Morning Brings Encasement

The last few days have been something of a break from writing for me.  Not that I’m not writing–oh, no, I’m still going there, but considering I started out the week freaking my butt off I thought it best to tune things down a little, retreat and regroup, and get my butt back into things in a way that didn’t feel like I was forcing things.

I pretty much came to the end of my erotic story last night.  Well, almost the end: all that reminds is a simple action (I should have said the climax, right?  Ha, ha, freakin’ ha!) and then the coda and that’s it.  My Trusty Editor^tm has been reading this story and they are of the opinion that this little story is very hot.  Apparently there was a lot of thigh pressing during their reading, which I take as a good sign.

Of course some of this got me thinking, because the erotica has put my mind into other areas.  And it seems to bring out–things in others as well.  (By the way, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m going to discuss sexual things here, so if you don’t want to read, LOOK AWAY!!!)  One of my online friends began describing a fantasy of hers yesterday, and like the good writer–and sometimes kinky dude–I am, we started working it out . . . and by the time we were finished with the, um, details, I think my friend was sitting at the computer with a little bit of shock beaming through the smile on her face.

Yes, I love a good collaboration.

And then today I log into my blog and discover I’ve got hits.  And the hits came via a web search for the following: “latex catsuit american horror”.  If you run that search you’ll find something very interesting, and I’m pretty curious about how this person found this blog–but that’s incidental to where I’m going.

There is a person I know and, I’ll be honest, I care about a lot.  Said person is female, and I would say she is a very kind and generous person.  She’s also a person who is, I would dare say, a kinky romantic, which is to say she’s a lot like me.

Nearly the moment I saw the link hit my mind started working, thinking of my friend and thinking of something else: latex.  Now, people know I’ve had my issues with latex fetishists, but this is different, because I have the feeling that were my friend introduced to the product in the way I have in mind, they’d really enjoy it.

A lot.

Keep in mind, kinky stuff coming next!

She wakes up slowly and I’m already up, with a few boxes ready for her.  One has the loveliest green and black latex catsuit.  After she showers we powder her body and work her into the suit, covering all of her body save for her head and hair.  The second box has a pair of ultra-hot black platform heels that make her a good 6 inches taller once they’re on.  And the third has a lockable corset that I slide around her waist, tighten just a little, and then padlock shut.  The keys are locked inside a small safe that I know the combo to, and as that happens she puts her arms around me and asks how long it’s going to take before she’s allowed out.

That’s easy, I tell her.  You have three orifices: all three will get used.

She smiles . . . and one of the three gets used right away.

The day is spent with her encased this way.  She goes about her day and I have a hard time not touching her, feeling her, running my hands over her rubbery form.  And she loves the attention.  It makes her feel strange, but in a different way–a way she never knew existed.  She’s experiencing a bit of a sexual awakening, and it’s allowing her to see a new her that she never knew could exist.

Yes, the suit is tight; yes, the heels make it difficult to walk and stand at times; yet, the gloves make it hard to do things sometimes; yes, the corset forces her to walk and sit differently; yes, doing things that she took for granted before are harder now, and sometimes require assistance–

And she loves it all.

Eventually the day comes to an end and night arrives.  Eventually we find a way to put all three of her orifices to great use, and the keys come out of the safe and the things come off–but not until the next morning, when we’ve both had the opportunity to rest and recharge and enjoy a morning with fetish gear . . ..

And, of course, there is a follow up to this fantasy . . . something with her looking down on me while she’s holding her own boxes, and all the while she’s smiling . . . but I’m not going there at the moment–

Trust me, though: what happens next is really, really nice.

I mean, look at this face–

Would I lie?

The Next Step

First up . . . Well, today should be it.  Today should be the day I put my just completed ghost story set in Bali up on Smashwords.  The account is ready, the story is formatted, the cover is done.

To be honest it’s scaring the shit out of me.

I realize that going the self-publish route is a crap shoot.  I realize that nothing whatsoever might happen.  I also realize that I could spend the next few months shopping my story around and not get a single nibble.  So, what the hell?  Jump in feet first and see what happens.  At worse I don’t make a dime.  At best my stuff ends up becoming a hit, and people start downloading my story to their Kindles and Nooks and iPads and clamoring for more.

Hey, I wanna be read and loved.  I can have both, right?  Maybe after this I’ll write about an evil lamp–actually, no.  I already have a couple of WIPs in mind.  One is my very first attempt at a novel, and the other is what I’m calling my alternate reality paranormal steampunk novel, and if that isn’t a mouthful, then you haven’t eaten a lot of late.

They are ready to be whipped into shape . . . all I gotta do is get my dom face on.

And speaking of dom faces, here’s Second . . .

Last night I was working on my erotic short story.  I’d been vacillating over the current scene because . . . well, it goes somewhere that a lot of people might find distasteful.  As some might say, “It ain’t normal sex”.

Then I realized I was being a prudish jerk, slapped myself across the face and started writing.

Here’s the heads up on the scene–and I’m gonna use dirty words here, so if you have sensitive eyes, scroll past really fast, okay?

Ready?

The woman in the scene is pretty much naked; and she’s blindfolded with her arms bound behind her.  She’s very aroused and, needless to say, is ready to get down to business.  She’s also in need of urinating, because the man who brought her back to his place gave her three large glasses of water before they arrived at the point their are now.

