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craig sorensen

By: Craig J. Sorensen

In 1990, I started to write a book based on a fantasy world
that had rattled around in my head since I was a kid.  I finished over 100 pages, then the story
became disjointed.  I moved on to writing
other things.

I finished my first book in 1994.  It was
a modern fantasy, based on an uptight businesswoman who enters into a series of dreams,
each of which features a door where she can wish for something and will receive
it.  A sort of homage to the saying, “be
careful what you wish for, or you will surely get it.”  Actually, it was more about “be careful how
you wish for it.”  The dreams summarily
invaded further and further into her real life, and vice versa.

I tried to find an agent or publisher.  I had no writing credits whatsoever.  I only
tried a couple then slipped the book into a three ring binder and stashed it in
a box.  Truth was, the writing quality wasn’t
where it should be, and deep down, I knew that. 
I went back into poetry and short stories, which I had played with since
I had joined the Army in 1980.

Fast forward to 2004, and I returned to that story I’d start
in 1990.  Over the years since then, I’d come back
to the idea time and time again, written bits of it, built back stories and
character sketches, drew pictures and maps. 
I committed, January 1, 2004, to finish the first installment of the
trilogy I envisioned by the end of the year.

And I achieved that goal. 

I planned to find a publisher or an agent.  I didn’t actually submit to anyone, I just looked
hard enough to know that selling a novel about an imagined ancient world, a
story with no magical element to it, would probably be a hard sell, especially
for an entirely unpublished author.

And so I tried my hand at literary short stories.  I found some encouraging words, but to the
point, from one prospective editor, “you write really well, but your story
lacked vibrancy.”  It was a fair cop.  The stories I had been writing just didn’t
sparkle.

One nasty little story I had written among my literary
efforts sat off to the side, certainly no lit mag would want it.  Then my wife sent me a call she had seen.  Seemed that nasty story was a possible fit.  I sent out the story and had an acceptance
within 24 hours.  Never mind that the
magazine folded before the story was published. 
I was paid.  I was an author.

Seems I had a home in erotica.  I found my energy there.  Something in my writing filled in. The characters were more
lively, the settings and situations more vibrant.  A mountain I had seemed unable to climb
suddenly seemed more ascendable.  A
timely slowing of my duties at my day job left me my early waking hours to
devote to my writing, and the success I was experiencing in erotica spurred me on.

Fast forward to late 2011. 
I have around forty published short stories to my name and a couple of
completed books in the hopper, even more in the works.  I’ve hit almost every goal I set for myself
when I decided that I needed to get my “street cred” as a writer.  In truth, I’ve achieved some things I did not
anticipate.

Suddenly, a crossroads appeared in the windshield.

To be continued…

By: Craig J. Sorensen

Recently, a good friend has been going through the sort of
relationship that has more pivot points than a double jointed hand with six
fingers.  It started before I left
Pennsylvania in June.  It ended before I
left in June.  Started again after I
left, ended again.  Started, ended… well,
you get the idea.

She’s a beautiful young woman, highly intelligent, very
creative, and successful in a field that is not easy to be successful in.  They have a lot in common, and just one or
two things where they differ.

But they are big things.

Each time relationship 2.0 and 3.0 and etc. ended, he gave
me a post mortem of how wonderful it felt when the relationship started, how
she was so understanding about his want to take it slow.  He described how quickly it changed toward
the end.  As he described the cycles in the most recent
release, it occurred to me what he was describing.  And maybe you’ve seen or felt it too:

Cocaine love.

When I described it in those terms to him, he practically screamed it out:  “That’s exactly what it is!”

Cocaine love:  Quick on the uptake, full of chemistry and biology and
euphoria.  More often than not this kind
of relationships end with an equally resounding crash.

Ultimately, each time this cocaine love began with her
accepting his position on a fundamental point. 
By the end, the actions spoke louder than words, and this flexibility fell away like a mask.  And the principle he
is operating on is one that really shouldn’t be asked to change.  Each time the relationship finished, he said how stupid he was, how he won’t get caught in that trap again.

