Promises of Lightness and Dark

This is what comes of fooling around on line all night and then getting a good night’s sleep:  you look at things in a different light, and ideas pop into your head.  Maybe they’re not good ideas, but they do come up, and you’re a damn fool not to do anything with them.

I really was intending on working on my NaNo Novel last night, getting the lexicon worked out, because I truly do need that cat in the bag.  But I didn’t.  I waited for a package that didn’t come, and by the time I’d stopped waiting, it was getting on six-thirty.  So in for a shower, getting nice and clean, and I pop back out and it’s already seven-fifteen.  I did go to plug in my external drive–

But I had people wanting to speak with me.

The one part of The Burg that is so much like being back in Indy is having little or not personal contact.  Yes, you can speak with people at work, but there is no one here who you can hang with after the day is over and chat up, and maybe go out for a couple of drinks afterwards.  I have this lovely balcony and sitting out there is nice, but it would be wonderful to have someone over to speak with.

At the same time, during one of the conversations, my mind started working on its own side project.  I was reading what they typed, and I responded one way, but in another part of my brain I saw myself typing something else.  Something that was dark and not a little strange.  I know, you’re saying, “You, honey?  Strange?”  Shocking, right?  Sometimes I surprise myself.

While I have a lot of story ideas, very few of them are dark.  Maybe that’s because I have enough darkness surrounding me and while I might not write the most uplifting prose, I at least have something close to a happy ending by the end of the tail.  What I saw last night, what was being typed on the other side of my mind–it wasn’t happy, it wasn’t light, it wasn’t a good ending.

Or was it?

Every so often I dip into the horror.  Every so often I imagine the dark spaces in life and wonder what exists there.  Oh, sure, cannibal hillbillies and shambling zombies and things going bump in the night are good favorites.  But what if someone was drawn into the darkness, and embraced it willingly?  Not because they’re crazy, but because what was promised . . . touched them in a special way?

At the end of the novel Hannibal, Clarice ran off with Doctor Lecter because she’d spent too much time staring into the abyss, and when it stared back, she shrugged and said, “Ah, fuck it:  this isn’t that bad.”  Sure, you can say the drugs and the brain washing played a part, but I’m of a mind that after all those years chasing the darkness, she finally caught it and allowed it to become her own.

I need some dark writers.  The people in my stories better watch out.

All Hail the Spider Queen

Well, isn’t this an interesting start to the week?  Actually that happened last night when I was working on Fantasies in Harmonie, and I started working things out in the initial scene . . . then again, maybe it started with the dreams last night, which were very bizarre.

Lets get this in order, shall we?

First off, I didn’t think I was going to write a lot last night.  I thought, “Yeah, did five hundred words last night, maybe do the same tonight.”  Right.  So I started writing after I got some information out of my ideas file and put into the current project.  I looked at the layout of the cabin, and started in with a question asked and answered.

I had no real idea about what was going to be in the scene, what was going to happen, and yet, the moment I started writing I didn’t feel as if I was going to need to search for words.  I knew what would happen, and I didn’t need to go into a lot of discussions about the why of being in the cabin–that’s probably left for tonight–but rather I wanted to show the ladies together as a group.  It doesn’t get simpler than that.

So I have the set up, the witty banter, the insinuation that one of the women is into My Little Pony fan porn (we’ll call it “Fifty Shades of Flutershy”), the unsaid feeling that something isn’t right with one of the characters–it’s all there.  It’s getting things set up for the big bangs to come–no pun intended.

I know tonight the words might not come out as easily as they did last night, but it felt good to be creating again.  It’s a silly little story, but so what?  It’s my story, and I feel for my characters.  Maybe you’ll feel them, too, when you read this.

As for the dream–hey, lets spend some time with this madness now . . .

Of late my dreams haven’t been that important.  They’ve been there, but nothing that has stood out, nothing that made me wake up and think, “What the hell was that all about?”  That doesn’t mean I haven’t had my semi-waking moments, but it’s been nothing like the dreams I had last year.

This time, though–let me tell you.  First I was out shopping, and no big deal there.  I was in a modest skirt, sandals, tee shirt, the sort of thing one wears on a warm, sunny day.