So at the moment she’s standing in the bathroom, unable to find her way around without assistance . . . and instead of being set upon the commode so she can do her business, she’s being kissed all over, with special attention given to her neck and breasts.  And while she’s really feeling the pressure in her bladder, she’s feeling all the attention as well . . ..

Needless to say, she will get to relieve herself.  And if you think it’ll be a simply case of tinkling and being done, you haven’t been paying attention, have you?

Okay, done.  Back to the normal insanity.

I’m writing erotica, and that means I’m going to go places that a lot of people might not go.  Face it: sex is suppose to be fun as well as being an adventure, and if you and your partner are of a mind to trying different things, then go for it.

As far as what I’m writing being out of bounds . . . hey, I’m just like Captain Jack Harkness.  No, I’m not hot and bangin’ everything that moves, but rather, I’m not an “out of bounds kinda guy”.  You wanna have good erotica, sometime you have to places that would be out of bounds for most people.  And not worry about it . . ..

And that brings me to Third–

If there is anything that tells me not to worry about what I’m writing, that’s that, this morning when I first got up, I knocked out (or should I say, “banged out”, yuck yuck) 1400 words on the subject of how to introduce BDSM into your relationship.  Now, I am not an expert in the field, but I have some knowledge in this area and I was kind enough to speak with another person about it, put together some notes, and write an article.

And lets face it, kiddies: if you’re going to give tips on how to bring up the subject of bondage and discipline with a partner who has no freakin’ idea what you’re talking about, writing about a woman struggling with the possibility of having an orgasm while she pees is very small potatoes.

Lets all go there.  It doesn’t have to be erotica; it can be horror; it can be science fiction; it can just be your fracking life.

But you need to go there.

You need to take that next step.

And you need to do it now.

Centenial

When I started fooling around with this blog a few months before, in the waning days of Spring (4/13/2011 was my first post, where I just had a few warnings for my dozens of readers), I never intended for it evolve into what it is today.

In fact it was almost dead on arrival: I had very little posting in April, not a bad May, and then I just died in June.  Too much personal bullshit hit me, depression set in, I didn’t feel like writing . . . yeah, it was all there.  I wanted to give up in many ways, and there are still days when I feel that way.

But I kept on, because I really, truly decided to not only write, but I was going to write about what I was writing–due in part to someone bitching at me to get my ass in gear and write!–and that very act evolved into something incredible for me.  Not only because I told people about what I was doing every day, but because it started to open my eyes to other things in my life.

So here I am, 100 posts later, and what do I know about myself now that I didn’t know 100 posts back a little after noon on 4/13?  A lot:

 

I hate the business world.  Yes, I know: I’m looking for a job–have been for almost three years–but I hate that part of my life.  Those 25 years in IT were wasted, man; they were fucking wasted.  I thought that getting into IT would allow me to use my intelligence and creativity.  It did jack shit.  It exposed me to small minded individual; jackoffs who were crazier than me; and self-important little people with over-inflated egos.  And what I will carry with me for a very long time was having a meeting with my last company’s CFO, Alan the Butthole, and how he got pissed off because I was taking notes on a computer table, pulled it out of my hands, and laid a pad of paper and a pencil in front of me and said he expected me to take notes that way from now on . . . thanks for the most condescending moment of my life, Alan–and, should you somehow find this post, you’ll now know how close you came to having that pencil shoved up your ass, you stupid nimrod.

I shouldn’t be ashamed of the fetish fiction I used to do for the hell of it.  Yes, a majority of what I wrote at the beginning of the 21^st Century was crap.  Yes, it was going to be wanked to by a lot of people.  Yes, it put me in touch with a few people who should remain well hidden.  But . . . it taught me to write.  It taught me to create characters and stories and not settled for simply churning out crap for the lowest common denominator.  I’ve shown a series of stories to my Trusty Editor^tm and they liked what I wrote, even though they’d never seen anything like that before.  And, like it or not, it was me.  It was something I did and, for a while, enjoyed.  I learned that I could write funky erotica, and right now I’m working on an erotica short that, believe it, is gonna get freaky–and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I am a writer.  I really am.  Not because I write, but because . . . I have been paid!  Just a few weeks ago I was given $40 for four of my old fetish stories, so . . . yeah, Cash Money Brothers, baby!  I’ve been given compensation for my work and I’m happy.

And along those same lines, I’m nearly ready to publish my short horror story on Smashwords.  Yesterday saw me doing the final ebook formatting, and today I’m going to work on a cover for my 24,200 word story, but it is going to become an ebook and it will be bought by someone, and that means a lot to me.  Not to mention I will pinp the hell out of it here.

And I will continue to write.  I have the first novel I ever tried in Scrivener and I have another WiP set up as well, and I am going to damn well do those stories.  I’m through screwing about, and if I’m going to do this writing thing, then fucking do it.  If nothing else I’d publish the damn things myself and make a nice little living on my work, because while it would be nice to be the next Big Thing, often the next Big Thing is writing crap, and I’m not interested in writing crap: I wanna tell good stories with good, believable characters.  When I decide I’m only going to write for a paycheck, then it’s time to stick a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger until it goes click.  I’m not a monkey; I’m a writer.