Ahem.

It comes down to a person who will “give everything” if he
just “change one thing.”

But the essence of true love is not asking one to
change their fundamental principles, especially when they are the same core
values that make that person special. 
And that is the case here.

There are many things that can lead to a cocaine love, but
the bottom line is that it is hard to live on a steady diet of cocaine.  Maybe cocaine love can work, if both partners
are committed after the high wears off. 
And sometimes that means enduring the withdrawal.  Together.

The great relationships are like a fine meal.  Invigorating, and can be exciting, but
sustaining as well.  A good meal doesn’t
have the potential to emaciate the way that narcotics can.

Usually one person is the narcotic in a
cocaine love, while the other is deep in the high.

Again, this is not to say that a couple truly in love cannot
have an intense sort of desire, but there is a certain false-front that defines
cocaine love.  And the essence of being
able to see past it, is being willing to take a look at the relationship in
profile.

The essence is seeing the difference between being high and
being nourished.

I’ve used the dynamic of cocaine love in stories.  It makes great material, especially in erotica, but a lot better explored in fiction than lived through in life.

Just ask my friend.

By: Craig J. Sorensen

I got the edits for a story soon to be published from one of
my favorite editors.  As expected, her
tweaks and tunes made sense, and readied this story for prime time.  She made some warm comments about specific
things, which I always appreciate.  A
busy editor does not have lots of time on her hands, and when she takes time to
make such a comment, that is a great compliment indeed.

But down deeper in the story, one comment:  “Nooooo! Not sexy!”

The line in question? 
“… fingers scattered like deformed spiders.”

Which begs the question, is there an idealized role of
sexuality in an erotic story?  I know,
this is a slippery slope, and there are as many opinions as there are readers
and writers of erotica.

I often toy with strange images.  To some extent, I do this to create tension,
and to some extent, I do this to provide depth to the sexual imagery.  But, in doing this, I risk taking the reader
out of the erotic mindset that stories in the genre are usually expected to do.

Yes, some of the things I write come from strange places.  I’ve had a few similar edits at other times,
and I understand where the editors are coming from.  When a story goes into a collection, it needs
to fit the theme and the vision of the editor. 
 I’m not bothered by spiders, but
I do know that this is a serious squick for some.  With that in mind, I see her point.  The descriptive was not absolutely essential
to the story, but I liked it because it gave a sense of contrast, and
illustrated the protag’s perspective on the character he was thinking about.  In the end, I had no problem with the removal
of this “not sexy” descriptive.

I love writing erotica because it challenges social taboos,
just by being explicit, but within the genre, I like to challenge as well.  Taking chances is what I do.  Editors will probably continue to trap and
consume my odd images that go too far in their web.

I guess it’s all in the game.  Works for me.

By: Craig Sorensen

“We’re you just going to leave without saying goodbye?”

“I just haven’t had time, it’s been crazy trying to get this cross-country move this together.”

“Yeah, I know, but I gotta bust on you.”

Yes, he did.  He had for over a quarter of a century.  He busted on me about work, busted on me about home, delivered digs with a serious face, but once I got to know him, I learned to read his eyes.  He was a curmudgeon, even when we first met and we were young men.

Truth was, in a way, he remained young, despite his hair, graying and receding as it did over the years.  He was in amazing shape, even on this day when I was loading crap into the POD for the cross-country move, and he rode up on his trusty bicycle.

He complained about things, but he worked his ass off as hard as anyone I knew.  When another member of his team trashed an important disk drive on a Friday and brought the system I supported to its knees, G was in all weekend working to recovering the lost data.  It was not an easy job, and for a time it looked like I’d have to work my ass off to rebuild from scratch.  My stomach was in my throat at the thought.

But he got the job done.  Come Monday, you wouldn’t have known the near catastrophe that befell our system.

He called me once from Colorado during one of his biking trips to check on a problem that had occurred.  He was on vacation, but he wanted to be sure everything was okay, and he’d found a small pocket of cell reception in his cross country ride.  I told him we had it in hand.   “Okay, call me if you need me.  I’ll be checking in.”

