x-rated and otherwise
-pxj
(The image is one of several Solstice e-cards available at JPC Artworks)
Friday, December 21, 2007
Solstice Wishes
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Does that condom come in decaf?
Happy holidays—celebrate safely!
It occurs to me that I haven’t done a condom posting in, oh, weeks! So here are some relatively recent condom links and images, carefully selected for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!
*VivaGel is coming! This microbicide has been approved in Australia as a condom coating, and the manufacturing agreement’s official. The product is “designed to prevent transmission of STIs” including herpes and HIV! It was announced for US testing in Nov. 2006...
*Musical condom ad. No, that’s not “ad for a musical condom” (how last year!); it’s a six-minute musical film promoting condom use. Catchy song, too!
*No lead in these, I hope? (Sorry, couldn’t resist!) The perception of condoms in China is undergoing a profound shift. In a country where possession was once considered de facto evidence of “illegal prostitution,” new laws require condoms to be provided in hotel rooms by the end of next year.
and condom ads on TV in that region, too.
(But, sadly, the aphrodisiac ant extract won’t be coming to store shelves any time soon.)
*Safe eggs and other Asian condom ads. Some great images! 
)
...And, finally, news from Ethiopia, fabled Home of Coffee: coffee-flavored condoms.
Yes, really.
Upon their release, in one week approximately 300,000 of these coffee-flavored condoms were sold to the masses. Each pack contains three condoms and costs about one Ethiopian birr or eleven cents, less expensive than other condoms being marketed in Ethiopia.
These coffee condoms not only smell the part, they also look the part with their deep brown color. DKT-Ethiopia was meticulous in their research, even creating the new condoms to taste like the Ethiopian coffee of choice: the macchiato. The macchiato preferred in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, is usually made with a shot of espresso and liberal amounts of sugar and milk. DKT initiated this campaign as a response to condom-user complaints that the latex scent of regular condoms was overpowering. This spurred the launch of these coffee condoms in Ethiopia as well as other regional-specific flavors in other parts of the world.
Man, some days I think the Universe really does love me. How else, in the midst of the HoliDaze, would it arrange such a beautiful distraction for me? Standing in line for a hour to hand over money I can’t afford on things I’ll then have to carry across the country? No problem! Because while I wait, I can wonder:
What “regional flavors” might be deemed appropriate here in the Lone Star State? Chewing tobacco? Chuck-wagon chili? Beer?
As you chase around town tossing your tinsel, ask yourself what weird flavors might be popular in your neck of the woods? Or, um, not neck, exactly...
As always,
peace and x-rated joy!
-pxj
Friday, December 14, 2007
Friday Flash: Regional Were
Well, the first version of this post was on Friday! (Ah, the holidays—when one can spend so much time running around like the proverbial decapitated fowl that one completely forgets the celebratory aspects of the season.) After the jump, one wholly unedited excerpt of a story that just bloomed beneath my fingers yesterday. As yet unfinished, sigh. Did I need this? Apparently part of me thinks so.
Drinks are properly someone else’s territory, but I try never to ignore the breath of the muse. Hand that chica a breath mint and be prepared for long silence! Besides, drinks and raccoons are a natural match; that dipping behavior, don’t ya know.
“Ah. Wondered where you’d got to.” The bartender’s smile said more than his words, full of mischief again with a hint of—what? Sorrow?—something she couldn’t name. “Friend of mine wants to buy you a drink.” He pushed a martini glass across the bar.
Whatever that drink was, it was certainly no martini. Red and white, cocoa or something around the rim, with a tiny dried pepper floating on the top... Lacey blinked, looked again. Still there. “What in the name of Santa’s smallest reindeer is that?”
“Seasonal.”
“The drink or the curse?”
He only shrugged, but the tilt of his head suggested she look toward a certain table. For whomever had suggested that perversion of decent alcohol, no doubt. She didn’t, too appalled to move so much as her head. “Do I want to meet someone who would buy one of those?”
“Yes. Well, you want to meet this guy, at least. I think.”
She wasn’t so sure, but he’d turned away to serve someone else anyway. Sighing, she reached for the glass, holding it near the base of the stem lest it contaminate her. The smell of spice and chocolate rose as she moved.
The bar’s lighting could have won awards, a marvel of shadow and illumination, grace and mystery. Lacey stepped through pools of gold and silver, grey and night-black, feeling rather like she’d walked all inadvertent into a movie. Something definitely cross-genre, she mused, noir-ish atmosphere welded onto a Western setting and a perfect horror of a concoction in her hand.
As she neared the table the bartender had indicated, she added grunge to her list. There were two men at the table, both scruffy. The one seemed huddled within his oversized top and sloppy pants, and his hair hadn’t seen a barber’s shears in far too long.
The other, though, the one with his back to her...he wore his battered clothing like high style, his jeans torn beneath leather fetish straps, his shirt pure silk. The set of his narrow shoulders told her he knew she was coming. She had to laugh; was he so sure she wouldn’t dump the drink over his head? Not that he’d done anything to deserve it except have execrable taste, but that might be enough. Chocolate liqueur and hot peppers? And whipped cream?
He turned, and she trembled, caught.
No. No, no, no. Eyes so rimmed in kohl he looked like he was wearing a mask. Absolutely not.
...except...
Spirits of the season! He was so completely wrong it might actually be right. Fun, that was what she’d been looking for, right? Not a date for the company Christmas party, just...fun. This so-confident man might well be that, with his sharp-toothed grin and his self-assurance like a cloak. He hadn’t pushed, had waited for her. That said something, surely.
His table-mate rose and departed, murmuring something Lacey didn’t bother to hear. She looked, really looked at the man, trying to see beneath the leather and eye-liner. A small dun man who could have been almost any age, any race. Dark eyes rimmed in black like a Goth, but without that self-consciously dire attitude. Black-outlined lips curved in a welcoming grin, and his sharp nose twitched with humor. A diamond stud earring twinkled in the shadow of his thick hair, that wasn’t no-color, Lacey saw now, but rather several shades, black and brown and tan and grey. His eyes were dark, brown or black or simply accommodating the bar’s dim light. His skin was a creamy brown thanks either to his parentage or the sun’s kiss, hands and rope-muscled forearms darker than his face.
What shade might it be in those places the sun never touched? If there were any.
Lacey choked on a laugh. Hadn’t so much as said hello to the man, and here she was undressing him in her mind. Did it matter that she was clothing him again? Well, yes: she’d skipped over the fun part! He would be fun, she was as sure of that as she’d ever been of anything. Any man who could grin like that!
She was staring, she realized. As was he, but he, at least, was smiling; she was just standing there, mouth open like some drunken idiot. “I’m sorry,” she managed, “the bartender didn’t tell me your name?”
“Call me Rocky.”
His widening smile made the words a dare, and she spoke exactly what was in her mind. “Not while I live. And that’s two.”
“The drink being the first? Hardly fair, you haven’t tried it. You pass, by the way.”
“I wasn’t worried.” She admired his quick grace as he rose, held out a chair for her. When he resettled himself across from her, a clattering caught her attention. His nails were long, slightly curved, and painted black. Oh, boy. Sudden flash of them against her skin, teasing; sudden image of him, just as he was, at some business function as her date. She couldn’t decide whether to sigh or sob or giggle.
“Try the drink.” His musical tenor wove between, among, her thoughts, suggestion, not command, and she was so torn between reactions she actually did it, lifted the glass to her lips, felt the soft thick burn or spirits seeping slowly as she sipped.
Wherefore the Werewolf?
Why are wolves the most common weres? Shifter stories are common across cultures and feature all sorts of alter-forms—bats, birds, bears, cats, foxes, even—stretching a point—cockroaches! But werewolves are far and away the most popular.
When was the last time you saw a real, live wolf? Sure, the romantic image of those noble wild creatures roaming free is, well, romantic. But the original stories were so popular in large part for their plausibility. That howling outside the ring of fire or the safety of walls could have been a predator on four feet...or on two...or maybe something other, some vanished friend or rumored ally, someone who chose not to bind him- or herself to society, someone who briefly slipped the community chains but might return...
With the explosion of daring choices made possible by e-, there are now more were-critters than ever before. (Ahem. Ferrets? You know who you are!) But wolves still outnumber the rest*.