I’m bi-polar, and I’ve been that way nearly my whole life.  It sucks, it really does, and until you’ve been on a long run of depression you can’t imagine what it’s like.  I have been suicidal, and I was once committed because I was very close to ending it all–again.  I deal with it because I must.  Mental illness is a bitch and fight it every day, usually alone, but I still fight it ’cause I’m just not ready to check out.  Not yet.  And damn sure not today.

I have secrets.  We all do, but recently I told two people a secret I’ve had for most of my life, and in doing so I feel a hell of a lot better about myself.  Is it something I’m going to tell everyone, right now, on this page?  No.  I’m not quite there yet.  But I’ve told people who I know, who had no reason to believe I would tell them this, and they didn’t run screaming into the night.  And that makes me believe there is hope.

I’ve discovered that people do care about me.  They really do.  Sometimes we live in this bubble of crushing, oppressive loneliness, and when you hook that up to any form of mental illness then, hell, folks, you’re just looking for a bottle of pills from which to jump.  But I am not totally alone.  I have people around me that care, and that care goes deep.  And for that I thank you.

And excuse me a little ranting, but:

For my Facebook friends who have nothing better to do than bitch about their horrible social media experience due to a change in said social media’s portal–and you know who you are–leave, just leave.  Abandon your accounts and get the fuck out, and stop whining like the bunch of entitled children that you are who believe the Internets should revolve around your every whim.  And for that group of friends who spent days posting the bullshit meme that Facebook was going to start charging–you’ll never know how close I came to hunting your butts down and going Robocop on your asses.  Deal with change.

And, lastly, and more personally–Jill Bridges, in Michigan.  Yeah, you.  Maybe someone–well, two of us, anyway–are smart enough not to be your friend because you have all the charm, grace, poise, and personality of a syphilitic hyena.  So, in closing: blow me.  And you know why.

 

I started this blog as a place where I could come and rant.  And now it’s something . . . different.  And that’s because in the course of 100 posts I’ve become someone different.

Where am I going to be in another 100 posts?

Stick around and find out.  You might be surprised.

And There Will Come Soft Rain–

Today is one of those days that simply brings the peace.  It’s been raining since late last night, and it’s one of those light but steady rains that whisper in the background.  You can hear it outside the windows–which you can totally have open–and it lulls you into a state of blissfulness unlike any you could experience outside of a great session of love making.

Sure, you wouldn’t want to commute to work in this–and if the traffic reports from Chicago are any indication I’m in the very small minority of those who love this sort of weather.  On days like this you and your significant other can get on your comfy pants (or skirts, if you of that mind) and pullovers and snuggle up.  Or just stay in your pajamas and wile away the time in bed.  And if you have a laptop, so much the better, because you or them and both can live blog the experience.

It’s times like this I do wish I could do that, ’cause moments like these are fleeting, and time grows short.  To sit in the cool air, the soft rain outside your open window, a warm body beside you . . . it can get better, but that’s a hell of a start.  It’s the sort of scene that people write about, that they fantasize about, that they wish for with all their hearts (some of you might be Gallifreyan, so I don’t want to discriminate).  And yet, it’s one that rarely comes to us.

Why is that?  Is the world so imperfect that you always have to settle for what you get, and not what you need?  Why can’t I have a moment like this, where I’m in bed with my laptop, and someone is cuddled up next to me watching me write these words, and both of us are loving moment?  Why can’t you have someone who shares your love with the same passion, who shares your same ideals, who not only wants to share your fantasies, but has a few she’d love to share with you?  And those fantasies don’t need to be erotic in nature, but damn it all, that would be fun, wouldn’t it?

I mean, as with my short erotic story I’m writing for the hell of it, I’m done with the foreplay and ready to move on to the “good stuff”, so to speak.  What I see in stories like this I want others to see as well, and . . . well, you know.  People aren’t always going to be in line with what you see and like.  I’m sure there’s a couple of scenes in this story when they are read some people will go, “Damn, really?  You went there?”  That’s the idea, dude: go there and take someone with you.  And while many might not dig the trip, you’re going to have a few who slide up to you and say, “Yeah . . . that hit the spot.  Thanks.”

Many years ago I read a fanfic about a woman who found herself trapped in a fetish outfit she was unable to remove, and for some reason it resounded to me.  It wasn’t all that particularly well written, but something in my head turned this mild horror story around into something far different.  What if the person wanted to be trapped in something like that?  Not because it was this kinky-ass get off for her, but because she found something in being bound into such an outfit that it permanently filled a deep seeded desire?

And what if she could find someone with whom to share that desire?

If you’re read this blog for any period of time you’ll know how I feel about whingy latex wearing bitches, but of late I’ve had this fantasy.  In it there is a woman who is new to any sort of fetish play, and so, for a day, I take her and encase her in a very lovely latex catsuit that leave only head head exposed.  For the day she’s showing her body to me, but . . . not really, for while I see it, I don’t really see what’s under her rubber skin.  I can touch her, but I’m not really touching her.  She’s exposed, but . . . not really.

I want it all to play with her notions of how she views herself, and how others view her.  In particular one person . . ..

Of course she wouldn’t be trapped in that outfit forever.  But perhaps she’d want to be trapped another way–with someone who help feed her fantasies, her wants, her desires.  She already understands that the sensual and erotic are mental, and that physicality is greatly enhanced by a strong imagination.  And once she took this step into another realm of sexual enticement . . . well, you know the rest.