That somehow transitioned to ending up in an adult clothing store, and I was trying on this black latex mini dress and boots combo, and the girl who was waiting on me was pretty much drooling as she watched me in the mirror.  She kept calling me “Spider Queen” for no reason that was then apparent–

Then I was back home, and I was with someone I know, and she was having trouble containing herself.  At one point she says, “Take me, Spider Queen,” and before you can say “Metebelis III,” I’ve got six arms and I’m doing some rather strange and kinky things to my friend, who is more or less mumbling “I love you” between moments of ecstasy.

I mean, what the hell?  Me, the latex clad Spider Queen?

Maybe there’s a story in there–

Sensual Vacuum

Yesterday was crazy writing day.  Interviews, blog posts, guest blog posts, research, and my story.  Busy bee, you say?  You know it.

I’ve said–or, as some of you might say, bemoaned–that at times being a writer can be a real chore.  When you are a writer, you are always writing.  That’s the job, honey bunny.  You sit and put words to whatever medium you prefer.  So whenever anything comes up, it’s always do 500 words on this, 300 words on this, maybe a 1000 on that.  When it’s needed you go get your writing cap (or shawl, or slippers–I could use some writing slippers), slip it on, and get to work.

That was me starting 6:30 yesterday morning.  I hit the ground running, with a break or two here and there.  But I spent a good part of the day writing.  If I wasn’t doing, you know, writing-writing, I was formatting something for a blog tour I’m on.  Or putting a picture inside a blog post because I am just a cock-eyed wonder when it comes to these fancy computers.

The biggest thing, however, was I got into Part Eight of Diners at the Memory’s End, and I finished that sucker.  Did it in two parts, because I was taking my time with the writing, doing about 1,100 words on one end, and finishing up, around 10:15 PM, with a final 360 words.  So a little over 1,450 words, and Part Eight slips into history as the–so far–longest part of my current story.

The thing that really seemed to hold me up?  The sex scene.  I stopped the first time because my head was threatening to explode, and I needed a break.  I knew I’d start getting into a bit of the sexy, as I like to say, and I didn’t want to try and write that while forcing myself to hold my head up.

But when I got back into it, all the stuff I envisioned about what was going to happen, all the language and the sensations and so forth . . . they didn’t feel right.  Actually, they didn’t feel real.  It felt a bit contrived, like I would have been writing a sex scene for the sake of writing a sex scene.

I remembered something I did in my NaNo Novel.  During the final battle between my protagonist and antagonist, I had all these visions of it being huge and protracted.  Then I thought about it:  if you have two people with incredible powers squaring off, getting ready to kick each other’s ass with magic, how long would a battle like that really last?  Generally speaking, you have a lot of defense, a few jabs to wear each other down–then, when you see a weakness, you clobber the other person.

In the mean time, however, you probably destroy everything around you, and have whatever passes for the magical cops on your ass.

I figured these two would likely go right at each other, flat out, trying to score the knock out pretty quick.  One of the combatants wasn’t suppose to know magic real well, so taking her out right away seemed prudent.  It didn’t work, and the other witch got her ass kicked in short order.

If less was more for a battle, then it’d work for sex.  After all, I don’t have to show everything, or even much of anything.  Just get the party started, and let people wonder was really happened in the cold, quiet, vacuum of space so far from anyone else.

So I went that route.  I got it started, but everything after the initial contact became fantasy fodder for the reader.  This isn’t erotica, it’s science fiction.  That doesn’t mean I can’t go for the sex in the story, but describing the exact proportions of Meredith’s vagina, how it might appear as it glistened in the dim light of unblinking stars . . . yeah, didn’t need that level of detail.

It’s out of the way, and it was a long week dealing with a part that, for some reason, was totally holding me back.  Now I’m beyond.

Time to break the heartbreak and resolution.

All That We Take With Us

All that I seem to have these days is writing.  Oh, man.  It’s all about the story these days, it seems.  That, and getting ready to head to the Undisclosed Location.

Yes, that moment in time is looming for me.  I haven’t talked about it much, because . . . frankly, I haven’t wanted to talk.  But situations have arisen where I have to leave my little cocoon of comfort and strike out for another city for a while.  It’s not forever; it’s really all about paying the bills–which is coming to a head finally, as we started overdrawing one of our saving accounts horribly the other day while buying stuff for my move.

Irony, as some might say.

I’ve been a bit on the freaking edge for a while about this move, but, Saturday evening, after I returned home from a trip to get things arranged, I more or less calmed myself and put it in prospective:

There was a time in my life when I used to travel on business a lot.  And I don’t mean like going from Chicago (the city I live very close to) to, say, Denver–which I have visited on business, but that’s another story–but more like going to Chicago to Hong Kong.  Yes, I’ve been to China.  Yes, I’ve visited there for many weeks at a time.