Locally, I’d have a better chance of running into an armadillo, bat, coyote, deer... Whole alphabets of animals, but no wolves. Not in the city. There’s a rescue facility pretty close for those poor mad half-wolf things, but that’s certainly not running free! Just beyond our lights are hosts of creatures, worlds of mystery... Why aren’t more of us enchanted by the nearer shadows and what they might hold?
Okay, it’d be pretty hard to make an armadillo a figure of mystery and romance. (Particularly erotic romance! A wrinkly armored possum-kin-looking thing is just naturally made for comedy.) But surely there are some intriguing other choices available, given the vastness of the animal kingdom! And animals that wouldn’t seem out of place in a given area would tend to offer more scope than the modern wolf-skulking-in-shadows tale where the poor creatures are so indistinguishable from vampires the territories often overlap.
Nancy Collins had a really good idea with those coyotes, native to the territory as they are. But, again, they’re not the only native creature out there. Hmm. Anyone interested in some fresh-made regional weres?
pxj
*No, I haven’t counted. Feel free to, should statistics gladden your heart. I’d love to see the results!
Friday, December 7, 2007
Friday Flash: Home for Christmas
Early for Christmas, but appropriate for the date--this excerpt is from one of my very few military pieces. "Home for Christmas" is an erotic short with para elements, about 3,000 words all told. It first appeared in my "not-a-newsletter" infrequent mailing, with a contest: the story contains lyrics from several Christmas carols, and I gave a gift certificate to the first person who correctly identified them all.
And, yes, I will be sending another Message from the e-Garret this Solstice or thereabouts. In case you were wondering. -g-
pxj
Midnight, and quiet all through the house.
Jaci tiptoed into the living room, intending to dispose of Santa's snack, and to slip a few last surprises into the stockings. But what to her wondering eyes should appear—
Jill's playing tricks. Charlie's stocking had joined the others, displacing the angel. Jaci frowned. She'd chosen not to hang it, deciding it would just remind her that her love had to be away at Christmastime. Not that she could forget. But there it was, with a suspiciously shaped bulge in the foot that made her hope the kids wouldn't look too closely. The milk they'd poured so solemnly had been replaced with eggnog, complete with a dusting of spice, and there were fewer cookies than there had been on the plate. One even had a bite out of it, as though someone had heard her coming and just this instant slipped away.
She sniffled. The scene wasn't her sister's style. It was Charlie's. But he couldn't be with her this year. Damn it, I promised myself I wasn't going to cry. She ate a cookie instead. And then another, washing it down with a swig from the glass. The eggnog was well and truly spiked.
A little tipsy on sugar and sentiment and southern mash, Jaci toasted the star on top of the tree, and spoke. "Dear Santa, what I want this year..."
She inhaled to speak her wish, and choked. For the past few days, the house had smelled like evergreen and candlewax and cooking, with a little hint of dog.
Charlie'd been gone long enough that there was no hint of his scent anymore. Except there was. Her imagination, or just suggestion.
And then the touch of fur on her cheek. "Have you been good this year?"
"No. I've been very, very bad." Jaci opened her eyes to see Charlie in a Santa suit. Only Santa had never looked this good. No bowl full of jelly here! Ermine-trimmed red velvet did not hide the hard swell of biceps, nor the even ridges of muscle on his abdomen. The tunic ended mid-thigh, but there were leggings beneath, descending into black boots; the double layer of fabric did a slightly better job of concealing than only one, but not by much.
"You like?" Charlie smiled and struck a pose, and Jaci came out of her chair in a leap to hug him. Laughing, he pulled her to the doorway, tilted her chin up so she could see the mistletoe, and then bent to claim her lips in a kiss as tender as their very first, as long and passionate as any they had ever shared.
"Check the stocking," he husked when the need for air had grown too great. "I'll wait." He turned her and pushed her gently toward the mantel. She reached for her stocking, but, "No. Look in mine," he said, and, looking at the shape she was sure she recognized, she did.
He stole her laughter, and her breath, with another heated kiss, and pulled her down to lie before the tree.
"Unwrap me?" she whispered.
He took his time, using his teeth to undo the belt of her robe. Her unromantic flannel pajamas might have been precious silk, from the care he took, might have been tissue by the way she felt, his hands strong and hot through the material.
As he bared each inch of skin, he covered it in kisses.
"Charlie..."
"Aren't you going to model my gift?"
She had a bit of trouble finding it at first, the floor covered in discarded clothing as it was. But then her hand closed around a cool resilient column, and she smiled. Not looking away from Charlie, who had found his Santa hat and placed it—she giggled. "Damn, love, you're not that big!"
Charlie looked down, frowned, and scrunched the fur-trimmed hat up a bit, until it was obvious that he, did, in fact, reach the end. "I checked. Twice." He flexed his hips, and the bobble on the end of the hat bounced and jiggled. "You wouldn't believe how much trouble I had trying to find one that fit in all dimensions. Not something you can tell the elves you're looking for, you know."
She could almost imagine the conversation, and laughed until she spluttered, nearly choking before she gave up on trying to speak. He struck one pose after another, each funnier than the last, and though he made no sound, laughter shook his abdomen.
Her humor ran its course at last, and she sat up, reaching for him as he bent to her, the last few giggles still echoing as her lips claimed his.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Have a Safe World Day!
I call December 1st World Condom Day, though it’s actually World AIDS Day today.
The connection isn’t exactly obscure, is it? Besides, the real World Condom Day doesn’t get nearly enough press—in fact, I’m not entirely sure when World Condom Day officially is! Some areas celebrate in late September, others in early November (Nov 3rd and 4th this year, though presumably not both), and then there are the folks who don’t differentiate between AIDS Day and the Day of the Condom at all...
Take your pick, one or all.
Though this year there doesn’t seem to be all that much observing going on. Locally, I saw a lot more Green protect the environment! news than Red Ribbon protect your health coverage today. And more about the holiday shopping outlook than either, everything from “protecting your credit during the Christmas season” to reminders that shoppers should hide packages and lock their car doors to the inevitable Safe Toys for Tots.
It seems safety is still the slogan, but sex is a secret once again. So here’s a recommendation that should satisfy:
Shop online (save the environment: don’t drive all around town to browse) using approved merchant sites (protect your credit) for novelty Christmas condoms! Slip a few sheaths into your lover’s holiday stocking. And celebrate the season safely.
Okay, seriously. Condom humor, anyone?
Q: What do you do with a green condom?
A: Leave it on the vine until it’s ripe.
Q: When should you wear a condom?
A: On every conceivable occasion.
(sorry, folks—couldn’t resist)
Q: Why does the cowboy buy condoms by the half dozen?
A: For his six-shooter, naturally.
For those of you who like your condom humor on the visual side, check out Shutterbugg
You all know I’m a fan of Miss Cellania (if you didn’t before, you do now
As always,
wishing you peace and (safe) x-rated joy,
pxj
Friday, November 30, 2007
Friday (News) Flash: It’s World Condom Day
Okay, so technically that’s tomorrow, and it’s Friday, so this post is supposed to be all about the Flash. I’ll get there, really. But I just have to say this: December 1 is World Condom Day.
Actually, it’s World AIDS Day—but, really, what better day to celebrate the rubber? Go make interesting water balloons! See if you really can fit one over a watermelon. Protect your local obelisk.
Buy a sampler pack or a condom you haven’t tried before and do some consumer testing! (The French company King of the Condom is offering a lifetime discount for customers who make condom purchases on 1 Dec. I’m sure other condom companies are observing the day, too.) Give condoms to people who may not be buying them for themselves. Decorate a Safe Solstice Tree.
Buy an e-book that includes safe sex. (Ahem. Reach Out and Touch Someone, happily, includes safe hot sex.
Share your positive condom memories. And if you don’t have any, go make some, then come back and share!
My Flash today is, appropriately, a condom scene. It won’t appear in precisely this form in the Valentine’s Day piece (AMP, para romance, details later, I’m racing the clock for NaNo!), but I had fun writing this bit, so someone should get a chance to read it, right? As usual, after the jump. And this one gets an adult content warning, I think.