There’s no turning back.

Soft rains bring these sort of thoughts.  They let you relax and stretch your mind.  They bring a different sensation to one’s libido.

What they don’t bring is that other person who’ll share everything with you, perfectly, forever.

Ah, but isn’t that just one more fantasy we can all try to make real?

Tiptoeing About the Fantasy Realm

Write erotica . . . do you guide it, or does it guide you?  Do you have these thoughts in your head, or does it make things happen in your subconscious that aren’t normally there?

Am I driving the fantasy, or is it creeping into my reality?

It’s all very strange for me.  When I used to do fetish fiction I never became excited by it.  Oh, I mean, there was some interest in the back of my head, but the story was really my focus.  I used to get told all the time, “You must get turned on a lot when you’re writing this,” and my answer was always, “No.  Never while I’m writing”.  Which was the truth: I never became excited when I wrote erotic fetish fiction.

And why is that?

Very simple:  do you have any idea how hard it is to write?

Let me rephrase that:  do you have any idea how hard it is to write anything that has a plot and characters that are good and some semblance of a story?  Yes, after years of reading other fiction in the fetish realm it’s easy to see that if it’s a person’s intention to write wank material, then hell, yes, anyone can do it.  There’s tones of it out there.

With my current story, I think the reason I don’t find it “exciting” as I write it is because I’m spending so much time getting everything write that I don’t have time to get horned up.  Yes, I realize I sound like Sgt. Harris going about making his porn movie for a NYPD sting, where he’s more concerned with the sets and cinematography than he is about the actual sex, but that’s me.  If I’m getting the mood and feel and characters right, then it’s gonna be muy atractivo.

But does that mean I’m getting sucked into my erotica at other levels?  I’m thinking . . . maybe.

I’m heading into TMI Territory now, so if you want to bail you can . . . oh, yeah, like if you’re reading this you’re not interested in this part of the story–ha!!

 

 

 

Let’s move on, then–

 

 

 

I finished up some writing last night–probably 500 words getting into the foreplay of my characters in my erotic short–and it was off to bed.  I feel asleep quickly, although sometimes I get into these fugue states where I can’t actually tell if I’m asleep and dreaming or awake and fantasizing, so for all I know I might have been lying in bed thinking about this.

Anywho . . . I was dreaming/fantasizing/imagining being with someone I know, a very lovely person, and she was doing . . . things to me.  Very nice things.  The sort of things I’m kind of writing about in my short story.  The sort of things that culminated in what is known as “Woman on top position” followed by lots of craziness and finishing with her collaping onto and hugging me contently–

Well, now . . . that’s the sort of dreams I could stand to have more.

Now, I’d be happy if that were just that . . . but my mind was apparently working in over-drive last night, ’cause the fantasy fest wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

My friend came back to me–at night as before, in bed as before, and in a state of undressitude.  And she was back doing nice things to me . . . only the words were a little different this time, the tone a little softer, and the phrase, “You’re my pretty girl,” was repeated over and over.

Maybe that’s because, in my dream, I was her pretty girl.  And what we were doing–it all felt really good.

Oi . . . where does my mind go?  I know there are a ton of fantasies up there, and it seems like, of late, they’re all starting to dance around where I can see them.  How will this affect my writing?  In good ways, I hope.

And how will it affect my life.

One can only hope as well as it does my writing.

It’s all good, you know.

Smut, Porn, and Erotica Blogging

A phone call has made me wonder about who I really am.

Well, one did, and it wasn’t the one I had yesterday where a woman who constantly calls my mobile by mistake begin by saying, “All I’ve ever done is try to be nice to you–” and launched into a 2 minute tirade intended for someone who obviously wasn’t me.  I listened, and when it was over I replied, “That’s all well and good, but you’ve called the wrong goddamn number once again!” and hung up.  It was about as close to a Danny DeVito moment as I was ever going to get.

No, the phone call I’m talking about came the other day.  A friend I attended school with calls to see how I’m doing.  I was doing well; just getting ready to eat and all that.  And then he tells me he’s checking out my Facebook page and it looks like someone’s hacked it because there’s all these porn links on it . . . I thanked him, so after the phone call was over I went and checked my page, and it was the way it always was–which is to say, boring.

There were, however, links back to this blog.  And that made me wonder: was he checking out my blog?

I talked to a couple of people about this and they were like, yeah, maybe he read a couple of posts and thought I was running some kind of porn site, and by linking it to Facebook I was maybe doing something I shouldn’t?  After all, one of his concerns was that I should tell people my site had been hacked and I apologized that people were getting links to porn–

That would be well and good if I were doing porn.  Or linking to porn.  Or even writing about porn.

And I do none of that.

I never realized when I started this blog that I might actually write something or do something or say something that someone might find . . . different?  Objectionable?  Strange?  I mean, I am a strange dude, but pretty much harmless–sort of.  You had to know me in high school, I guess . . ..

I write, or at least I try to write.  I do some horror, I do some science fiction, and I have written erotic/fetish fiction.  More and more I don’t feel all that bad about the later; it was something I kept hidden for a very long time, as if it were a dirty little secret I had to keep to myself for fear of harming others.