I’d pack up my stuff, head for the airport, fly to Minneapolis or Detroit, then fly to Tokyo, then fly to Hong Kong, and roll into the Sheraton Hong Kong Towers on Nathan Road almost 25 hours to the minute after I rolled out the front door of my house.  After that I’d head for my final destination, just up the river in Shekou (where I’d see this as I approached my hotel, which is on the far right of the picture), and I’d settle in for a stay.

I’m looking at this move pretty much the same way.  I’ve settled in for what looks like a 6 month stay at the moment.  I may re-up for a year, may not; it really depends on how the position goes.

But after 25 years in IT, I’ve decided I don’t want to stay.  I’m creeping up on 55, and that means I maybe have another good 10 years in IT before I’m told to call it quits again.  It’s not the way I want to go, and I won’t go there.

Ergo, the writing thing.

I’ve been on a writing jag since the end of July.  At this point I’ve written about 145,000 words for stories, and close to another 70,000 words just within the confines of this blog.  For me, that’s quite an accomplishment.  Not because I’m writing, but because I’m finishing.

The newest story, Couples Dance, is moving along well.  I wrote another chapter yesterday, 1,270 words for the day and bringing the story total to 6,435 words.  Now I’m moving into the “erotica” part of the story, a chapter where the sexual relationship between the two main characters is explored.  It seems with this story I’m going an “every-other” flow with the chapters: there’s sex, and then there’s exposition.  Get off, then get information.

And I like how this is working.  Of course, I have two more chapters set up, and I know there will be more chapters after that.  I just haven’t figured that part out yet.

Actually, just now, I went down to get coffee . . .

While  getting a cup I had this post in my head, and I realized after the last chapter I have listed, there needs to be one where the couple in my story realizes something is happen, but they don’t know what; then one more bit of exposition, then one last really hot sex scene (and, yes, I know what that scene will be, because I’ve thought about it for a while), and then the coda, and ta-da!  Story over.

Funny how I do that.

So, there.  I have the story plotted out, and I just need to set up the note card chapters in Scrivener, and I’m ready to rock.

This is the sort of thing I want to lean on as I approach 60.  Work as I knew it is over.  It’s a dead end.

Pouring out my imagination to others . . . that’s where it’s at.

Just a reminder, I’m getting interviewed tomorrow, as I pointed out in this post.  Bernadine Feagins from Phillybookpick’s Blog will interview me on Blog Talk Radio, and it’s gonna be a good time.  Tomorrow, 18 January, at 1 PM EST, Noon CST, and 10 AM PST.  Be there or be square.

Standing at the Crossroads

Early morning, and there’s snow all over the place.  Was out at 5:30 clearing the drive, and man, I didn’t miss that at all.  Now with a 3 Above wind chill out there.  The only thing that was good is that it’s all light, lake effect snow, and not the heart attack-inducing wet snow that Chicago usually gets.

Today I was suppose to be on the road . . . not going to happen.  Not with snow all over the place, and down to the south of me is where I have to go–or was suppose to.  Calls to be made to let people know I’ll be in their town tomorrow morning, because with the weather the way it is now, I’m not going to travel 300 miles for something I’m not very excited about.

The writing was good yesterday.  Couples Dance moved onward, hitting 2,350 words yesterday.  Ended a sex scene and then proceeded into a discussion of old houses in Massachusetts and eating disorders.  Did I mention that even though this is erotica, there’s a story here?  See, that’s the one thing a lot of people don’t get: just because it’s got a lot of good sex in it–well, only one scene of good sex so far–that doesn’t make it smut or porn.

As pointed out in a discussion I had yesterday–and this is something I like to bring up a lot–if there’s sex in the course of the story, and it plays a part in the story, it’s erotica.  If it’s just sex for the sake of sex, just to watch people get off, then it’s porn.  Frankly, porn is boring: I stopped watching it in the 1970’s when I realized I should be out having sex rather than watching a lot of obviously stoned people having it.  And I saw a lot of porn, because I grew up in a town where the local drive in showed porn flicks every weekend, and getting in was about as difficult as pumping gas, so I knew what I’m talking about.

The story is interesting, because I’m really not viewing it as erotica, per se.  I’m looking at it as a horror story with a lot of sex in it, which is probably why I’m thinking of it as “Paranormal Erotica”.  This might make it difficult to market, but I’m hoping that the story is going to carry the day, and people will enjoy the story, not because it’s paranormal, not because it’s got great sex, but because it’s a good story.