Sam strained to reach the bedside table, unwilling to leave Val’s embrace even for so short a time. Damn, but the man knew what to do with his hands! His mouth, too. But she wanted more of him than that, which meant—
“Hmm?” His lips buzzed around her nipple with the sound, scattering her thoughts; she could not have answered if he’d held his gun to her head. But after a moment, he figured it out on his own, snapping his fingers to semaphore oh-I-forgot like some post-modern mime.
She mimed a pout in her turn and propped herself up on her elbows to watch his retreat. The soft sounds of rummaging reached her ears, and she called out, “Bring it in.”
He stuck his head through the doorway, hands so deep in his pant pockets he looked like he was trying to wear them for a shirt. “Say that again?”
“I want to put the condom on you. If that’s all right.”
His face went all circles: eyes, mouth, even nostrils wide. His cock bumped his belly, the soft slapping sound loud in the stillness. Was he even breathing? Damn, but the man could focus! After a long moment’s staring, he nodded and ducked out of view again, returning with his hands full of bright foil rectangles that he scattered over her body like rose petals. A dozen of them, at least.
“Ambitious much?”
Val shrugged. “Prepared. Once a Boy Scout and all that...what are you smiling at?”
“Just imagining you in one of those cute Scout uniforms.” She giggled as he looked down at his own naked form. “Don’t worry, Boy Scout, I like you this way, too. In fact,” reaching out, she wrapped her hand around his shaft and tugged, gently, until he stepped forward, “why don’t we see if I can earn a badge?”
“Yes, please.” He arranged himself at her direction, head on the pillow, hands beneath his head, legs wide enough for her to kneel between.
She simply looked awhile, anticipating.
Cool packaging soothed Sam’s fingertips as she ran the squares through her hands, sorting, shuffling, finally choosing one. It had red lettering she couldn’t be bothered to read and a deep tear-here notch at one corner. The condom, when she freed it, gleamed pearl-white in its coil.
It reminded her of her dream. “I love the smell of latex in the morning,” she muttered.
“Really?” Val purred. “That’s good to know.”
Sam bit her tongue. Surely she hadn’t always spoken every single thought out loud?!
“I like it.”
Which meant that last thought had been audible, too. Oh, well. “Maybe if I don’t think?”
“Darlin’, you just do...whatever you want to do.”
Sam wasn’t going to ask him how far that offer went. She wasn’t going to think about it, even. Not now, at least. No, now she was going to do what she’d been wishing to do since she’d seen him. She leaned forward to taste him, just a quick lick. Just like her dream, that sound, the taste, the feel. And the way he jumped when she blew her breath across his glistening skin... He arched up toward her caress, offering himself, and she took full advantage of his position to place the condom properly. Stretching the latex circle, she eased the circle into place.
The reservoir tip pointed upward, a cap; the condom’s ring rested just below the flare of Val’s cock, cloud-white top on a red-gold shaft. She licked a long, slow line down from the latex to the man, then wrapped her hand around him at the base.
His breath hissed out in a shaky sigh, and she could feel his pulse hammering. “Mine,” she said again. He didn’t argue this time. Slowly—so slowly—she moved her hand up the length of his cock to the latex, then down again, rolling the condom down about an inch with the downward stroke. And again, and again, until he was fully sheathed.
No excess material to rest in a thick roll, no uncovered skin. A perfect fit! And, oh, how he gleamed. What had been white was now a translucent glow, like some Hollywood special effect.
“And I’ll bet it is.”
“What it is—” he moved almost too quickly to be seen, flipped her onto the bed so fast her head spun, “is my turn.”
Friday, November 23, 2007
Friday Flash: Graham's Coffin
Day after Thanksgiving, I figured I had to have a holiday-themed piece. So I checked, and...I do, but then again, I don’t. Here’s a thousand or so words from a piece I daren’t submit—it’s borderline horror, and I have strange luck when it comes to horror fic. While it sells, it never, never, NEVER appears in digital or print. Editors leave before contracts can be signed, venues fold, sites go dark...
It’s enough to make a sea lily superstitious!
Still, submitting isn’t the whole of writing, and I thought the 10,000 calorie dinner deserved to have some horror written about it. You’re probably full, so here’s just a taste of “Graham’s Coffin”
pxj
Pierre’s mind wandered, though his hands were busy freeing pomegranate jewels from their botanical wrapping. He thought as he worked of his love: of her slow soft smile, the curves she hid so often beneath fabric like a shroud, tender flesh in hues only Nature herself could paint. Ruby gleamed beneath his gaze, revealed only after his long effort. One perfect jewel he slipped between his teeth, firm careful bite releasing a sharp burst of pleasure so different from the everyday.
Fitting, for this was not just any day.
He’d plotted this so carefully. A myriad of foods lay waiting, soft blushing apricots approved and readied; walnuts all shelled, nutmeats holding their promises deep within their wrinkles; gold-skinned shallots, their shape oddly evocative of his love’s breasts, ready to be denuded by quick flicks of his blade.
Washing crimson from his hands, he checked the time.
A cup of tea, then; give the body time to lose its chill. He made tea properly; loose leaves, scalded-out pot, the works. Memories of her: “Wait! You just boiled that water, and you’re throwing it out?” But she’d changed her tune when she tasted the brew. Her first time, that. And theirs.
Pierre’s hands were steady as he sipped his tea, but he felt that they should shake. No man should be so happy and still calm. Shaking should be the least of it! Better, though, that his hands not quiver; his knives were sharp, and there was much yet to do.
The goose had been blanched and buttered two days before, resting since. He’d thought of her as he’d bathed the bird and trimmed it, slipped his hands beneath its skin. Would he ever be so close to her as this? And now it was time, time to see if he could free its promise—if it would become all it could be, in his hands.
He rinsed the cup, turned to the bird. To his tools and ingredients, his accomplices in this.
Ribs firm and distinct to his fingers? Yes: the celery was fresh and crisp. He chopped it, machine-gun sound an echo of his speeding heart. Brilliant green apples wept easily as he cut out their hearts with a twist, then made artistic shapes of what was left. Blood oranges lived up to their sanguine name when he quartered them, sweet-tart scented blood staining the air. The shallots yielded last, their flimsy wrappers falling away to reveal creamy flesh.
He bathed them all in Madiera, tossed them gently, let them slip through his fingers once—twice, again—all languorous, lingering. Tenderly, then, he spooned the filling into its destined home; no pie-coffin this, but a richer bed by far. A bouquet of lemon verbena and thyme and flat-leafed parsley became a brush with which he painted shallot-butter over the body.
(Brief flash of him using such a bouquet to stroke the skin in the fold of her elbow, the crook of her knee, the nape of her neck. “Am I to be cooked, then?” she’d asked him. “No, just eaten,” he’d replied.)
The goose lay cushioned on a bed of herbs, a sacrifice waiting for the fire. Gently, he slid the pan home, glorying in the untender embrace of the oven’s heat. So his love’s body could sometimes be, hot as a furnace beneath the satin skin. Hot enough to cook on, and he’d gladly lie atop her until he was well done.
A nice line—he’d need to share it. Over their meal.
Recalled to the moment, he surveyed the wreck his kitchen had become. There were sides yet to prepare, but he needed room to work. He swept the counter clear of vegetable detritus, thinking all the while of the last time she’d been seated there. “Why aren’t you a chef? You’re good enough to be.”
“I don’t like to cook for strangers. My passion is in my dishes, you see.”
She’d looked him up and down and laughed, low, satisfied. “I do indeed. A man of taste.” It was the first time she’d opened herself to him. Tart and sweet and salty, a perfect taste. He’d nibbled as much as he’d licked, as had she. On the foods he offered, and on him. Late that night, on the two at once.
He scrubbed his hands clean of every speck of dirt, then gently washed tiny potatoes with their baby-pink skins—and, laughing, indulged himself in whimsy, and cut them into stars and crosses, imagining her giggles as he worked. Would she shed her layers for him, let him see her as she was?
Would she, could she, see him beneath his? Back to the cleaning. Counters. Vegetables. Himself. (Don’t forget behind the ears! She liked to nuzzle there. And other places, too...)
Tender baby spinach, washed and patted dry. He wondered if it was, perhaps, too much. But his love was a woman with no fear of calories, and he wanted to give her the full experience. And she had, once, said something about iron. So a few handfuls of spinach went toward the salad, a few more to sauté.
