before she turned on the industrial-level suction. Jake didn’t have a chance. It took no more than thirty seconds for her to bring him to a boil. With a strangled yell, he let go, pouring his jizz into the lady’s eager mouth.

~ from More Brides in Vegas

My fingers tangled in her gorgeous coppery hair, I held her still so I could keep control as I ravaged her mouth. I couldn’t hold on much longer. I closed my eyes, savoring the building pressure. Yes, oh yes…

Skillful fingers tickled my balls, then gave them a gentle squeeze. Pleasure exploded, spiraling up and out from my taut groin. My cock shuddered and expelled a flood of cum into Jane’s welcoming mouth. Her muscles fluttered around my shaft as she swallowed, triggering another cataclysm. More jizz erupted from my rod. She turned up the suction. My cock produced another ecstatic spurt.

~ from Santa, Baby!

Without warning, or at least any that he recognized, yeasty fluid filled his mouth. He coughed and swallowed. Dylan’s cock convulsed, spitting out more gobs of warm liquid. Rafe gulped down as much as he could, the remnants leaking from the corners of his mouth. The odd taste, the unfamiliar sensations, and, most of all, the knowledge that he’d sucked his lover to climax, all combined to take him over the edge. With one last thrust, he let go.

The pleasure was round and full, different somehow from his usual wild, jagged orgasms. It surged up from his depths, powerful, irresistible, sweeping away every thought in a blissful tide of satisfaction. For what seemed like hours, the waves rolled through him, pleasure swirling up from his balls and out onto Dylan’s tongue.

~ from The H-Gene

Sometimes I feel so bored with my own descriptions that I’m tempted to get lazy, give up, and simply write “she came hard”. Indeed, that might be enough to evoke the experience of orgasm for some readers, but it doesn’t do justice to the myriad variations on the theme of climax.

Indeed, perhaps all erotic writing faces the problem of describing the indescribable. Orgasms are only one example. Our goal is to produce physical arousal, using only the most abstract of tools – language. We can sketch out the scene, paint pictures of the protagonists, their bodies and their facial expressions. We can invoke other senses, smell and taste and sound. Ultimately though, it is our readers who fill in the blanks based on their own experience or fantasies.

All literature, in fact, involves a collaboration between the reader and the author. In erotica, the connection is simply more – intimate.

 

In Praise of Flirting

I love writing flirting scenes in my romances. There’s something sensual and erotic about two people engaging in teasing and verbal jousting when the attraction is mutual. Sometimes you can radiate more heat with a few lines of suggestive dialogue than with a paragraph of in-your-face eroticism. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I write these encounters in all of my mystery/thrillers, even between characters where I’ve already established a relationship. Take this one, from “Warning Shot,” book three in the Nick Seven series:

Nick brought Felicia’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. “This is one of the reasons I’m glad I have you around. You always keep me focused.”

“Is that the only reason you’re glad I’m around?”

“No, but it’s a long list.”

She moved to Nick’s lap and kissed him while running her fingers through his hair. “I’ve got nothin’ but time, tough guy.”

He caressed her cheek. “You’re resourceful, self-confident, and independent.”

“You just described a Boy Scout. Can’t you do better than that?”

He kissed her. “You’re incredibly hot, passionate about everything, and waking up next to you makes all my teenaged dreams come true.” He paused. “Plus, you make a mean stir-fried shrimp.”

Felicia laughed and lightly smacked his arm. “Is that the best you’ve got? You were always better at foreplay.”

“You make me feel alive and I can’t wait to start every day all over again with you.”

She cupped his cheek and peered into his eyes. “That’s what I was gonna say. It’s kinda hard to explain, but when I first saw you, all that time ago in London, it was like a jolt of electricity went through me. When you quit the agency and I went back to Barbados, I felt this big empty inside, like somethin’ vital had been taken away.”

He traced her jaw with his fingers. “Same thing I felt.”