I spent part of the day thinking up another story as well.  It revolves around the role playing character I created, Kerry, and how, after he begins teaching back at the same school he graduated from, he deals with a student who is transgender.  Kerry feels strongly for the boy–mostly because there are many issues in his life that allow him to identify with the student–and he’s also very good when it comes to transfiguration magic.  I’d actually looked at his story here before, months ago, and yesterday was pretty much a retelling of it in my mind, my way of getting all the lines finished the way I’d like them.

Like I’ve said before, Kerry is a character I’ve developed and grown with over the last 9 months–yeah, it’s been almost that long.  And I know as an adult, he’ll go through some crazy things.  But for him, helping this student is an important thing for him, because as time goes on he’ll find himself in a position where he feels the need to want to help.  Help those who are upset, who feel as if they have nothing going on in their lives . . . who feel like they are different.

Hey, you could almost say the same about me.

Storytime Fantasies

Strange things, I’m telling you.  With Echoes done and sort of out of the way–I’ll likely start the first edits on it at the end of the month–I decided to run it through The Gender Genie and I Write Like to see how is stacked up.  Gender-wise it came out female by a long shot, which I think had a lot to do with the last few chapters–though strangely enough, the longest chapter in the story involved a long chat between two men and that came out as very female-like.

But now I get to how I write and I’m bummed.  The individual chapters all come up looking pretty well, but when I threw the whole shebang into the editor and ran it . . . it said I write like Dan Brown.  Really?  I write like a fucking hack?  I write like a guy who couldn’t cut it as a musician and decided writing would be an easier way to generate coin?

I gotta work on that, ’cause that’s sort of embarrassing.

Yesterday I did more work on a little thing I’m doing on the side that I call The Salem Project.  This is really nothing more than me taking the stuff I did when I was role playing at the Salem Witches’ Institute and putting it in a Scrivener project, so that if I want to see something, I have it right there where I can see it without having to search through a ton of threads.

I seemed to be doing this more out of a sense of melancholy than anything else.  Late in the evening of 10 April will mark the 1st Anniversary of the “founding” of the Institute by the lovely Annie, and to put it bluntly, I miss the days when I helped create this place and then ran with Annie into the adventure of our characters.

Right now it sits quiet and empty, and perhaps one day Annie will find the time to return and continue our story.  Right now I dream of what might be–as I was doing last night–and think about how this adventure did a lot to keep me from falling into the abyss.  And I catalog everything so that I’ll have it.  Oh, yes: I’ll have it all.

Last night was a time for reflection.  I was a little bummed, I won’t deny that, and when I went to bed I had a lot of conflicting things going on in my head.  That’s not a strange thing: my mind is my own worst enemy: it’s this fracking pain in the ass that does nothing but grind me down when I least need said grinding.  So I ran a few scenes through my head–well, actually talked them out as I sat looking out the window–and drifted off to sleep.

My dream was, for once, pleasant, one where I was sitting around the house with someone I know, and we were chatting about nothing in particular, and there was a bit of touching and hand holding, and it ended with a cuddle that made me feel warm and protected.  I still remember it as I write.  It was nice.  It was simple.

It was something I needed.

But then I started waking up, and I was in that crazy half-sleep state where you don’t know if you’re awake or dreaming.  And it was then that I started having vision, and it was related to a story I talked about some time ago–in particular one scene that has sort of stuck with me–and in the vision something came to me: the end of the story.  In a matter of, I don’t know, maybe 5 minutes, the way the story should ended was right there.  The vision told me, “You have it all now”, and then sat back and laughed its ass off, as if it were taunting me to do something.

Yeah, I know how you work.  Make me feel like a schmuck and browbeat me into writing.

This story has been with me for some time–at least the opening scene has, because it came about when I was talking with a friend and they told him it was something they would love to have someone to do them.  The way I was hit this morning, I get the impression that I should do this.  Because it’s prodding me to get to work.  And it’s going to keep prodding.  And if I don’t do something, eventually it’ll just whip out a big stick and club me over the head.

Erotic fantasy, here I come . . . once again.

Wolf Moon and Lesbian Teachings

It was another night under the full moon for me.  Last night’s full moon is also known as the Wolf Moon, because it was during this time when the hungry wolves could be heard howling in the distance.  The wolf was out with me, though it wasn’t howling.  Hell, there isn’t even any snow on the ground, but this is the Midwest–give it a week.