He made biscuits, to while away the time while the goose cooked, dividing his dough in two and setting one half aside. The other he mixed with fine-chopped herbs, the same ones he’d used in the goose, lemon verbena and thyme and flat-leafed parsley. Some of the remaining shallot butter, too, he stirred in. The goose was far enough along to have begun to shed its fat; he drew some off and rendered it, using that to grease his biscuit tin, and smiling at her prophesied reaction.
They do say that the smell of fresh-baked bread is an aphrodisiac. And never more so than to her!
Minutes before she was due to arrive, he put the finishing touches on his dishes, draining those things set to crisp, mixing his gravy, dressing the salad with which they’d begin. Opening a bottle of wine. His breath was shallow, nerves, excitement. His ears pricked for the sound of the door.
She came in, all smiles, eyes bright and eager. Moved into his arms with flattering haste. “You smell delicious,” she whispered, and kissed him.
Her mouth tasted of wheat and wine. At first.
...
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving. Also known as “Turkey Day,” though my own celebrations tend not to feature that particular food. I prefer the more formal name, not just because I’m not much for that native fowl, but because I do have things to be thankful for, and it’s sometimes nice to be reminded of that.
I’m thankful for e-books, that let me indulge my fiction addiction without giving myself hernias. I’m thankful for the publishers that offer me so much variety; for the authors who spin such delightful worlds; for the readers who appreciate my own odd fantasies.
I’m thankful to Gutenberg, Edison, Tesla, and a host of other inventors known and unknown for making this world and this time such a technologically awesome place to be. I’m thankful for friends and family (yes, even the ones I’m avoiding long enough to write this).
I’m thankful to Nature for creating diverse wonders like pecans, cranberries, and Ethiopian Sidamo coffee. And, I guess, even turkey. I’m extremely grateful for the sunshine currently beaming down upon me. For my e-Garret, whence I shall soon return, and for NaNo, that provides me with an excuse to escape the surfeit of congeniality.
Most of all, I’m thankful for a life filled with choices and chances and freedoms. And fantasies that can sometimes become reality. And can sometimes become books that others can read.
Happy Thanksgiving!
pxj
Friday, November 16, 2007
Friday Flash: House of Cries
Friday Flash Fiction time. Not sure this needs any explanation, but in case you were wondering, The House of Pies (Houston, TX) used to be a notorious late-night pick-up joint for men seeking men. Still might be, for all I know; I haven't been there in years. And, yes, the pies were pretty good.
Story after the jump.
"House of Cries"
I am not gay. Let's just get that straight. Have a girlfriend and everything. Sure, the House of Pies caters to a swishy late-night crowd, but I go there for the food. Fact I'm there in the middle of the night with all the cruisers is just 'cause that's when I get cravings for sweets.
I'm not gay. Just hungry. And happy as a lark now, mouth full of berries. But then there's this commotion from over in one of the booths. A bunch of gays, all prettified and whatnot. Regulars; I see them here a lot. There's this one guy, dark hair and incredible blue eyes, really attractive--I mean, I guess women would like his looks, and fags. He's kind of on display, everyone else leaned in around him as he talks. Can't hear every word from here, but I catch enough. Blue Eyes is talking about what he did last night. Seems he got spanked.
Man, I knew they were sick!
But he can talk. "The bear pulled me over his leg and went to town. Slapped so fast the echoes crashed together, but I felt each and every one. I shouted and cursed and even cried a little, but he didn't react at all, just bam-bam-bam until he was done. Didn't matter how I struggled or kicked, he was a rock. When he finished..." His voice goes soft and I lean over my plate trying to hear. "--when he was done, he rolled me off his leg. And the second my hot ass hit the cold floor, I spurted. All over everything."
"What was it like? What did it feel like?" I don't know if that's one voice or more. Hell, it almost might have been me, because I really do want to ask. Not that I'm excited by the idea, but... No need to go down that road; I'm just listening to a story.
Blue Eyes is thinking, his eyes and his mouth all soft, post-orgasmic. "It was incredible. You know how it is when you're taking a really firm top, and he's slamming into you, and you feel all those muscles pressing down on your own, molding you..." His sigh calls echoes from his crew. "It was like that, sort of, only more. His body held me in place, all hot and solid like a lover, and when he spanked me...my whole body shook. Hell, you know there aren't any words! Describe cumming to a virgin."
Laughter and chatter meld into noise, clattering utensils and calls for the waiter obscuring what else might be said. But I've heard enough to wonder. Spanking. That's even weirder than two guys.
I order another piece of pie. Try not to think about what I've heard, wonder what that cute (to women, I mean) guy got out of it, being spanked. And questions spool in my head: were they naked? Was his cock rubbing between his stomach and the big man's thigh? It must have been Blue Eyes' first time, the way he talked. So how did he find this spanker? Was it for fun, had money changed hands, how do people go about setting up such a thing?
"Are you going back?"
"Three days," Blue Eyes sighs. "It's their rules."
"What?" "I don't get it." "Why?" "Spill!" I almost choke on my coffee myself, so I understand why his crew's gotten so loud. "Pax," he says, "let me get a refill and then I. Will. Tell. All." He could be an actor with that face, that voice. Girls would go mad over him.
Not just girls.
My plate's empty, but I'm not going anywhere. When the waiter comes by, I accept a refill I don't want, just so I can sit here. Wait. Listen.
"It's a very...disciplined...set-up," he says, and there's something in his voice in that one word that makes my skin crawl. "Lots of ritual. Once you step through that door, you're committed. And once you've left, you don't get in again until they say. The door-keeper told me the rules, and one of them is that you don't so much as knock until the appointed time. And if you forfeit your invitation, you're out. No second chances."
"Invitation?" the chorus comes.
That intimate low laugh again. "Invitation," he confirms, "and, oh!, very mysterious it was. A card with an address and the offer. I almost didn't go--it's a dangerous world, you know--but there are details to be had if you know who to ask. And how."
"On your knees?"
"With your mouth full!"
My head's spinning. Think I ate too much, my stomach's in knots. And my bladder's shouting to be emptied. Time to get out of here; my girlfriend's probably wondering where I am. Or worse, she knows I'm here at "The House of Guys." I don't have the strength for another round of that argument. She knows I'm not gay!
They're leaving, Blue Eyes and his fans. I hear a high, squeaky voice: "What are we going to do tonight?" He answers, "Same thing we do every night." Everyone chuckles, even the waiter standing there. Together, they recite what's obviously some sort of slogan: "Try to take the world."
Flaming much? Disgusting!
But at least the story's done, so now I can go. I flag the waiter, mime signing an invisible check. He winks at me. Just what this night needed to be perfect--not. The bathroom's in back, but I can't brave it, not tonight; there's usually some perv waiting to proposition any man who goes for a piss. Sometimes I think that's funny, but not right now.
The waiter slides the check into place and sashays away. God, why do I come here at night? If only my girlfriend could bake. My head's killing me, shooting pains behind my eyes. I can hardly see. The pie's about to make a reappearance. Fumbling some cash out of my wallet, I push back my chair.
"Your receipt," the waiter coos, pressing it into my hand. It feels thick. Another "Call Me" card, no doubt. I can't deal with it now, can't do anything but run. Outside, it's cooler, dark, and the migraine fades. I duck back into the alley to pee. That and a burp makes me feel better. Enough that I realize I've still got that stupid paper in my hand.
Why do I look at it? Why the Hell don't I just drop it to the ground? Because...because I'm curious. It's a card, all right, but it doesn't say "Call Me." It says "Come to the House of Cries." And there's a time written on it.
An hour from now.
I really should go home. My girlfriend's waiting for me...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Campaign to Save the Book...Thong?
Alternet recently included an article titled "Will Digital Books Replace Paper and Ink?"
While it was nice to see, the article itself wasn't nearly so interesting to me as the comments. Alternet readers are a diverse bunch, and commenters...well. It requires a fairly sensitive sarcasm meter and a love of the absurd--or a strong streak of intellectual masochism--to sort through the chaff of a particularly lively discussion.
Being rather passionately interested in knowing what people think of e-books, I (gasp!) braved the comment section. The expected intelligent remarks about e-reader cost and DRM cropped up, and the undeniable sensory factor, i.e., people like the way hardcopy books feel. (And smell. Giles, anyone?) As did the anticipated "when civilization collapses..." observation. Less expected, to me, were "but what will I do with all my bookmarks?" and a welcome rare query about library lending in a world of e-. (You know I had something to say about that!)