Then there’s this film noir-type exchange from “Lido Key,” book two in the Vic Fallon series. If this doesn’t put you in mind of films like “Double Indemnity” and “Body Heat,” you probably aren’t a fan.

When Vic locked eyes with Ariel Weston across the bar, there was no escape. He moved to the stool next to hers, drawn in like a marlin hooked by a determined fisherman.

“Excuse me, Miss, but I’m new in town. Could you please direct me to your house?”

She began with a chuckle that escalated into full-blown laughter, then she playfully smacked Vic’s forearm. “That’s so lame, it’s cute!”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes scanned him up and down. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, have I?” she asked in a low, smoky voice.

“No. Do I need a reservation to sit here?”

She laughed again. “A smart-ass. I like that quality in a man. Where are you from, smart-ass?”

“A whole other world. Would you like me to provide references before we go any further?”

She placed her hand on his on top of the bar and locked eyes with him. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but since we’re going to be friends, I think I should call you something more formal than smart-ass.”

“Are we going to be friends?”

“Unless you think you already have enough of them.”

“You can never have too many friends. Why don’t you call me Blake?”

“Is that your real name?”

“No, my real name is Vic. I just use Blake to fool people. What should I call you besides totally hot?”

“I like that, but let’s go with Ariel.”

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you. I’m rather attached to it.” She massaged his hand. “I should tell you something, Vic. I’m married to a rich older man, we don’t have any kids and we’ve always had separate bedrooms. He doesn’t really notice if I’m not home, since he’s only there long enough to change clothes before he meets his latest girlfriend. He doesn’t ask me any questions and I don’t grill him about where he drops his pants. Does that bother you?”

“One man’s ignorance is another man’s bliss.”

“Ooh, a clever smart-ass. That’s another quality I like.”

“And we’re just getting started.”

And finally, this is from the romantic comedy, “The Sweet Distraction”:

“I should probably go,” George said. “I’m cutting into your tanning time.”

“Why do you have to run off?” Cookie teased.

“I’m working. Remember?”

“You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“I always make time to play.”

“Like what?”

“Poker, blackjack, the ponies once in a while…”

“Are you good at picking winners?”

“I find it depends on who’s holding the riding crop.”

“Ooh, is that a kinky side coming out of hiding?”

He winked. “I’ll never tell.”

“I like to play, too.”

“What games do you like to play, little girl?”

“Pass-out, strip dominoes, escaped convict and the Warden’s wife…”

“Those are a little out of my league.”

“Maybe you should move up from Little League to the majors. That’s where they play night games.”

“Is this where you ask me if I know how to whistle, then tell me to just put my lips together and blow?”

She raised her sunglasses and looked at him. “I can think of a much better use for your lips.”

If you liked those teasers, check out the full books for more of the same. Happy reading!


Doing it For Money

by Ashley Lister

As I may have mentioned, I’ve been investigating the benefits of self-publishing. I’ve currently got three of my erotic titles for sale on Amazon (The BloodLust Chronicles, Faith; The BloodLust Chronicles Hope; The BloodLust Chronicles Charity). These are titles that were previously published by a small UK publisher but rights have since reverted to me. I’ve also published a book of my (very) rude poetry: Old People Sex and other highly offensive poems.


I’ll say now it’s an exciting experience. I’m getting to investigate aspects of publishing I had never previously had to consider. Cover design, formatting, layout etc are all areas of which I was vaguely aware. However, I’d never had the need or the motivation to trouble myself with such details.

Now I’m keen to hone my skills in all of these areas and more, and I wanted to share some of my observations.

One of the key areas that I think is of greatest importance is sales. If I’m not selling books then I’m not seeing profit. And, whilst I altruistically want to make the world a better place with the gift of my writing, I also like to eat every now and again and pay bills.