So there I was, driving along just after midnight–it was that time exactly when I left my friend’s apartment last night–and thinking and, as always, talking to myself.  I do that, but I’m not really talking to myself, I’m usually speaking in the voices of characters that I’ve made.  I know, that sounds strange, but it’s one way I work out scenes in stories.  I’ll wait until no one is around and I’ll talk in their “voices” and see how a story should sound.

Last night I was with Kerry, my role playing character, and one of his instructors, Erywin.  She’s actually one of my favorite characters, which, if you knew about the times I’ve spoken of her, then you’d know how I feel about her.  I sort of see her as the friend I would love to have, but don’t.

She’s had a very troubled, tortured past.  Erywin is a lesbian, and came out as such at school, as a young girl, in 1979.  Not a good time to stand up and say, “I’m gay and proud,” and she ended up getting her ass beat not long after her pronouncement.  Of course, said ass beating led to her meeting the Love of her Life, which eventually became a very good thing.

The conversation was a simply one: it was just Kerry and Erywin sitting and talking about Kerry’s and, by this time, his wife Annie’s, graduation from school.  He was asking about when Erywin graduated, and it brought back a painful memory of how, in 1985, her girlfriend, the Love of her Life–who is a year younger–stayed around to watch Erywin graduate.  When Erywin went to introduce her Love, Helena, to her parents, her father walked away, still refusing to accept that his only daughter loved another woman.

In the course of the conversation it was reveled that Erywin’s father died of a heart attack in 2003.  He told her a few year before that he could almost accept that she was a lesbian, but he never apologized for the way he snubbed Helena.  It lead Erywin to say:


“Friends say I have unfinished business with my father, and the only way I’ll put this behind me is to forgive him.  But how do you forgive a dead man?  How do you forgive someone who grew uneasy the moment you entered his presence?  How do forgive someone who hated your friend, your lover, the woman I wanted to spend my life with?  How do you forgive someone who never apologized for his hateful behavior, and now can’t?

“No, the business with my father is finished, well and good.  I won’t forgive, but I don’t ever dwell.  I’ve moved on.  And so should everyone else.”


It is true: sometimes you have to put the past behind you, accept that things were never good, and keep going.  Believe me, I understand where she’s coming from.  And one should, at times, forget the past and keep looking to the future.

But I came up with something even more interesting from her.  Something that applies to writers in particular.  Because there was a question that Kerry asked a few minutes later.  It was an innocent question, and one that he could ask as he is a good friend of Erywin’s.  And at the same time, it’s one of those questions that, the moment it leaves your mouth, you wish you could recall the damn thing:


“Do you ever wish you were straight?”


Yes, 17 year old boys know how to bring the awkwardness.  But Erywin likes Kerry; she likes him a lot.  And her reply–as I remember it–was simple:


“Oh, now that’s a conundrum, isn’t it?  Hum . . .

“I’ve never been interested in men.  Never.  When I was younger it was always the girls, and as I grew older it became women.  But men?  I can have them as friends–as I am friends with you–but as an object of desire?  (shudders)  It would be all wrong for me.  The sight, the touch, the smell . . . the taste . . . (thinks for a moment)  It’s so . . . alien.

“But most importantly, I couldn’t ever know how to love that person, not the way they should be loved.  And without love, everything else is so empty.  I can certainly love a man as a friend–as I love you, Kerry–but I can’t see how I would ever love beyond that.

“I could never wish to be straight, because how does one wish for something they can’t ever imagine?”


And there is a conundrum as well, because, as writers, you’re always having to imagine those things that, frankly, you may never know.  How does one, who isn’t a lesbian, get into a 51 year old lesbian’s head, and imagine them thinking about something that is really kinda foreign to a man?  As someone who’s written erotica and fetish fantasy fiction, how do you take something that’s truly alien, something that’s way, way, ’round the bend, and make it “real”?

For some reason I think this conversation will stay with me a while.

This is what I get for being out with the Wolves, howling at the moon when I should be sleeping.

Not So Strange Bedfellows

Here we are, plowing into the second half of October, and actually feeling pretty good.  Yes, things can go better economically, but beyond that I have this general sense of well being that seemed to keep my running.  It’s all leading up to something wonderful coming–or maybe it’ll be a good time to crash and burn.  We’ll see, won’t we?