On the pro-electronic side, someone pointed out an advantage I blush to admit had never occurred to me: that a borrowed/circulating copy e-book, unlike its hardcopy equivalent, is always new. Free from underlines and coffee stains, without torn or dogeared pages, etc.
And one poster offered, following from a remark about library catalogues being largely digitized already:
The entire Library of Congress is estimated at 10 terabytes, which is $3000 worth of terabyte hard drives at Costco today.
Which makes me lust after much more storage than is currently practical in my life, because, oh! I want a whole digital library! How many terabytes would it take to download all of Fictionwise?
But I will admit the bookmark-lover had a point. I've begun to replace worn-out paperbacks with electronic copies (P.G. Hodgell most recently). And I intend to continue doing this. It might some day be possible for me to see the top of my desk, my dresser, the hall table! There's no way all my hardcopies could be replaced, but I imagine, in some dim distant future, culling the collection until it actually fits in my multitude of bookshelves.
And any spare bookmarks, book thongs, book "earrings," and the like? Maybe I'll pin them to my wall. Or donate them to a museum. Or hang them on a Solstice Tree. Hmm. Most innovative alternative uses for no-longer-needed page-markers?
I smell a contest...
pxj
Friday, November 9, 2007
Shall the Undead Rise?
Lady Aibell is closing its doors, so the psi-vamp chef Marc and his full-figured nibble are soon to be homeless once again.
Happy Friday!
***
{Sasha, a food writer for the daily paper, is at a party, on assignment.}
Tracking a waiter with a tray of divine-smelling hot mushrooms, Sasha made it to the far end of the hall, but when he disappeared into the kitchen, she had to admit defeat. At least temporarily. No other food was on offer in this part of the party, but something odd seemed to be happening. People tip-toed close to a knot of potted shrubbery, ducked through, then came away from there a few minutes later looking…enraptured. What on earth?
Excuse me while I check this out.
Sasha laughed at herself a little. Food writer, remember? When did you get the investigative reporter bug? But it was a puzzle, and she wanted to know. She wound her way very carefully around the edge of the crowd--a woman of her size quickly learned not to try to barge her way through a collection of people holding spillable things--and when she reached that plant-festooned knot, she went forward and found An angel.
A young man who might have stepped whole from a Renaissance painting: golden hair, pale wheat skin, eyes the color once reserved for Mary's cowl. The overhead lights, so bright elsewhere, seemed gentler here, caressing him. Haloing.
But hard on the heels of Sasha's first awed impression came another: Devil. They do say Lucifer was the handsomest. She blinked, looked at the blond, blinked again, and had to resist the urge to rub her eyes or curse aloud. Where the rest of the crowd looked the same from glimpse to glimpse, all polished and primped and display-model perfect, the blond changed. One moment, he was movie-star handsome, a golden boy in truth with his hair and his skin and his perfectly white teeth, eyes bluer than a summer sky and lips so deeply pink they might have been grown on a rose-bush in Heaven.
And the next, he was-- Oh, Hell and damnation. The man she'd seen at that food-show taping. The one who'd given her chills.
He smiled at her with those pink, pink lips; she looked away. From the corner of her eye, she could see him still, blond but wholly different, paler than the...mask? But no, that implied a cover and she could see through it. Veil? Cowl? Something unnatural, anyway. Horrible.
So, how, then? What? A spell? I don't believe in magic! Whatever the answer, she could see his other face so long as she didn't look straight at him, an oblique view offering the paler, uncharming face with eyes like frozen swamps, murky blue and capable of hiding anything. Swallowing her. God, I need to get out of here.
She backed away, not willing to show that man her back. Predictably, she knocked into someone. Unexpectedly, that someone didn't fall, but caught her easily. She knew the feel of those hands, even here, where he had no reason to be.
Marc.
For a moment, she was so relieved that her mind seemed to have stopped--he was there, her lovely, oddly dangerous lover, and he would protect her from the blond with the changing face. But that lasted only a moment before fury chased it away. "We talked about this. You following me." She turned her head to be able to see him and the blond both, one from each eye, shivering at the odd symmetry. But anger melted through fear, melded with it to become a cold ire like nothing she had ever known. Half surprised her breath didn't fog with the chill of her words, she went on. Softly, ever-so-seriously. "You promised you'd stop doing it!"
"I did."
"Then you lied." She wanted to shrug free of his grip, but that would mean admitting she felt his touch, the stroking caress that thrilled her even now. "Or broke your word."
"I. Did. Not."
She would have bruises, she knew, from the force of his sudden grasp, though he looked calm enough, his gaze direct, unflinching.
"Was this a test, then?" His accent thickened with every word. "My apologies for not understanding; I had not thought you that sort. If you would have me go, you need only speak the word. But," he loosed his hands, smoothed her sleeves as though trying to erase the wrinkled evidence of his touch, "there is one thing I would say to you, if you would hear it."
She could not speak, all her anger sidetracked somehow, drained away by his constant tiny caresses, by the waxing and wane of his voice. Even fear seemed muted, soothed. What did he want to say, want her to hear?
"I am not whichever man did such to you."
Ouch. "Sorry. Let's start over. Marc, hello, what a surprise. Not that it isn't always lovely to see you, but," she ground out the last words: "why are you here?"
"Not a test, then. You did not send the invitation. Merde. I am sorry, cher amie, I had thought the message from you. Someone called the restaurant." His gaze swept the room, seeking whomever had arranged this--and Sasha had an odd impression of more than eyes looking.
Her own gaze followed his when it locked; she was unsurprised to find he was staring at the potted greenery, but shocked to realize the blond was gone. Had he vanished in a puff of smoke?
If I did believe in magic... She wrapped her arm around Marc's waist, leaned into him, grateful for more than his warmth. If I did, but I don't, nor fairy tales, either. No fairy godperson sent him here. He did not appear to rescue me from the evil wizard, I am not some damsel locked in a tower, and falling into his arms is so not in the plan.
I'd crush him. There was no humor in the thought--there never was--but this time, it wasn't as certain as usual. She remembered the ease with which he'd caught her moments earlier. And that odd feel she'd had, once or twice, that he was hiding his strength. The way he'd pulled her onto his body, that night... Yeah, he's built well, but he's still just a man. And I'm two women, as far as size goes. Two and a half, maybe.
"You're perfect," he murmured.
She looked up to find him smiling down at her.
I don't believe in magic. Or mind-reading.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Holiday Food Torment
Looks like it's that time of year again--when ostensibly sensible people do perfectly senseless things to harmless harvest-fruits and sundries, and other people pay for the results. Wreaths made of hangers and cut-up empty laundry bottles shall soon battle for shelf-space with "decorative" hollow logs framing jelly-bean Nativities, tissue-box cozies that turn Kleenex boxes into Santa Clauses, and even less defensible things.
Okay, so I admit to having created the odd Popsicle-stick reindeer when too young to know better, but is there any justification in this world for trapping perfectly innocent corn and beans in this not-a-candle thing? It's not the kitschiness I object to so much as the worse-than-uselessness, the corruption of what once was a perfectly reasonable way to store food. In the old days, when food was often stored decoratively, in pretty jars or whatever, it was still edible. Unlike this.
I have a chile ristra in my kitchen--it's pretty, and useful. Jars of loose tea invite the eye as well as the caffeine-addiction. And I have, once or twice, even given attractively packaged pantry-staples as gifts, when I've been confident such would be well received. It's tradition. Blue popcorn on the cob is always a popular holiday-party hostess gift. It's eye-catching, different. And it's food.
Not something you can say about this. This is...anti-food or something. (The not-a-candle/not-a-lamp doesn't even burn corn oil!) A fiberglass wick and some sort of porous stone, plus heat-activated fragrance oil. The glass jar is purely a base, filled with something to look pretty. What a thing to do to perfectly innocent, venerable staples. Makes my foodie heart hurt.
Of course, this is also the season when sweetened bricks are mailed to unsuspecting, undeserving recipients, and the once-noble name of fruitcake is universally maligned. May I be the first to say Bah, Humbug, everyone!?