He was always there for people.  He was always checking in.  Give you the shirt off his back.  He’d say things like “I don’t give a shit.”  But he always did, when it came down to it.  He had a great sense of humor.  His smiles were usually small and wry, occasionally opening briefly into a wicked apex.  His eyes had a constant gleam in them, even in the worst of times.

I didn’t know a person who knew G that didn’t like him.

Monday, he wrote me an email.  My former employer, his present one, was having a problem with a set of files I used to maintain, and no one could figure it out.  Often, when that happened, they’d turn to G.  “I don’t have a clue,” he wrote.  I explained about the files and what had been done to fix them in the past.

“Thanks,” he wrote back simply.

Tuesday, at lunch, he went to work out.  They say he passed out, and they could not revive him.  Later that afternoon, a second heart attack and G was gone.

Some might say it was ironic that he worked out pretty much every day of his life, and he died so suddenly, working out.  But I know that the only way he would rather have gone would have been on the back of his bike, somewhere between there and here, taking pictures of dead skunks on the road which he would use as wallpaper on his PC at work, or perhaps running into the ice cold ocean in January with a group of crazies, only to emerge with one of those twisted smiles, and have his picture taken with his arm around an attractive young woman he didn’t know know, but just asked if she’d pose with him.

She was grinning too.

It is now 2500 miles between me and where he died, and it was all so sudden.  I could not make it to the service, but I asked a friend to tell me how it went.  “Craig, it was more like a block party than a memorial.  There were people lined up outside on the sidewalk.”

And that was how it should be.

G was a good man, a good friend, a good coworker, and he left this plane far too soon for my taste.

Less than 24 hours before his death, his last word to me in an email:  “Thanks.”

I wish I’d had a chance to thank him.

G was the sort of man a fiction writer wishes they could craft.  The gold-standard of character.  Funny as hell, smart as a whip, determined, vital and vibrant and alive every day he was on this earth, and complaining all the way.  Did I say good man?  No, he was great.

Truly great.

I had started a story about a week before I got word of his passing, and central to the plot was dealing with death.  Perhaps there is some significance to this timing, I’ve found that life and fiction have a way of merging.  But fiction is always fiction, and life is always life.  Finding a center ground is where the magic happens, methinks.  That short story I started has since expanded to be a novella.  I continue to work on it, with love, and with passion.

My contribution to this blog is about pivot points, and there are no greater ones than how life begins, and how it ends.

Well, maybe I’m wrong about that one.  There is this big-assed middle part to tend to, and I suppose that is what makes those beginnings and ends so significant.

That is where character is formed and proofed.

I miss you, G.   Thank you for living, and for inspiring me in so many ways.  Thank you for sharing your bigger-than-life character.

Chances are, if you ever drank to get drunk, once or twice you’ve drank to the point of regret.  I certainly have.  It’s a terrible feeling to awaken to the knowledge that you’re not where you usually expect to be, then wonder what transpired.

The little story that follows tells of such a situation, and a surprising outcome, and through it all, a change in a life, or at least the possibility of one.

Stop, Slow, Stop, Slow

©  Craig J. Sorensen

You promised yourself it would never happen again.  Promised that you’d soothe your restless mind
in another way.  Promised you never again
wake up in . . . well

It looks like a doublewide, at least a quarter century old.  Neat as a pin, but showing its wear.  A train comes by so close, you can feel it in
your ass.

She’s turned away, a sheet over her jackhammer frame, and
you work to recall her face, but the dryness in the mouth and mammoth need to
piss are the only indication of what went on last night.  You remember, bit by bit, the bar you
migrated to starting at a classy pub downtown, just a stone’s throw from work.

You recall the bars, descending strata.  Never happy where you are, move on.  You lose count.  You wish you could remember.

You check the floor, expecting underwear next to the bed,
socks half way across the room, t shirt in the door, the rest an ant crumb
train to the front door, you do it like this. 
Impatience and passion, yes, but also it makes for an orderly retreat.  Step, clothe, step, clothe, step, clothe
until the door closes gently in your wake.