I was out driving around last night, my mind doing strange things–like that’s a surprise.  Once, long ago in the month of May, I was out driving at night and came up with an idea for a story, but like a lot of other ideas it went nowhere.  I mean, it’s still there, but right now that idea is sort of dormant, and when I get a little more of an urge to write about college students playing around with being lesbians, then I will.  (Though there is a scene from that story that takes place in a theater–yeah, I still get that–)

I have no idea where my mind was last night.  I was tired–I still am–but not so tired I couldn’t spend 40 minute behind the wheel late at night safely.  I think my mind was just in that mode where anything that seems normal could turn sideways on you at any moment.

I think part of this came out of a group I’m in on a certain social media network.  Initially the group was suppose to be about “adult discussion” of things sexual.  I’m all for that, ’cause if there’s one thing that seems to be missing from a lot of discussions on the more, shall we say . . . intense aspects of human sexuality, it’s adults.  And, yes: they do state that anything goes in the room, that it doesn’t always have to be discussions about sex, and I’m fine with that, because you can’t really go sexy talkin’ day and night.

However . . ..

For a while now what’s been posted are a number of bad jokes, bitching about things like “my car got dented!” and a few pictures here and there of people being tied up.  And when there was a sexual discussion, it involved a few of the group’s women bitching about penis size.

Disappointed much?  Yeah, I am.

There was one discussion that got to me thought, and it was about using BDSM to spice up your sex life.  Sure, it always goes there eventually, because whenever discussion on bondage come up, it’s always cast in terms of how does this affect your sex life.

I was very much in the minority of the discussion, however, when I stated that people shouldn’t get BDSM confused with sexuality, because they are very much two completely different things.  To me, I don’t see something like bondage having a component that automatically leads to sex.  I can see it as being something that goes beyond sex.

But for a lot of people it’s all about getting to the orgasm, and since being tied up or spanked or wearing fetish clothing can lead to an orgasm, BDSM = Sex, and how can you use the former to spice up the later?

Since I’ve been slowly getting back into erotica, the notion has come to me that sex really isn’t a big part of erotica.  Oh, sure, all roads can lead to Roaming Fingers, but of late some of my discussions have involved situations where a couple can actually transcend sexuality, and turn even the simplest act erotic.  Part of yesterday’s musings were on this subject, and my mind was going there last night during my trip home.

Could a couple really become so in tuned with each other that they are not only instinctively aware of each other’s needs, but they have moved beyond the bonds of sexuality and exist upon another a level of eroticism that is almost impossible for others to understand?

I feel the answer is “yes”.  I’m sure a majority of people will say “no”, but I’m not one to go with what others say here.  ‘Cause I’ve encountered a few things that lead me to believe that, yes, when you are totally in bed with another person (and I don’t mean that literally) who is clicking on the same frequencies as you, then it’s not about sex or orgasms or even what one thinks of as erotica.

It’s gone to a level of sensuality that will redefine everything.

The only issues I have now–and what I was going over in my head last night–is how do I write that?

Because there is a story there.  It’s inside me.  All I gotta do is whip it out.

And I mean that in a good way.

Pillow Booking

My Nano work is shaping up nicely; every day I’m getting more plotted out as well as bringing in the characters that will act as the bedrock for the work.  And it’s all a process that becomes give and take, because as I do one thing in one area of the story, it makes me look at another area to see if something needs to be changed there.

For example, I plotted out the story the other day.  I created all the scenes I believe I’m going to need to turn the story into a viable dialog.  It was something I’d never done when I was coming up with the idea for the novel; then, it was just something of an exercise in how to plot something out in a three-act method and come up with a workable story.

But all that gave me was the bare bones–I knew I needed to add some meat.  So I started setting up scenes, and I realized that in my third act–the one where all the fancy action takes place–I was going to have to bring some other supernatural players into the game, and the moment I did that, I needed to put some names to faces that were pretty vague.

So up came my list of secondary characters, people who will help drive the story along, but who aren’t the ones who make it work.  There are still a couple to add, though I might put those in another folder called “Mooks”, because they’ve gonna probably die.

Hey, it’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.

So that’s where I’m at, bring my words along nicely and getting ready to hit 1 November running–though the Mythbusters proved that hitting the ground running really doesn’t do much for you.