Or, maybe not. It's also pumpkin season. And fresh cranberries and new-pressed cider are on hand, too...
Just, if you have any corn dried on the cob, could you please not destroy it? Pretty please, for me? Popcorn's a whole lot of fun cooked a cob a time! Really. And, honestly...what did those poor little steam-demons trapped in the kernels ever do to you anyway? Put them out of their misery--and reap the yummy, puffy, results. Don't keep them embalmed like this.
Christmas is supposed to be a happy time for food. Well, depending on how the gingerbread men feel about decapitation, I guess.
pxj
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Happy Hallowe'en from the Mad e-Garretteer
Hey, you try living the life of an electronic hermit, see how sane you are! And tomorrow is NaNo's official start, so any sanity I may have had will soon be vanishing...
Picture a crazy sea lily, pulling up her roots and wandering in sea-tossed circles. That's me! Well, if you add a costume.
Hmm. Excerpts are traditional. Okay, after the jump. Moderately work-safe, but just in case. I do write erotic fiction, you know.
from "Come As You Aren't Party"--available only from the e-Garret
(Terry wanted a new guy, and she's into vamps. This Hallowe'en, she might just get what she asked for...)
The last clasp came loose; she shimmied, and satin slid noisily down her body to pool at her feet.
“Kings have died for such a sight as this.” His voice was deeper than ever, melted chocolate and burgundy. “Happily, I am sure.”
She shivered, only half hearing his words, feeling the air stir with his speech. Moonlight lent a completely superfluous air of mystery to the scene, his clothing dark and silvered, his movements by turns hid in shadow and outlined as he stalked toward her. Stalked. Yes, like…a hunting cat. Or, no, a wolf. Something. A predator.
“Delicious,” he murmured. At what? She shook her head, uncertain, and he laughed, low, soft, intimate sound. “Can you imagine what I see?”
She looked down. Eager-tipped breasts, check; gym-toned physique, still there; thong so as not to risk a panty line; thigh-highs, yes; heels hidden by the dress on the floor like some downmarket Venus’s seafoam. Not a model’s body, maybe, but a good one, healthy and fit, and she was glad he approved. So, yes, she could, she thought, imagine what he saw: what she saw in the mirror when she bothered to look. She shrugged.
“Please--” he groaned, stepped back a pace “--don’t do that. Not yet.”
She had no idea what he meant.
“I want to look at you,” he told her, breathing the words as he came near, “want simply to look awhile. You are a dish that must be savored.”
Oh, vamping again. “Savor quickly, will you? I’m cold.”
“You are anything but.” He circled her, slowly, looking; she tried not to shiver, to moan. To faint. There was something so incredibly kinky about this, her more nude than naked, him fully dressed. Not touching. Once, twice. She lost count. His pace was deliberate, as he walked around and around, his gaze steady, his murmurs...alluring. She wanted to lean toward him, like a plant to the sun, soaking in the music of his voice. The words didn’t matter, only the tone: Awe and wonder and yearning.
Yearning? Excuse me! Right here for the taking, you know. Some dim part of her remembered the rules of the game, rules she had set, but she wasn’t about to hold him to them if he wanted to touch!
He moved like a snake striking--lightning fast. One single, darting lick to her breast, and gone. Not far, just back to his circling; she hadn’t even seen him bend. She gasped, her hands clenching as she tried not to jump. Too fast for the pleasure she’d felt. Was feeling, still. Again? Yes, a second. Damn. Did I blink?
“Magnificent. The moonlight loves your skin, my beauty, almost as much as I.” He stood before her, smiling that closed-lipped smile, his eyes shining silver. “Thank you,” he whispered, and knelt.
Leather creaked, and silk whispered. But for that and the sound of her own breathing, she might have thought it a dream, a handsome stranger kneeling to her. Even with her in heels and standing, his head was even with her chest, and he took full advantage of the fact. No more snake-quick lickings; now he was slow and thorough, learning each curve full well. By the time he sucked her nipple into his mouth, she was gripping his shoulders to stay upright.
And when he held her breasts in those wonderful long-fingered hands of his, pressing them together so he could suckle both at once, she fell against him anyway. He sucked and teased and nibbled, rolled her flesh between his lips, flicked his tongue-tip across them until she’d have screamed if she’d had the breath. All she could do was whimper and hold on.
His hair brushed the back of her hand, like satin, another cool texture like his shirt, his skin. His pale, glowing-in-the-moonlight skin. His vampire-pale, vampire-cool skin. His sexy-as-hell skin, and that’s all that matters now—oh! His suckling had changed rhythm, faster now, hard, promise of things to come. “Please.”
Friday, October 26, 2007
What Makes a Classic?
A week to go before the semi-organized insanity known as NaNo I haven't yet reactivated my account, but it's on the agenda--yes, once again, the hermit shall be NaNo-ing.
Comes the question, then: writing what?
NaNo’s rules are few, but rules there are:
**the goal is to write 50K of a single novel begun no sooner than one second into the day of Nov 1.**
So I can't pick up one of my unfinished works, I have to start something new. Usually, I go for something completely unpublishable, just for the fun of it; last year, I wrote a male-sub transformational piece. No magic, no fantasy, no romance--that is, none of my standards--just a chance to explore an experience and a character that had happened to occur to me.
I had a blast. Which is the point to NaNo. If I could find a publisher interested, you can bet I'd carve out some time to polish that manuscript!--but even without that, the story was fun to write. And that's what NaNo is about.
This year, I've fallen far behind on my personal goals; illness has sidelined me too damned many times, and all the bits of life that get backed up when one is sick have stolen much of my writing time and energy. So I'd really like to get at least one more submittable-quality manuscript finished this year. Two would be good. (Do I hear three?)
But it's not necessarily going to happen during November. NaNo is for fun! Some years, I've gone into it with no idea for a story; other years, I've had characters and settings; once, even a sketchy sort of outline. This year, as I often do, I have a question to explore:
What makes a classic--and how long does that label remain?
Why is "The Cold Equations" so enduring, when "Eve and the Twenty-Three Adams" is already less a warning than an historical curiosity?* What makes Nedra Tyre's "Recipe for a Happy Marriage" and Donald Westlake’s "Nackles" so very popular and so frequently, deservedly, reprinted, while Susan Casper's "Under Her Skin" remains more or less a cult favorite?
Of the stories that have endured into our time, which shall be carried into the future? And why?
Picture if you will a far-future library, with a section of "Classic Literature circa 1950-2050" What books or stories might you see? What about "Classic (Genre)" instead of the dates? Pride and Prejudice is still popular now; shall it always continue to be? Poe, I've no doubt, makes it onto the first colony starships headed Outbound, as does Shakespeare, I think. Who else goes along for that ride?
Alice, probably. What about Harry? What makes a classic, and how long before that label expires?
Next month, that question shall obtain a narrower focus, at least to me. To wit: at some minutes past midnight, when my NaNo character takes her first pixel-dust-laden breath, what titles shall she see?
I can't wait to find out!
Happy NaNo-ing!
--
pxj
*If you don't know all about Eve, you must not spend enough time with me! I rant about that story regularly.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Seen from various panes
Time for another round-up; this time it's news. What do make-up, guinea pigs, historical figures, and modern social advertising have in common? Not a thing. But here they are anyway.
1) Revlon's ancestral origins revealed?
Archaeologists are at it again, or still, tirelessly trying to decipher history from trash. Though there aren't any brand-names attached, it seems from the evidence that humans 164,000 years ago put on primitive makeup
In-context definition of "primitive"?
[Researchers] found 57 pieces of ground-up rock that would have been reddish- or pinkish-brown. That would be used for self-decoration and sending social signals to other people, much the way makeup is used now
Not so sure how "primitive" that is, me with the natural kohl and similar products, but okay. (Want to be the study author and contributors are all men?
2) Forgotten Flu Fact Found
There's recent news in the medical community: proof that flu really does spread more efficiently in winter. (I just love it when the eggheads prove things your grandmother already knew.
3) Crippen hanged on false evidence, say scientists.
So, okay, history's not my usual beat, but it was an oddly sexy case. If you like your sexuality on the dark side of dark. Now, they say the body wasn't Mrs. Crippen's after all! Man, next you're going to tell me Lizzie Borden didn't go to town with an ax!
Oh, wait...