However, I’ve been getting a lot more open about that.  I’ve blogged about my adventures in fetish writing, and commented on some of the individuals I’ve encountered over the years.  In the last few months I’ve made a number of friends in the erotica writing biz, and I find they had issues where people sort of freak out when they find out what they do, so I suppose I shouldn’t get too worried when someone does the same with me.

In fact, I should probably feel good about it, because it says that maybe I’m on the same track.

I don’t write smut or porn.  Both those, to me, are all about the sex.  It’s about the act.  It’s about getting off.  And that’s it.  I like to think I do the sort of stuff that Dan Fielding won’t like, because it’s got a plot.  It’s got characters.  It’s got something that you can get into besides sex and sex und zex!

Or, as Trusty Editor^tm told me the other night after they read one of my old fetish stories, “You were trying to create characters that people would care about.”

Guilty as charged.

That’s me.  That’s who I am and what I do, and I feel I’m really damn good at it.  And I like to think I’m in the same league as my other erotica friends who are publishing and making a living in this genre.  Maybe that won’t be my niche.  But I will do it from time to time.

And I will get it published.

So please don’t tell me I have porn links on my page–

I might have to make a phone call if you do.

Opening Doors

What a day . . . late to bed and up early, and the first thing on the docket is a chat with someone in England.  Discussion: BDSM.

Yeah, you do your Facebook post on being up and drinking coffee while you check the news, and I’ll do mine on this.

Getting back into erotica has been a nice trip.  I don’t know that what I did before could be considered “erotica”–straight up fetish stuff rarely is–but you have to know the feelings there, you have to know what’s going to touch people.  If you want to affect people, you need to dip your toe in the erotica pool from time to time.

And it’s been a very long time since I’ve been swimming.

Like this short story I’m doing.  Last night I started in on the second scene, where my couple head back to a condo.  I was at it for probably 90 minutes, and during that time I would write a bit, then think, then listen to some music and maybe play a game . . . then think a little more, and then do another paragraph or two.

It wasn’t that I was being deliberately slow, it was I needed to get the feel for the scene, the feel of the characters, what they were feeling . . . I needed to wade slowly into this pool and let the temperature of the water equalize against my body.  Sure, I could jump right in and come up gasping and shivering, and what I’d produce in that moment would probably smell like crap.

The 400 words that eventually spilled out, however, they felt right.  Maybe they don’t feel like hard-core erotica, but they feel right to me.

And the more you I delve into this world, the more it really begins to reawaken old feelings I once had.  Why I lost them–hey, you can probably write a book on it.  Most of us have been there: being alone, partners who aren’t into “things”, you name it, it’s been there.  I’ve been there a lot over the last 20 or so years, and trying to get back into the “swing” of things isn’t easy.  In a lot of ways it still feels like a spectator sport.

Or in my case: I have been a huge motor sport fan most of my life.  But in the last 10 or so years, I wanted to do more than just watch.  I wanted to get in an drive.  I want to feel the acceleration and the turns and the breaking–

Most of all, I wanna go fast.

I got doors opening.  Am I gonna walk through before they shut, maybe forever this time?

All I can say is one just never knows what the future is gonna bring–

Silk or Slime

Today is one of those strange days for me.  I awoke with the next scene of my erotic story fresh in my head, which is nothing unusual for me; quite often I come out of a half-sleep like state feeling as if I’m in a dream and during those times it’s as if I’m having a vision.  I’ve had this happen in ways that’s very lovely, and in other ways that leave me lying in bed moments later going, “What the hell just happened?”

My Trusty Editor^tm read over the first scene and was impressed.  It’s good to get the reaction you set out to get, and I wasn’t disappointed.  And it’s reactions of that nature that make me want to keep on writing.  That’s probably what today’s little vision in my brain meant to me: here it is, you need to take this and put it in your computer.  Or on your Seagate.  Or some damn place where electronic media is kept.

So today I should continue with the story . . . or will I?  That’s the strange part.  I’ve got all this stuff going on in my head, but the inclination to write–it keeps jumping away from me, just staying out of reach like a coy lover playing hard to get.  Oh, muse: why do you tease me so?  Why don’t you come sit in my lap and get comfortable?  Why not shower me with your sexiness?

Maybe my muse is waiting for me to burn some worthless asshole down . . ..

Just to warn people–I’m gonna rant.  So if you wanna bail, feel free to do so.

That said, onward–

If you read the thoughts that leak from my mind you’ll have gathered that I don’t deal very well with stupid people.  And by “stupid” I don’t necessarily mean people with meager intelligence, though they usually get on my nerves simply by showing their ignorance far too many times.

And in my time I’ve run into my share of these individuals.  Most of the time it’s a quick encounter and there’s little pain.  Other times shit drags on for far too long and the experience stays with me, festering like a batch of bad brew in your bathtub.

I’ve run into a few of these people while gaming.  The majority of gamers are great people, but I have encounters a fair share of bullies, liars and all-around assholes.  And every so often you run into someone who so completely fits the description of “complete psycho bitch” that you wonder why no one has ever published a paper on said person in a psychiatric journal.

I encountered one of the later a few months ago.  She ran a role playing board that I was on for a while, and when someone I knew left their board because said Complete Psycho Bitch (hereon known as CPB) went off on this person I knew one too many times, I left with them.  Because of this snubbing of said CPB we were both given the Ban Hammer of the Gods, which when all in life is considered isn’t that huge a deal.