Now for something completely different–

Yesterday was time for another in a long line of discussions about things that make you go hummmmm.  In other words, certain types of erotica.  I was speaking with something and she–yes, she again!–began speaking about those things that she said she would find very exciting.  And as the discussion went on, she mentioned one particular thing that she would like very much–

She wanted to feel someone writing upon her.

Now, lets back up for a moment, because I want you to follow this train of thought before it bucks the tracks and cascades down into some chasm of bizarreness.  We are not talking sex here.  We are not talking about some fetish where one person gets off by having another write things upon her flesh.

Because, as the discussion progressed, it became obvious that what we were discussing went way beyond anything that could be considered sexually erotic.

And it touched me in a way that went beyond any discussion I’ve ever had that dealt with something that could be considered erotic.

For I could see where this was going.  It wasn’t just about getting out a Sharpie and inking “Do my Butt!” on her ass.  Oh, no.  It was about a special someone being with her, and writing things that had real meaning.  Writing words that would be important to her.

In reality, having someone leave an imprint of their soul upon her flesh, and allowing that imprint to seep into her very being.  And we’re not talking about tattooing here, because this really isn’t about permanence.  It’s about actually being a living tabula rasa and being an outlet for the creativity of another.

It was something that stayed with me last night, and even today I can’t get the image from my head.  I recounted that it sounded a little like the move The Pillow Book, only without the sex and drugs and Ewan McGregor’s large dong sticking out there for all to see.  It was something far more personal, more sensual, more–dare I say it?–erotic in a way that went well beyond anything to people could share.

I can imagine it would be extremely difficult for most people to understand how intimate something like that would be, to have your special someone sit before you on the sofa, shrug off their top, expose their naked back to you and say, “Place your inspiration upon me, love.”  I can see it because I’m not most people.  I’m out there.  I’m really, I believe, well into something else that moved beyond just “getting off” and into something that’s a great deal deeper.

What would you say if you could use your significant other as your writing tablet?  How would you feel if someone close to you carried your words upon their body for weeks at a time, keeping it hidden from but you.  Because we are talking about intimacy here: we’re not talking about getting inked up and then letting everyone else see those words.  At one point I said, “I could see someone writing upon your calves and then making you wear boots when you’re in public so no one else can see the words.”  And, yes: that was what she was realizing.  That was the idea, that the words formed an intimate bond between two people, and could not ever be shared with others.

Because, frankly, who else but the author and their tablet would ever truly understand the emotions such actions bring?

For with this sort of interaction, you move beyond anything most people would consider intimate–

We are talking about transcending the act of simply touching another.

This is all about the binding of souls.

Let Your Fingers and Anything Else Do the Talking

It seems like when things can’t get any different, they do.  Now, I don’t mean I have something different going on in my life at the moment: no, it’s the same old, same old.  But it’s these strange discussions I get into with other writers and where they go.

For example . . . yesterday was a discussion day.  I wasn’t doing a lot of writing–scratch that: I wasn’t doing any writing other than this collection of electronic musings.   I was speaking with one of my writer friends who also has an interest in erotica, and we had a conversation on different methods of couples pleasing each other.  And, yes, you can read this as, “How can you get kinky with each other?”

Because that’s pretty much what it was.

The ideas we came up with rather simple things: it wasn’t like we delved into things like bondage and heavy submission and domination topics.  No, this was rather like a, “You wake up and you want to have a little fun,” discussion.

And fun in this instance involved toys.  And I’m not talkin’ Tonka trucks.

The idea we had involved starting out with a nice rubdown–for her.  Women love getting a massage, and when you do it with warm oil, be it baby or scented, it’s heaven.  And guys shouldn’t feel afraid to go there because the lady friend you can have just as hard, or harder a day, than you.

So you get them on the bed, in a various state of undress, and you give them a nice rubdown.  All over: back, neck, arms, fingers, back, butt, legs, feet.  Just work that all in and take your time doing it.  Let them feel every single touch.  And don’t go for the sex part right away: this isn’t sex, this is sensuality, and it goes beyond sex . . . which my friend agreed with right away.  After all, you shouldn’t have to go into anything with the expectation there’s going to be an orgasm waiting at the end.

Especially for the guy.

Of course, when you get near the end, that doesn’t mean you can’t go there.  But how I explained it, while I have her on her tummy, all relaxed and happy, I’m going to go somewhere that’s probably really stressed.  And in the process of getting rid of that stress, you give her an orgasm.

I mean, stuff happens, right?