4) You could go deaf if you keep doing that! Do you care?
The FDA's requiring a new warning on Viagra and its ilk: risk of sudden hearing loss. Of course, Viagra already had a similar warning (though it wasn't legally required), and it hasn't hurt sales any!
5) Whoa, there, little dogie!
"Little pinkie" slows down Aussie drivers
Nothing to say about this; it amused me, that's all.
6) Love that pearly glow!
I started with make-up's history, so let's end with the future of cosmetics. Or one possible future, anyway: custom-grown diatoms.
peace and x-rated joy,
pxj
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Talking about WIPs
On several of the loops where authors chat with one another and hope readers are listening, and on every loop I've found where the readers actually talk*, there's a phenomenon I'd never seen before venturing into e-:
Sharing excerpts, publicly!, of unfinished work. Not only the traditional "unedited" excerpts used as pre-release promo, but bits and pieces of things that haven't been fully written yet, let alone polished, subbed, and signed.
How soon is too soon to share WIPs** with the world?
I may not be the standard model of writer, but I'm the kind I know best; to me, a work in progress is just that. It's in progress, in flux, almost guaranteed to change! It's not ready to be shared. That doesn't mean I can't polish a few paragraphs into readability if I have some reason to, it's just...that excerpted section may not make the final cut. If there is a final cut. There may not be.
I write much, much more than I ever submit. Even assuming that everything I sub finds an eventual home (hasn't happened yet, but let's assume), that's
Do readers notice if this happens--if a WIP-excerpt never becomes anything more? Does it bother them? Do they ever feel let down, led on, betrayed? Does it seem like a tease? Cut to the chase: Would it keep them from buying the author's published work?
How do publishers feel about it? I assume that once I've signed a contract, I'm limited to the published-excerpt terms; before that, it's my own look-out. Great, yippee. But... How would a publisher react to a submission including an excerpt s/he'd seen on one or more loops? More or less favorably? What about a submission obviously related to that excerpt but not containing it?
And what happens later? I tend to write novella-length fiction, which means a fairly low word-limit for excerpts; it's tempting to use this apparent loop-hole
What's the protocol for WIP-excerpt sharing? Is there some primer for the practice, as there is for released works? What makes an author decide that yes, it's time to share--and which shared excerpts are best received? What would readers really like to see?
Is fiction like sausage, best enjoyed if you don't see the process, or more like "display cooking," where watching it happen is part of the fun?
Your humble sea-lily needs to know these things! She's got a character tied in a pretzel who's longing to show himself off a bit...
As always,
peace and x-rated joy
pxj
*And if you know any of those that accept erotic fiction, let me know! Please?
**Okay, so properly that's WsIP, but I don't know how to "say" that in my head, and I'm one of those readers who hears text. Besides, it looks funny!
Saturday, October 13, 2007
What's In a Name?
Would Chase be as sexy if he were called Run? A Midsummer Night's Dream is sexy as hell--what about June-eve Reverie?
Names might be more important in fiction even than reality; they have to convey so much to the (potential) reader...
An interesting title, they say, is among the factors that influence purchasing/reading decisions. Doesn't that make it marketing, rather than writing? --she says, hoping to off-load the task to someone else.--But, no; as with children, it's the creator's responsibility.
I hate naming stories, usually go through half a dozen versions of a title before I pick one. My recent AMP release began life as "A Phone Romance"--yeah, groan away!--before I settled on Reach Out and Touch Someone.
Not fond of naming characters, either. (Or pets, and any kid of mine would be "you" for the first half of his or her life, I'm sure.) Names are too important to be taken lightly. And in fiction, I feel pressured to find a name that will say something to the reader, as well as to me. I often try three or four names before I find one that fits.
Except for Reach's hero; his name, I had from the instant before I started to write.
His last name, that is. When an editor once referred to him by his first name, I honestly thought she had me confused with another of her writers! Bill? Bill who? Oh, you mean Muir!
For the final version, I cut the first name entirely in favor of an initial, just to make sure no one else could do this. (Though I still don't understand how she did, when the first name appeared exactly twice in the submitted draft!) The heroine latches onto the last name in an instant, because it means something. To her, and to me. And maybe to the reader, depending.
Muir. Pronounced just like it looks--which means that if you're a Scot, it's a syllable and a half something in the neighborhood of "myewer," and if you're a Californian, it's Meer. After John Muir, who's a local (and national) hero, often called the father of the national park service, and for whom Muir Woods is named.
Why is that my fictional hero's name? Because the man's a redwood walking. No, this isn't a paranormal, I just mean that he's huge and stable and large enough to climb and...and I should shut up now before I start squirming in my very public coffeehouse seat. Besides, he's Jackie's toy, not mine.
Muir the redwood.
But that's not all. I have a fondness for obscure jokes--as folks on my not-a-newsletter list the e-Garret can tell you--and there's another reason why this yoga practitioner hero has the name he has: it's because Muir studies yoga.
There's a relatively new trend in yoga teachings called "tantra," "New Tantrics," or "yoga for lovers," where the point is to use yoga techniques for sexual connection and pleasure, interpersonal connection as opposed to purely universal. Happily for me, it so happens that one of the pioneering couples of tantra share his name.
Muir. The redwood who walks like a man, bends like a pretzel, and makes love with his whole being.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Self-P(r)imping Season!
Yes, folks, even hermits sometimes feel the need to preen. Physically and virtually. What with new releases and a change of season, this seemed like the time for such things. So the blog's had its make-over, and I'm typing in a mud masque. The keyboard may never be the same.
Outside my attic window, the trees are changing their wardrobe, too--a host of lovely dramatic fiery shades--and my feline companion (not the one pictured above)is doing her coat-of-shifting-colors thing. And me? Well, beyond the temporary rather Vulcan face-coloring, I've pulled on the promo-ing suit.
Shame it isn't a better fit! Still, it's bright and shiny, and it goes quite well with pearls. I've entered a cover art contest this month, and I'm having an author day on the 13th. New releases are my favorite form of promo; accordingly, I queried a publisher just today. And I've done more posting these past few weeks, excerpts and announcements and general chat, than in a hundred normal life-in-the-e-garret days.
It feels like I should be decked out in full bling. How do other authors cope? I try to picture them happily self-promo-whoring (grills flashing and fingers flying and everything), but it's a painful idea to me. Easier to imagine writ(h)ing satin-sheeted first-draft work and bon-bon fueled fantasies...
Though, okay, I admit it: that's not what you'd see if you looked at me. Not this week, at least. I've emerged from my attic to take advantage of the fall weather, you see, going trolling for inspiration at the bonfires, enjoying the harvest fairs and season's-end frolicking. Just as soon as I do one more bit of promo, or two, or three--and when this masque is finished torturing me.
But I'll be back by the 13th! No doubt with the latest fall fashions in condoms to talk about.
What? Don't we deserve some safe bling?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
In the Market For a Paper Cut?
October 1, 2007--I'm in print! Or one of my stories is, at least. My very first romantic caning story, "A New Understanding," is in the Palmprint anthology Sixteen of the Best.
There's a whole long and involved story behind how this particular piece of fiction ended up within these pages; the antho's a compilation of prize winners from Palmprint's annual summer fiction contest, but observant readers of the afterward may notice that my story does not appear in the list of contest winners. Okay, maybe it's not all that involved a story: I didn't win. The editor liked the piece a lot, though, sent me a note explaining that if she'd had another spot, I'd have taken it--and when they decided on a print compilation, she invented that one more opening. Plus one for herself, for a total of seventeen stories, despite the title.
Bonuses to grow on, perhaps, as with birthday spankings? Or canings, maybe.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Weirdest Product Ever
At least in the scents/perfumes category, this new German offering makes the top ten!
I’m not quite sure how to describe it. It’s a, um, ah... Okay. It’s an “erotic aid” for men. An “organic” scent. Yes, that aroma, bottled for your convenience. I’m not linking direct to the site—I try to keep this blog relatively free of skin, and their gateway art isn’t something I particularly care to see. Ever again. So instead, here’s someone else’s take on this interesting niche-market product:
There are no more words.
pxj
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Monday Malaise is Spreading!