So far, I think the key to successful sales is a case of throwing promotional material to the broadest audiences possible and hoping some of it sticks. I appreciate this lacks the finesse of discussing algorithms and complex marketing strategies. But I also suspect algorithms and complex marketing strategies are simply synonyms for the approach of throwing promotional material to the broadest audiences and hoping some of that shit sticks.

There are other aspects that need to be addressed before reaching this stage. The product being sold needs to be of the highest standard. It needs to conform to customer expectations and it needs to be available in a quality format that merits the price being asked. There are also aspects of marketing that need to be considered to take full advantage of increased and I’ll probably discuss these details in future blog posts. But, today, I’m focussing on a single aspect of sales.

Volume of traffic is vital to success. On a simple mathematical level, if 2% of people visiting my website make a purchase, I am going to make more from 1,000 visitors than I would see from 100 visitors. Even if the volume of traffic forces my conversion percentage to fall by half, I’m still seeing more profit from 1,000 visitors at 1% than I would have gained from 100 visitors at 2%.

There are ways to draw more visitors, some of which are as simple as sharing a link in the middle of a blog post: www.ashleylister.com. Over the next few months, I’m hoping to share my thoughts as I learn more about the fascinating world of self-publishing.


Things To Not Say To A Writer

It may be true that many writers suffer from Imposter Syndrome. If that’s the case, life is hard enough for a writer. Don’t make it worse by making the following statements.

I wish I had time to write.

Such a comment makes it sound like you the writer are wasting time honing your craft.

I’d write, but I have a real job.

Same as above. This comment discounts the time and energy it takes to write a book. Many writers don’t make much money from their craft, but it’s a job nonetheless. The image of writer as dilettante must cease.

How much money do you make?

Since so many writers don’t make much money, this question puts them on the spot. It’s embarrassing. You wouldn’t ask other professionals how much money they make. It’s considered rude. Also, not everyone writes to make money. It’s a passion. By insisting writers earn lots of dough, you are insinuating that without said dough, they aren’t “real” writers. You are saying that those who don’t earn oodles of cash are wasting their time and are probably not good at their craft anyway. If they were, they’d be making millions of dollars like Stephen King, right?

I have a great idea for a book. How about I tell you my ideas, you write them down, and we split the profits 50/50?

This comes from people who don’t realize or care how much work goes into writing a book. They think a vague idea has as much clout as a finished product you’ve spent months (often years) and energy on.

I have a great idea for a book, and then go into great detail to describe a book that I’ve yet to actually write.

The notion here is that anyone can write a book. It apparently doesn’t take much effort.

I want to write a book someday.

See above. The insinuation behind this statement is that any idiot can write a book. This statement discounts the author’s efforts in writing and finishing a book. It’s insulting.

Your books are very sexy. Do you do a lot of the things you write in your books?

This statement is sometimes said by men who assume women who write erotica and erotic romance will screw anything that moves. Some want vivid details. The unspoken question is, “will you do those things to me?” This is not a good thing to say.

Can you read my book and give me a free critique?

Would you ask your dentist to clean your teeth for free? Would you ask your doctor to do you annual physical for free? Of course not. So why do so many people think artists, including writers, shouldn’t be paid for their hard work? A good editor can cost hundreds of dollars. Google Harlan Ellison and “pay the writer”. Read what he had to say about it. Now, if you are offering to do a critique exchange, that’s different. You’d be offering something of value in exchange for the critique. That is perfectly okay.

My life has been fascinating. You should write about me.

That’s what autobiographies are for. Write it yourself.

I don’t read.

This is the saddest admission of all.

———

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 three cats. Her new LGBTQ paranormal erotic shifter romance novel “Full Moon Fever” is now available for purchase at Amazon and other book distributors. Her collection of erotic fairy tales, “Happily Ever After: Twisted Versions of Your Favorite Fairy Tales” is also available at Amazon.