But why end there? we said.  And that’s when it was suggested that maybe what this moment needed–besides a shower–was to roll her over slowly, smile, get a sex toy–preferably one that’s going to fit very nicely in a particular part of her anatomy–and as you please her that way you show some love to her lips and neck and tummy and breasts.

Now, I can see where this might lead.  One, some guys just can’t do this.  It’s “romantic”, and it involves something that going to give them competition.  Put that shit right out of your head, dudes.  If your relationship is all about sex to begin with, then you don’t have a relationship with a woman, it’s a relationship you should be having with a Real Doll.  Also, it’s not about your pleasure, it’s about hers, and you should be willing to go there–a lot.  Why?  Because you should, that’s why.

I think this is what comes of hanging with erotic writers and having an open mind: you can see how pleasure and closeness goes beyond just climbing into bed each night and hoping something happens–and that when it’s done one of you rolls over and goes to sleep.

Sensuality, to me, is all about the lead-up and not the act itself.  It is about pleasure, but not just the pleasure that comes from getting off, it comes from all the little touches and the whispered words throughout a day between you and your special someone.

And if in the process of bringin’ the pleasure a vibrating sex toy comes into play, embrace what’s to follow, ’cause it’s likely to be lovely.

Now all I gotta do it write this up and turn it into a scene, because . . . damn.

It oughtta be fun.

Fantasies Galore

I have to say the weekend was good from the point of writing and kicking around ideas.  Now, I didn’t do a lot of writing.  Mostly it was thinking, it was note taking, it was getting everything in line.  I have a pretty good idea how my novel for NaNoWriMon is going to go, and the more I dig into the background of the world that my character, Jeannette Hagart, will exist, the more confident I feel it’s going to feel real.

The biggest hurtle I had was figuring out how magic worked.  I had it laid out in my mind, but at best it was nothing more than an idea.  Then I put it down on paper–as much as electronic media can be considered paper–and suddenly, yes, it all makes sense.  There’s still work to do and things to figure out in the next, let me see the countdown clock . . . 21 days and change as of this post, but I’m confident I’ll resolve those issues.  (Did you really think I was going to end with that three-word phrase that epitomizes everything one needs to know about being an ignorant hillbilly?  For shame.)

But, hark!  But at the same time I was involved in more world building with someone else.  A friend who I’ve known for a year now–one who I met in a writing class was taking–and a past participant in NaNo, is getting back into the novel she started last year.  So we chatted, and we kicked some ideas involving her story around, and she got into Scrivener and started noting things out.  (Yes, I know I’ve already mentioned this in passing, but I can talk about it again–it’s my blog.)  She’s got a great idea, and it’s highly possible our discussions about walking around in a very strange realm has led to some of the memorable dreams I’ve had of late.

(And even though I have it on my link list, check out my friend’s blog.  Yes, you’re just be blog whored.  Was it good for you?  Now give me a kiss–and leave your like on the dresser on the way out–)

And now that all that’s out of the way, lets get to the real fantasies . . ..

(Just to let you know, some kinky stuff is going to happen below this line.  If you don’t wanna read it, don’t go there.  You’ve been warned!)


I was discussing my little erotic story (which, when I finish it this week will top out about 10,000 words) with another of my female friends, and the talk led into areas which were, to say the least, very erotic and sensual.  I’ve found that when you write stuff like this and begin discussing it, something happens: the inhibitions come down and the imagination starts to work overtime.

And then the fantasies come.

Hers was one you don’t hear every day: she’s always wanted to watch a guy get himself off.  I can understand that, ’cause unless you’re a woman who’s watching a lot of non-lesbian porn, you’re not gonna see that money shot very often.  That part of the act is, for the most part, gonna finish up in her, um, Chamber of Secrets.  (Yes, I went there: sue me.)  So I can understand that, as a women, having a certain fascination at wanting to see that part of the act occur.

So we got to discussing doing just that, and as things progressed the discussion became a bit more graphic in turn–like we were laying out a scene for a story–and by the time we’d reached the almost end, she was imagining herself on her knees with a deposit of someone’s love offering covering her breasts.

I say “almost end”, because the coda to that was her standing, pushing her breasts together, and asking her partner to clean her off–

With his tongue.

As Hank Kingsley used to say, “Hey now!”

It’s very intriguing to go into these discussions, because you not only see how another person’s imagination works, but you see how far you can take yours.  And if you can go to crazy sexual places with your imagination–

Just imagine where you can really take it when pressed.

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 remains 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 Editortm 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?