Now, yes: I will cop to the fact that I have returned to their board every so often and acted the part of a pestering asshole.  Why?  Because CPB doesn’t understand that someone with 25+ years in IT knows how to spoof their Ban Hammers and set up various characters on their board under assumed names.  So every once in a while I’ll go in and poke the hornet’s nest just to see what flies out, and the last time I did that some of the players on the board wondered who I was and what I’d sort of character I’d had on the prior incarnation of their current board, which led to CPB going into a complete mental meltdown and ban access to her C-Box to all by those who were members–

So I have laid off poking the nest more because, hey, I had my fun.

But last night I decide to check out their C-Box because I can (old age and treachery beats CPBs all the time) and discovered a comment.  Rather than paraphrase it, I’ll just give you the full cut & paste version CPB thinks I can’t see:

 

15 Sep 11, 09:45 PM

Jill: Nothing he (this would be me) is saying is true plot info, he’s just trying to stir up crap because he’s friends with someone who isn’t smart enough to like me. 

 

And this is where I get pissed off.

You see, “someone who isn’t smart enough to like me” is my friend who was treated like something sub-human and treated to rants that would make Child Services come and remove your kids if you had any.  Of course what CPB–and for the hell of it, lets call her Jill, shall we, since that is her name . . . what Psycho Jill forgets is that this ”someone who isn’t smart enough to like me” ran three of her prior boards because Psycho Jill (or Jilly Beans, I just can’t figure out what to call her today) has all the impulse control and emotional stability of a 6 year old with ADHD who’s consumed an entire container of cake frosting, and dealing with anyone other than the voices in her head telling her that everyone is out to get her was just too damn hard.

I know you’ll never see this post, Psycho Jill, but then again maybe you will.  So let me ask you: did you ever pay back people who you’ve conned into buying you cosmetics and Facebook ads?  Did you ban someone because their boyfriend was an older guy and you just couldn’t deal with that, or were you pissed off because she simply stop kissing your ass and you cast her to the same dust bin you do everyone else who grows tired of eating your shit?

And as a GM with 20+ years, can I ask: why didn’t you want my help with your board?  Afraid I knew my shit just a little too well and I’d make you look bad?  I mean, I know your ego is made of rice paper, Psycho Jill, and the idea that someone knows more than you is just a little too hard to take . . . is that why, on your last board, you deleted my posts where I called your ass out on something and said you were wrong?  Or was it something more personal?  I mean, it’s not like I said you’re a petty gamer who only wants to RP with certain people and that you create new characters on a whim because you simply not bright enough to develop an old one properly, right?

What I will say, Psycho Jill, is that you’re a resident at the bottom of Sturgeon’s Revelation; I will say you are an oxygen thief; I will say you are a scummy little user who has totally bought into her own bullshit, who casts aside people as soon as you realize they are no longer into your game, who shows nothing but disrespect to those same people even as you drain them of everything (notice I didn’t say she was “disrespecting” people, because that’s not a real word and I don’t roll that way, motherfuckers).

And the person ”who isn’t smart enough to like me”–  She’s was your friend, and when you realized she wasn’t playing your game anymore you shit all over her.  Only problem is–she’s also my friend, and when you turn on my friends, you turn on me–

And you never want to turn on me, Jilly Beans.

Jill, you are one of the Worst Individuals I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering.  And one day the Karma Train is gonna pull into your station and the day that happens is the day all Hell breaks loose in your cozy little corner of the world.

And I will sit back and laugh.

Oh, and I’ll likely write you into a few of my stories whenever I need a CPB.  Hope you don’t mind, ’cause I know I don’t.

Look, I know you’re never going to see this, Psycho Jill, but I don’t care.  I needed to vent, and venting is always good.

And I’m all about feeling good.

Back on the Bicycle

Writin’ erotica is hard!

There was a time when I could crank out kinky things without a problem, but with this new things I’m doing–eh, it’s not as easy as I once remember.  For me it’s all about mood; it’s all about getting the dynamic right.  Sure, the fantasy is that you get two (or more) people together and you get the sex goin’, proto.

That’s not me.

Last night Trusty Editor^tm was looking over one of my old stories from back in the days when I used to write kinky stuff for the sake of writing kinky stuff.  The discussion delved into things like, “Did you read this story after writing it?” because I didn’t remember a lot of the details of the 3^rd story out of 4–yes, believe it or not, I once wrote a almost-novel length tale of kink and did it for free . . . anyway, I mentioned that I’d pretty much written the story as a first draft, did a little editing on it then sent it off–

And that was when I dovetailed into a story about the time I was banned from another author’s board for voicing my opinion (pretty much like I’m dovetailing now)–

See, there was a person who was doing the same kind of writing at the time, and he was pretty well known among those who were into Agalmatophilia.  He had someone who’d do photo manips of women being turned into mannequins and blow up dolls, and he’d do the stories around those pictures.

Normally that would be that, but this guy . . . he sort of considered himself a bit of an expert in this kind of writing, and the moment you put “expert” before you name–or let others do it for you–you have to be able to back up the hype.  And during a discussion on this sort of writing that was being held on a thread on his wetsite, I dropped the bomb: I told him that there wasn’t a lot of originality in his close to 100 or so stories, that they followed the same formula right down to the point where, when someone transformed, they pretty much said the same THING IN THE SAME CAPS FORMAT ALL THE TIME!