So unlike you, the neat stack of clothes on the Samsonite
chair, a suit and tie, t-shirt, underwear, socks, and her threadbare jeans and
tank top over the back.  What a pair you
two must have been when you left that last bar.

Birds’ songs ascend as the train rumbles its last.

She stirs. 

You freeze, knowing that she’s at that state where your
jostling the old bed will probably wake her. 
You lay still as a worm thrust from the ground by a sudden rain, the
caught in a cymbal crash of sun.  She
turns in profile, still sleeping.

A little more haze lifts, and you recall later last night, pool
played in a dive bar.  A girl who said
she held up construction signs on road repairs. 
Stop, slow, stop slow.  She beat
you at nine ball again and again.  Not a
thing about her was your kind of woman, and you wonder how you got here, no
matter how much you drank, no matter how deep your need.  And that need was deep last night.

That much you remember clearly.

She sighs, and you start to get hard.  Surprise at how you respond after what must
have passed last night.  Your desire is
deep, like it was before you left the office, maybe even more.  It is not the predictable drained sensation
steeped in regret that takes form when reason and cottonmouth set in.

You are harder. 
Harder.  It actually starts to
hurt.  Piss boner.  That’s it.

But you want her, want her bad.  You shouldn’t, especially when you already
had her.  Especially when she’s so . . .
so . . . so wrong.

She casts the sheet aside and shows off her muscular body.  You try not to look at the golden pubic hair
and note the way her knurled knuckles rub there.  Her eyes are on you, her lips are smiling as
her gaze drains down to the tent between your legs.  “Mornin’.”

“Hey.”

Her fingers slide under the covers, up your thigh, and
cradle your balls.  The cool of her hands
is perfect, both soothing and exciting. 
“I’m glad you suggested we wait until the morning.”

Probably couldn’t get it up. 
As much as you drank . . .

Those cool hands join forces, one on your balls, the other
stroking your rod.  “Seem’s you’re glad
we waited too, but I must say, I never had so much fun just hanging out and
talking.  Especially when I was as horny
as I was last night.  And falling asleep
with that hard cock against my back?  Amazing!  Don’t know how you could stand it, but it
made me hot.”

“Uh, yeah, uh, that was great.”  You’re pretty sure you mean it.  You do know, that, as morning after regrets
go, not remembering what you talked about is a first.

She smooths the pre come that has drooled
into her hand up and down your shaft. 
Licks it, with a smile, from her palm like a cat cleaning herself.  She opens her body.  “God, I can’t wait to feel you in me.”  Her fingers feel perfect as she rolls a
rubber down your shaft.

You position between her thighs and savor her slick
walls.  She gives a huge, deep,
resounding, toe curling, lip stretching, jaw cracking sigh. 

You nearly come instantly. 
You’re glad when she says.  “Just hold
still so I can feel it all.”  You stay
still until the come that threatened to escape eases back.  You need to come, you need to piss, you need water, you need to
eat.

You need to breathe.

But you don’t do any of them.  You obey. 
You only obey.  Never your strong
suit, yet you do it well.  Buried to the
balls in her, and yet you push tighter, and are met with an approving grunt.  It’s strangely tender, strangely rough,
painful and yet you don’t want it to end. 
Your arms around her back, your legs entwined in hers.  Still and full of need.

It is Saturday, your day to rush around and get things done at home.  Well, every day is a day to rush around, you’re never stay
still, never patient.  So many reasons to
rush, and really, do you need one?

But your bodies begin to move together.  Slow, stop, slow, stop, she seems to turn
that construction sign, and you obey. 
You are happy, strangely happy.

“God yes, you feel so good in me,” she whispers in your ear.

Slow, stop, slow, stop, you listen to her breaths, her moans
her sighs as they ascend to a strangely gentle orgasm like a refined lady
sneezing.  Bad as your needs are, they are
superseded by the need to bring her another, see if you can make her writhe and
come like a grenade.