Web site: http://elizabethablack.blogspot.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/elizabethablack

Twitter: http://twitter.com/ElizabethABlack

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/elizabethblack

Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/b76GWD

 

 

Predators, Not Pedophiles

As the late comedian Joan Rivers used to say: Can we talk?

When the scandal of sexual abuse in the Catholic Church first became public, the term “pedophile priests” seemed accurate. Most of these guys seemed to have operated under the public radar for years because of how unthinkable their actions seemed to anyone not directly involved. For one thing, priests are not supposed to have sex at all. For another, the abuse of innocent children is probably the worst thing they could have done, short of murder.

As far as I know, pedophilia is a fairly specific type of “filia,” or fetish. Pedophiles are sexually attracted to children, i.e. young humans who have not gone through puberty yet. Children of all genders lack breasts and facial hair, they do not have menstrual periods, and their voices are relatively high.

After reading about numerous investigations of particular priests, I could see why they might have done it. The men who choose to become priests are a small percentage of the general population. Especially in past generations, the priesthood must have looked like a safe closet for Catholic men who wanted to maintain respectable status without having to be married to one woman for life, or be financially responsible for numerous children. These men must have included a high percentage who were not heterosexual and possibly not comfortable with the prospect of adult courtship. They became part of a hothouse culture, involving in-group solidarity and a certain degree of isolation from the outside world. Pedophilia could flourish in that atmosphere.

Now that the notorious sex-trafficker Jeffrey Epstein is dead, and his former accomplice Ghislaine Maxwell is behind bars, they have both been widely accused of running a “pedophile ring.” In this case, I don’t buy it.

Virginia Roberts Giuffre has been shown numerous times in the media, explaining how she was forced to have sex with Prince Andrew when she was 17. I tend to believe her, and her story is disturbing, even though she doesn’t sound like a “child” at the time. Consider the fact that she clearly knew what sex was, and she knew she didn’t want it. Children are rarely that knowledgeable. If Virginia had been 18, 19, or 20 at the time, her age wouldn’t have changed the facts of the case. If forcing a teenage girl to have sex with an older man is awful, I don’t see how doing this to a grown woman could be okay.

Let me explain this clearly: rape, or sexual assault, is a traumatizing negation of personhood even if the victim is not a virgin. Gang-rape during war is usually inflicted on whole populations of girls and women, including wives and mothers. So I don’t care how sexually experienced/inexperienced Virginia or any of the other victims were before Epstein, Maxwell and company got hold of them. It doesn’t matter.

Enough women have come forward to explain how they were lured by Epstein or Maxwell that a pattern has emerged: the traffickers claimed to offer glamorous jobs to teenage girls who dreamed of being models, and who were independent enough to go to “interviews” by themselves. This just wouldn’t happen to children under the age of 12 or 13, who would have had to be tricked some other way.

Let’s consider the motivations of the traffickers. It seems that they targeted attractive girls who were physically mature enough to have breasts and hips, who could be dressed up to appear older, but who were naive enough to believe what they were told until it was too late to back out, and powerless enough to be intimidated. The traffickers not only wanted to enjoy sex with these girls, but to share them with their rich and powerful friends, who presumably had similar tastes.

There is a lot of speculation about how many upper-class men, besides Prince Andrew, are worried about what Maxwell might reveal. Does it seem likely that every “friend” of the traffickers really craved sex with ten-year-olds, eight-year-olds, or even toddlers?

Imagine that every adult male were secretly given a truth serum that would prevent them from lying. Then imagine that they were asked about their sexual tastes. How many do you think would ignore the image of a porn star (adult female or male) and describe their ideal date as a hot grade-school student?

At the risk of sounding naive, I don’t believe that Western society is overrun with actual pedophiles. Obviously this doesn’t mean that children can’t possibly be abused, but the evidence shows that children are much more likely to be abused by the adults they know well, and not all child abuse includes sex by any definition.