Needless to say, he took exception.

Short story: he came back with the, “Well, if I’m not that good, then why do so many people like them?”  My response:  ”It’s not that they like them because of the story, they like them because they can jerk off to them.”

And that was when I got the Ban Hammer.

Trusty Editor^tm understood where I was coming from, because their comment after that long digression was, “You’re not trying to do that; you’re trying to tell a story; you’re making characters that you want people to care about.”

Yes, erotica is about the sex, or the sexual situation.  But, to me, it differs from what you might call “smut” because erotica is also about the characters.  With smut you put two or more people in a situation where they fuck and get off; with erotica it’s about the build, the tease, the interaction . . . then they do it and get off, but they do it in such a way that when climax is reached, you feel it in a very different way.  Yes, you want it to be hot; yes, you want it to be enjoyable.

And, to me, you also want it to be so real that you feel yourself there.

Writing a ghost story was easy compared to what I’m doing now.  This is just a little thing, but it’s also a personal thing, and I need it to be right.  Sure, you can say, “It’s just sex!  Get on with it and stop bitching!” but if this story were happening in real life, would you want it to be just about the sex and nothing else?

Don’t answer that.

This Way Leads to Longing

One story down, a couple in the work in progress pile–novels, baby, novels–but now I have something else in my head and I need to work it out–

The last few days I’ve been given the push to do a little erotica.  Maybe not like I once wrote, but the urge is back.  As I wrote yesterday I the last few days I got to where I decided to show my Trusty Editor^tm some of the things I did in my bad old fetish days, and all of a sudden I’m giving opinions in my erotica writer’s group and I’m writing about it here and . . ..

And I’ve started a new story.

It’s probably going to be very simple: hetero couple meeting, hooking up, getting down to business . . . probably won’t be a lesbian or magical transformation in sight, but I promise it will get the juices flowing.

Is there a reason I’m writing this?  Yes.  Because I need the practice.

Writing is a skill, and if you don’t work it out now and then it gets rusty.  Writing in particular genres requires skills as well: you can’t be a straight up horror writer and then suddenly switch over to science fiction and expect things to go swimmingly.

Erotica is the same way.  It takes the right feel to make it work the way it’s suppose to work.  I mean, sure, fucking in the back seat of a car could be seen as erotica, but if the set up involves a couple of horny teenagers in a dire need to get off, the chances are you’re not writing erotica, you’re writing smut, and that is not the same.

Or to put it another way: if you’re writing a story about the cable guy coming over to adjust things and the woman of the house is Asia Carrera, chances are good you’re watching Logjammin’, and if you think he’s going to fix the box atop her TV you’re being fatuous, Jeffrey.

I’m rusty at the erotica game.  I’m playing with a story simply to get my chops back in shape, and also to show my Trusty Editor^tm how I think it should be done, since they’re interested in the genre and might even want to try their hand at writing their own story.

There is something else I’m considering as well: publishing the story here on my blog.

It’s going to be a simple story, and I don’t actually expect it to see the light of day.  As I said, it’s an exersize, and probably the only person who’ll see it is my Trusty Editor^tm.  Since I have my 100^th post coming up I was hit with the thought: hey, why not show people what I can do here?

Of course this would be set up with NSFW tags all over the place, because I expect it to go places that . . . well, I could give a shit if it shows up at work, but I know managers are often tight asses, and I certainly wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble with their dumbass boss.

So . . . if anyone’s interested in seeing this short story, drop a comment and opine.

Who knows?  You try it, you might like it.

Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, I’m totally doing this story in Scrivener for Windows beta, and so far I’m loving the experience.  If you write, you need to use this tool.

Erotica Me

Last night I did something I’ve never done before–and, no, it didn’t involve midgets.

I was speaking only with my Trusty Editor^tm and the conversation came up about some of the stuff I used to write years ago, back in the days when I was doing things that appealed to people with a certain fetish.  I’d mentioned that someone had offered me real cash money for some of my stories, and they were happy I’d actually (here it comes) made my first sale.

Of course there was also a bit of chiding about how they’d never seen any of this work . . ..

And there’s a reason for that: some of what I wrote in those days truly embarrasses me.  It’s not what I’d label true erotica; it’s more like the sort of stuff you read prior to wanking.  I’d like to think that I’ve moved beyond this sort of work, but you know, it’s still part of who I am.

But last night I was in a “What the hell?” sort of mood, so I told Trusty Editor^tm to give me a moment.  I hunted down one of the stories, posted it on my file sharing account, and gave them the download link.

And waited for the screaming to begin.

The funny thing is, the story has no real sex.  Yes, there is sexual release–aka, orgasms–in the story, but there is no true sexual activity.  I mean, in real life you can get to orgasm without actually having sex if you are really creative about it, and in this story . . . I’m creative.

There were a few comments here and there as Trusty Editor^tm read the story, and the fact they didn’t run into the night screaming “Sicko!” speaks volumes.  And when they finished they said something to the effect “That was great!  It has your normal great energy!”

No mention whatsoever of the strangeness ongoing in the story.  In fact, they even pointed out a scene or two with glowing references.