And you do, pounding hard in her, but slowly, slowly
ascending, your balls are hard as a wrecking ball.  You don’t want to come, but your body won’t
listen, and you shoot so hard in the rubber you feel you must have burst it.

She unfurls the rubber, and lets you go to the bathroom
first.  While she cleans up, you could
leave.  You look back at the bed.  Looks nice, and you lie down and wait for
her.

Waiting, not your strong suit.  Glad when she comes to bed, and curls up
against you.  “Mind if I stay a little
longer?”  You ask.

“I was kind of hoping you would.”

You wonder how long it might be, and for once, you don’t
worry about it being too long.

By: Craig Sorensen

Collisions happen. 
Sometimes they are fatal, sometimes they are life changing.  Sometimes they are just a tiny space in time.

Perhaps a space that will be as easily forgotten as it
occurred.

In my prior job, the corporate offices were in a building
constructed on a former pier that jutted out into the Hudson River.  Standing at one end, looking to the other,
could look like a three mile walk.

Naturally a fast walker myself, this could lead to a
less-than-appropriate pace.

One day, I was late for a meeting on the Manhattan end, a
woman stepped around the corner from the endless cube farm down the middle of
the building at just the wrong time.

No one was hurt in the collision, but I did feel awful about
running into her, and she was rightfully pissed at me, but the rapidity that
her expression softened stuck in my head.

It was no more than three seconds in my half-century of life,
an inconsequential moment, certainly not a pivot point in my life.  It might well have been forgotten if my
fiction writing mind hadn’t taken firm hold of the idea and begun to turn it
over.

I wrote the formative ideas for the below not too long after
the collision, then set it aside.  I came
back to it, changed it, shifted it and grew it. 
Could it really work into a story someone might like to read?  I don’t know; this was what came
out.  I guess this was a flash fiction
exercise in “iceberg writing.”  Not
really a story itself, I built it on the idea of these two people, and set out
to illustrate them in tiny fragments of a single moment where they crossed,
showing only their gut reactions to an event, and hinted at a future.

Collision, ©2012 Craig J.
Sorensen

It seems this building has no end.  Narrow aisles like ladder steps, the
crossbars occupied by the oblivious staff members of our most recent
acquisition. 

A Nevada desert road stretches to infinity.

No terrain.  No
rain.  My meeting is at the far end,
somewhere up there.  Ledger sheets will
lead to decisions that will affect the lives of every face that lies behind the
nameplates along the hall.  Nameplates I’ve
never bothered to read.  I turn my
wrist.  My steps lengthen and pound a
fast rhythm.

My arms rise in reflex, one hand braces on a wool clad hip,
the other arm steadies a narrow waist. 
Full breasts cushion my ribs like airbags deploy on collision.

“Bastard!”  I don’t
know the flower in her perfume; her breath is cayenne.

My voice goes up two octaves like a knee to the nuts.  “Goddamn!”

Juicy tears dangle from both sides of her chin.  Did I do that?  I grope for an apology.  Her pinpoint pupils are a tiny dot in a field
of cobalt – the cold winter sun through an old bottle.  Her porcelain skin gleams against the black
business suit, jacket half way on, her arms are suspended mid frame,
helpless.  Helpless.  I should ease away from her respectfully.

Astaire and Rogers wait for the music to start, but the
ensuing silence is more like the Novocain on an abscessed tooth.  We remain, frozen.  Her hand gathers my pink dress shirt into a
tight fist.  Her hip presses slightly
forward into the hasty embrace.

I release her.  “I’m
really am sor—”

“You should watch where you’re going.”  Her words are a whisper.  She gently pats my heart.  Her pupils widen, suddenly black as a
mourner’s dress.  Her nicked, thick
wedding band reflects the endless row of fluorescent tubes above.

“God, I am really sorry, Ms, um . . .”  I lift my brow.

She sniffs hard, pulls back, finishes putting on her coat
and wipes both cheeks.  “Huddleston.  I—me too. 
I didn’t mean it—I shouldn’t have called you—a—I mean, that.”  She smiles then continues in the opposite
direction.