Growing up is a process, not a sudden transformation. Most people go through puberty at the beginning of adolescence, but legal “adulthood” is set at different ages in different eras and jurisdictions. When I was young, the age of majority was 21, and no one could legally do adult things (vote, sign contracts, drink alcohol) before then. Now the age of majority throughout North America is eighteen. Does this mean that the millennial generation is maturing faster than their grandparents did? That’s debatable.

What might be more to the point is that no one wears their age on their forehead. Not everyone can see the age difference between a 14-year-old girl with breasts and hips, especially if she is wearing makeup and a clingy dress, and a similarly-dressed 16-year-old girl or an 18-year-old girl, although only one of them is legally an adult. There are good reasons for age-of-consent laws, and employers have an obligation to make sure their employees have the legal right to work, especially in sexually-related jobs. It doesn’t follow that everyone who is sexually attracted to a young female who looks like a woman is a pedophile.

Please hear me out. I’m not defending those who exploit, assault, or abuse other people. Teenagers are definitely vulnerable to adults who have economic and physical power over them. Exploitation, coercion, deception, physical assault, and extortion are all real crimes, and they should be called out and prosecuted.

The flood of references to “pedophiles” and “pedophile rings” is the expression of a moral panic, a mass fear that gathers random things into it, like a black hole in space. During the “Burning Times” (approximately 1500-1700), everything that scared anyone was assumed to be the result of “witchcraft.” In Nazi Germany, everything bad was associated with a worldwide conspiracy of Jews, including “decadent art” (??). In the U.S. in the “McCarthy Era” of the 1950s, the media screamed about the threat of “Communism,” which was somehow connected with “smut” and “homosexuality,” even though officially Communist countries disapproved of those things too.

The claim that almost any victim of sexual abuse is “really a child” is often accompanied by the claim that “children” need more “protection”—as distinct from the rights of adulthood. This makes me shudder, especially when the person who makes such claims seems to think that childhood can continue indefinitely.

Consider the legal status of Britney Spears, a 38-year-old pop star with children of her own, who has been under her father’s guardianship for the past twelve years. It’s possible that she could not be responsible for herself at the time this arrangement began, but how likely is it that she has needed this amount of supervision and control all this time? Since her legal guardian controls her income and financial decisions, he has no motive to set her free.

When I was 22, living in England with my parents, I met a Nigerian student and became involved with him. My parents didn’t really approve of the relationship, but after I returned to Canada with them, I sponsored him into the country as my fiance, and we were married in 1975, when I was 24. When I was 26, I gave birth to my daughter. Three months later, my raging, alcoholic husband threatened to take the baby to Nigeria with him to get her away from my harmful influence. I escaped to a shelter with her, then my parents invited us to move in with them and go back to university to increase my income-earning potential. This seemed like the best option for myself and my baby, so I accepted.

While I lived with my parents, my mother announced several times that she thought no one should be allowed to get married until they are old enough to make mature decisions. She was clearly hinting that I married too young, and that was the cause of my problems. Never mind that my husband was affected by the moral panic in which many men think they have lost face in the eyes of other men because their wives aren’t sufficiently faithful and devoted. And never mind that since then, Nigeria has become known as a home for international fraud, including romance scams.

Do you think I was a victim of child sexual abuse when I chose to move in with my Nigerian boyfriend in London? If so, how far should the age of consent be raised: to 25? 28? 30? If no one could ever marry or (gasp) cohabit without their parents’ consent, would unmarried “minors” simply not have sexual feelings?

Problems can’t be solved until they are defined accurately. Sexual harassment, abuse, coercion and deception are serious problems, and there are laws against them. It doesn’t follow that every victim of sexual abuse is “really a child,” or that all sex traffickers are “pedophiles.” Please don’t surrender to the hype.

And don’t get me started on the assumption that every adult who has willingly provided sexual service for money or material goods has been “trafficked.” That’s an insult to the victims of thugs like Epstein, Maxwell, and company.

Hot Chilli Erotica

Hot Chilli Erotica

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