Needless to say, I was one happy person.  And in a very good mood.  I mean, that was the first time I’d ever shown that work to anyone who wasn’t a fan of that sort of erotica, and well, to get great feedback from someone who has never been exposed to that sort of thing–yeah, it’s great for the ego.

But I wasn’t done for the evening . . ..

The discussion turned to how I write: how I sit, how I handle interruptions, do I allow people to watch me write.  All that.  And Trusty Editor^tm started asking me about what they could do if they were watching me write.  Of course I knew where this was going . . . it was a bit of playful flirting, and I decided to play along.

So they asked, “What would you do if I was watching you and slowly uncrossed my legs?”  It’s a lovely image, and what it conveys can be easy to read if you are in the moment.  And I went there . . . I wrote about how someone would get up from their computer, walk over and slowly spread their legs while they move closer to the woman, lifting her long skirt as they bend to kiss her neck, and as his lips make light contact just below her jawline he touches the outside of her panties . . . there . . . and as he continues touching her he whispers that she is his, they are one, and she will sit and be loved until she either tells him to stop, or she orgasms–and he knows when she orgasms because she always whispers his name at the moment of release . . ..

Yeah, I was there.  I can only imagine Trusty Editor^tm blushing profusely.  And again, they didn’t run away.  They talked more about the imagery behind what I’d described in just a few words, and I could tell they liked what they heard.

I still have it.  I can still spin that erotic voice when the need arises.  For a while I wondered if I could really do that again, but the answer seemed to be a resounding ”yes”.  Do I still want to write what I used to?  Hummm . . . maybe in a sci-fi sort of way, but I have other ideas–

I’m going to put a short together and hand it off to my Trusty Editor^tm and see what they think.  I’m not going nasty; I’m going sensual and erotic, with just enough kink thrown in to make it that much more interesting.  I’m not doing it to get a rise out of anyone–I’m doing it because I want to go there and see how it feels.  Just little bits of the story, piece by piece, putting it all together like, as my Trusty Editor^tm said, “a love letter”.

Oh, yes: a very sensual love letter.

Hey, as we used to say–if it feels good, do it.

Trans Ported

Last night was one of those long drives home late at night, alone past midnight with only my thoughts.  My mind was sort of all over the place last night; I was riding a wave of emotions.  Part of the time I was thinking back to the company I’d just shared; other times I was thinking about a character I’ve worked on for a while; then over to the (almost finished) edit of my last story; and then on to dark things best left unsaid.

About the character . . . I friend–my Trusty Editor^tm–got after me one night to revisit a novel that I’ve let languish for years–decades, actually.  It’s a big book, something science fictiony, and it was my first great foray into writing.  It was also something that got away from me in a big way, because the freakin’ story is huge.  I started laying this sucker out in Scrivener a couple of weeks ago and just in terms of characters, I have 3 major, 3 minor, and 2 who play a part in the story but are really incidental.

It’s a lot of work, and it’s 2/3^rds finished.  And I will finish it–I know that much.  I just have to do it, lay it upon my WiP stack and get on it with the other story I want to do.

But this isn’t about my novel.  Well, sort of . . . but not.  This is about a dream, the one I had last night.

Now, of late I haven’t had good dreams, at least few that I can remember.  The ones I do remember are rubbishy crap where I’m spending all my time driving around a landscape of tall grass and trees, looking for something that’s not there, never really getting anyone.  I had that one the other night, and what made it really depressing was it was done at night.  Fun times I ain’t.

When I have good dreams . . . do I?  Very few times these days.  If I do I don’t remember them well.  And that’s a bummer, ’cause I could use a good dream to hang my hat on once in a while.

But there was this dream last night, something that came to me within the last 6 hours, as it’s 7:33 AM as I write this, and I didn’t get to sleep until 1:30 AM this morning–

Let get to the playback.

First off, it was a 1^st Person PoV, so I was looking out from my eyes.  I was sitting up, my back against a sofa arm, my legs out in front of me.  I’m pretty sure I was in a pull over, probably a tee shirt, and shorts.  My right arm was held out slightly to my right, and was being held by someone–a woman–I know.  She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and she held my hand . . . and she was painting my nails.  There was this usual sensation as she did it, something I felt on them, and I knew it had to be her applying the polish.

She looked up, smiled, and said, “This color will look great on you.”

Then I sort of took in the whole scene, and needless to say the “me” in the dream was me . . . but not in the same “me” body that I know in real life.

And that was about it.  Yes, you can cue the Twilight Zone music now.

The mind goes to different places when you sleep, I know that.  And for this I’m not all that freaked out.  I’ve had that sort of “body switching” dream before, but not in at least the last 10 years.  It was strange that I’d said to someone 12 hours earlier that I hoped to have a good dream . . . well, that I did, because I gathered from my dream the both of us in the dream were having a good time.

I know it felt good to me.

And this does sort of fall into line with a character from my novel, because part of it does deal with gender identity.  It’s something I’ve given some thought to over the years, and the more I get into this novel, the more it’s going to come up again.  It’s an interesting subject, and the more I read the more I’m going to better define this character.

And as I dig deeper into the subject, I imagine I’ll have a dream like the one last night again.

Maybe next time I’ll find out what the color was that my friend was applying, ’cause . . . does it really look that good?