I savor the last hints of her scent and my sudden, rare, ripe
guilt.  I look back and watch her walk
away.  She doesn’t look back.  Her pace looks angry, faster than my pace
when I ran into her.

I turn my popcorn hard on, something I regret almost as much
as asking her name, to twelve O’clock.  “Well
I am.  A bastard, that is, Ms
Huddleston.”  I say too quiet for anyone
to hear.  “Usually I am.”  I am late for my meeting, but walk slowly, and consider.

By: Craig J. Sorensen

Easter Sunday 2012, and I rested.

I’ve been working a lot lately and we’re still elbow deep in getting ready to move cross-country. But, little by little, I have found my way back into writing. In the last few weeks I worked on a short story for a submissions call. It was just a matter of sitting down to the story and finishing it. I could have done it Easter Sunday. The story was close to completion.

I rested, and remembered Easter morning eight years ago. It was a beautiful morning. A glowing sunrise ignited the budding trees in orange. Eight years ago, I had committed myself to writing regularly by working on a story I had started to develop in my youth, and worked on over the years. I had committed to finish this novel by the end of 2004, and by Easter I was going strong. I wrote a scene that day that I still remember: Both the scene and the writing of it.

Later that year, I finished the book, not erotica per se, though like most of the stories I write, there was erotic content. When it was done, I didn’t know where to go with it. It didn’t really fit the markets, and I was a total unknown as an author.

Momentum carried, I continued to write with an eye to getting published, and a natural taste for exploring things erotic emerged. A quick acceptance of a twisted short story, and I found a home here, in erotica. One thing led to another: Numerous short stories published and challenges taken, meanwhile I continued to write longer works.

Turns out, when it comes to getting published, I’ve had greater fortune with short works than novels.

To be fair, I haven’t submitted much of my novel length work. There are a number of publishers out there, but so many of them want romance. I like romantic elements, but my longer stories don’t qualify as romance. There are indeed publishers who accept erotica without romance, but often with a different rider: fantasy, horror, cuckold, etc. I don’t fit there either.

On the other hand, some publishers put out three titles a week. Click on the list of authors, and there are hundreds. I’m not a number.

Still, when I look at it truthfully, my home is novels. I commit to the long novels. I love the act of intertwining multiple characters, love the devotion to editing the work, finding problems and fixing them. Improving, growing.

I’ve been married thirty-one years, and my last day job lasted twenty-six.

Getting my short stories published over the last few years has brought me great joy. There is a more immediate satisfaction, and maybe there is a safety net in sharing the table of contents with talented authors and editors like Ashley Lister, Donna George Storey, Jean Roberta, Kathleen Bradean, Kristina Wright, Lisabet Sarai, Lucy Felthouse, M. Christian, Remittance Girl and others.

I’m sure I will continue to write short stories from time to time, but what I accepted on Easter morning is that I am a novelist at heart, even if it is hard for me to find a publisher that I feel excited about, and who feels strongly about what I write.

Between that Easter 2004 and Easter 2012, I have learned so much about writing. In the end, that book I finished back then wasn’t ready for publication, and so I’m glad I’ve taken the path that I did. I still feel passionate about the story and the characters from that book, so, for now, I’m going back to it, while I continue to look for a home for an erotic novel I finished in 2011, another novel I had worked on for years.

Two books that don’t seem to fit the current markets. Seems that is one thing I do consistently.

Somewhere down the road, I will find homes for my books, and I hope I’ll find a readership. Until then, I write.

For now, I’ll write them long.

By: Craig Sorensen

As the end of 2011 approached, I had lived over sixteen years at the same address. The longest I had ever lived at any one address in my life. I had been working for the same company, and for thirteen years been in the same job. For a man who had lived through a lot of changes in his life before that, it was an unprecedented trend of consistency. It gave me time to really pour myself into my passion for writing.

I got nice and comfy.

Along came an offer to move on to a new company, new city, new business. It was an excellent offer, and yet I hesitated. I was in a good place, despite some concerns about the future in that current job.

Yes, I hesitated at an offer that was beyond tempting.

Sometimes we find we don’t want change. Sometimes, it seems, change wants us.

Don’t Change a Thing

I said not to change. I wanted you, loved you, married you, just as you are. Don’t change, I said.

Not one of the long blonde hairs on your head, perfectly coiffed. Not your clear face, totally unadorned by makeup. Don’t change those bright dresses that light up a room when you enter, bare legs extending from your short dresses to ever-present sandals. That big smile that warms me when I’m feeling down. Your round glasses, so out of the step with the current fashion, magnifying your brown eyes like precious gems, begging me to take you, but first a nice dinner you made. You rise, knees close together, hands cross at your lower back, nipples that could cut glass. I reach up your dress, your thighs widen. “I’m yours,” you whisper.

“Yes you are,” and I lift you over my shoulder and haul you down the hall, toss you on the bed, your playful laugh at the urgency you so easily seduce.

But tonight, you suggested a restaurant where I’ve never been.

I wait.

I wait.

You have never been late. Someone turns my head as she walks into the room. Hair bobbed short, jet black and tousled. Meticulous makeup on her face. A conservative, dark dark dress with silk stockings extending from the low hem line. High heels clack slowly, and I can tell, despite competent grace, how unpracticed she is in them. I feel my brow lift higher and higher.

Your eyes suddenly a deep emerald green as you take the seat across from me, and act aloof. You don’t grab my hand the way you usually do.

How dare you.
How dare you!
Words fail me and my jaw falls slack.
I reach in my pants and turned the uninvited, uncomfortable thing to twelve o’clock.

Hardly a word spoken, we nibble on the appetizer you order. You suddenly hold up a key to a room in the hotel upstairs. I want to hesitate. You take my hand under the table and place it on your silk clad knee. I slide up and feel where the garter binds. You shove my hand away as if you didn’t invite me.

You pay for the half consumed appetizer. “No, there’s nothing wrong,” you say to the waiter, who can’t take his eyes off you. “My appetite just changed. A woman’s prerogative.” You nod my way and almost smile for the first time tonight. You stand up and wait.

Slowly, I rise.

On the elevator ride, I want to ask who you are, but I have some idea. I know there is a part of you that craves control, but rarely admits itself. I follow you. I worry. I am so hard as you unlock the door. I wonder what waits inside. You walk into the room and don’t turn on the light. “Come in. Get naked,” you command.

I hesitate. Briefly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Please press play and read on

When I was invited to join this group of esteemed erotic authors posting to the ERWA blog, I picked the 15th of the month for a reason: Pivot points. For me, the best stories, and poems for that matter, are about pivot points. Changes.

Falling leaves. Emerging buds. Sunrise,

Sunset,

Moonrise, high tide. Hello, goodbye, taste the shrimp creole, it’s to die for.

And it is kind of poetic and fitting that this, my first post, goes up January 15, 2012. Tomorrow, I start a new day job for a company that is clear across the USA from the company I have been affiliated with the past twenty-five years. It is worthy of note that I had picked the 15th as my date to post before I entered into the venture that is responsible for this change. I knew I’d be writing about transitions, but was not aware I’d be living a big one.

Anyway, twenty-five years. Half of my life. This is a big pivot point, methinks. And what about that jet airliner reference?

Today, my wife and I are flying across the country to spend a week at my new job to begin the transition. Today we look at possible new new homes. It is my experience that jet airliners and pivot points frequently go hand in hand. Jet airliners can lead to life in a motel, just me and the lady who graciously agreed to marry me over thirty years ago. Holding on to something familiar while changes race all about.

So while this, my little corner of the ERWA blog, in the future, will sometimes address sexy pivot points, like a first kiss between a couple who have discovered the first taste of chemistry on a blind date, or the gentle popping of a jeans-button and crackling of a zipper in the back seat of a Chrysler, today this blog celebrates the kind of pivot that opens onto the next step in a person’s life.

From my perch, 33,000 feet above the earth, I wish you all the best with your pivot points, be they small or large.

Hot Chilli Erotica

Hot Chilli Erotica

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