It’s either very late Sunday night or early Monday morning as I write this, depending on how you feel about such things. Me, I don’t care what you call it—all I know is that my head hurts! I got hijacked by a story for a day and a half, so haven’t been online since, oh, call it Friday afternoon sometime. Came back to 100+ new loop messages. Now, when you realize that I’m on digest for everything but official-from-the-publisher loops, and that digests from Yahell tend to be packaged 25-to-1...
In a day and a half. That’s a fair bit of mail to sift through.
Worse than the sheer volume was the repetition. It’s Monday’s mail that I usually have to bribe myself into opening; since so many of the loops I belong to allow promos only on Monday, all the promo-ing authors blitz-mail each and every group. Apparently some of the more prolific posters on several loops decided this weekend was a great time for not-quite-outright promos, multiply posting anything that escaped the one-day-a-week-only ban. Special offers. News. Reminders of available releases. Etc., etc.
I like special offers, really and truly I do. But I like them a lot less the fourth and fifth time I’ve seen them in the same day! By the twelfth—and that’s an actual count, not hyperbole—I’ve added yet another author to my "No, never, not even for free" list. Quite probably through no fault of her own, as at least some of those messages referencing that book came from a promoter’s mail address.
I know I’m not the only reader to be annoyed by the over-saturation. I’m not the only author trying to find some middle ground between silence (my default) and cross-posting noise. I wouldn’t even be surprised if that author whose name now makes me grit my teeth struggles with this issue.
I know I now have yet another reason not to appreciate Mondays. But weekends? Oh, no. That will never do. So, next weekend, I shall attempt to post something that isn’t promotional in any way. Chatter or humor or good wishes or something! If only to wash the taste of all the week’s self-promotion away.
Too late to spare me the Monday headache, but at least I’ve gotten a head start on it. Things could be much worse.
If only I didn’t feel so obscurely guilty—not for feeling put-upon, or dismissing that author (you’ll notice I’m not using the name!) but because I’d planned to do a little not-quite-promo-ing myself. Not much, maybe just send out a few reminder-type notices of my own, with a brief announcement about Monday night’s RoL chat. (Oh! Aspen Mountain Press authors, including me! Realms of Love, starts at 9:00 Eastern, either one or two hours long depending on which schedule you check. And giveaways!)
But now I can’t bring myself to add to the noise.
Silently, then, until tonight at the chat,
as always
pxj
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
E-BOOK PROMOTIONS--EEK!
Reach Out and Touch Someone is available. Yea, yippee!
Time to promote that fact, for which I must venture forth from my nice safe garret—Sob.
It’s a well-ridden dilemma, this particular horned beast on which I’m currently impaled. (Not in the good way.) Frequently mounted or not, that thing’s nowhere close to tamed. E-book sales have hurdles enough that promotion’s even more necessary than with, say, small-press print. I know this; if I want anyone to know the story’s available, I have to tell them so.
So, fine, I’ve come down from my e-garret to promote. As briefly and painlessly as I possibly can, after which I shall retreat to cat and keyboard and caffeinated fantasies. For now, at least, I’m out in the virtual world, ready to speak my piece.
...Now what?
AS SEEN EVERYWHERE ELSE
I don’t belong to nearly as many chat loops as some people—hermits not being known for chatting, you understand—but even reading only my relatively few lists, the repetition of posts fairly quickly makes me grind my teeth. And I’ve seen enough complaints by more vocal posters to know that I’m not alone. It’s gotten to the point that these days if I see anything labeled “X-Posted” I skip past it, certain I’ve seen it before. And at that, I’m grateful for the poster’s courtesy! Seeing the same excerpt in several places on the same day doesn’t ring that “magic number” advertisers talk about for acquiring mindshare, at least not in my mind—it only annoys me.
So, what’s an author to do?
REPETITION = BAD but MINDSHARE = GOOD
Like many readers, I’m very author-centered—tell me an author I like has a new release and, resources permitting, I’ll buy it. All it requires is that (A) I recognize the name, and (B) you tell me where/when/how to purchase the thing. For authors I haven’t read yet, or those relatively few not yet automatically sorted into yes or no, occasional postings of different excerpts help. But in those cases where I haven’t made up my mind, repetition only serves to dissuade me.
Where’s the line between announcement and annoyance? Sure and certain, I don’t know—even the market researchers who spend their working days on the problem can’t seem to pinpoint it—but I know when it’s been crossed. And I hate the thought of inspiring that same feeling in readers that too-profligate promoters spark in me. But now I’m promoting my newest release, which means that I have to put on the marketing cap, itchy though it may be.
MONDAY MALAISE
I’ve been checking the rules for the various loops to which I belong (on which I lurk), and many of them allow promotions only on one day a week. The same day, too, for an astonishing number of them: Monday. Which is, of course, why the same posts show up in so many different places at the same time: it’s the only time they’re allowed!
Does this seem short-sighted to anyone else? Monday, the most hated day of the week. The start of the drudge-trudge workaday weariness. And you want to clog up the loops with promotions on that of all days?
Still, it’s not my job to criticize; I can barely run a blog, much less a chat loop. And in fairness, not all group owners set their rules that way. It just happens that several of those to which I belong do. Which leaves me with, for this new release, three excerpts I can post to many more than three groups and only the one day on which I’m allowed to post them with all the attendant promotional text.
Hmm.
I suppose I could divvy them up, posting excerpt #1 to groups A and B, #2 to C and D, etc. then switch for the next week—but if I do them one or two lists at a time, it’ll take forever and not reach many people, and if I cross-post them, I’ll get ulcers from the guilt and the fear of annoying people who might otherwise decide to read the thing. There’s always option #3, doing nothing, but then the readers won’t know the story’s out there. And wouldn’t that be a shame?
BRAND-NAME AUTHORS
Non-eremitic folks have a solution I really can’t match: they show off their personalities rather than their books. Posting daily to say hi, sending good wishes, writing essays, sharing pictures, just generally being friendly and accessible. Planting their name in people’s minds. It looks absolutely exhausting to me, but it works for them.
Might it for me? Well, I’m pretending not to be a hermit just now, so I thought I’d give this a try; wrote myself a new bio and posted it upon joining another loop:
Species: human; sub-species author.
Gender: female.
Allergies: limelight.
Distinguishing marks: bad puns, twisted humor, tendency to lapse into erotica and/or science.
Habitat: electronic garret. Occasional sightings in the blogosphere. Rumored to have been spotted at publisher chats and loops, too infrequently for verification.
Lung-chin's Guide to Impossible Beings says :
Tracked by the mysterious letter-string "pxj" (postulated to be either the creature's initials or an acronym suffering low self-esteem), this perpetrator of strange humor and disseminator of stranger information may be a hoax, though there would seem little point in that. More likely, "pxj" is, like the sea lily, inclined to retreat at any cost. Reproduction appears to follow no particular schedule, but new creations, i.e. books, arrive frequently enough to dispel any thoughts of this being's extinction.
Tacked on a .sig line with a buy-link and (one hopes) interesting tag for Reach above the usual blessing, and, feeling quite pleased with myself, began planning further posts in a similar line.
Until the reply came back:
“Are you published?”
So, okay; I’m not enough of a brand name yet to do name-only appearances. Sigh. Other options?
$$$ WELL SPENT?
Writers with better finances than mine hire promoters, but the companies with approaches I find acceptable are all out of my price range, and I refuse to pay someone to annoy me by cross-posting to every group in cyberland. The few a la carte services I both like and can afford don’t seem to be the ones that influence readers, at least according to the sketchy research currently available. Some people swear by bookmarks and magnets and pens, others recommend candy or keychains, still others offer only books; some people get fantastic results with, say, purchasing banner space on site X, while others see not a blip in sales... I’d consider a pay-for-results deal, but at present, when it comes to e-book advertising, there’s no guarantee.
This time, I’m putting my money into prizes. Which means that I’ll have to run some contests, through the e-Garret and during scheduled chats or author days. Will this translate into higher sales? And if it does, was it the allure of gift certificates that sent people off to Fictionwise or...did they really like me?
AND THE ANSWER IS...
What, you expect me to know? Darlin’s, I haven’t a clue! But I do have a plan. Sort of.
I like Romance Excerpts Only, think it’s a great idea. But not every potential reader belongs. Mondays and whenever else promos are allowed, I will be trying the sorted-posts approach, all the while trying not to overdo. There’s always the blogosphere with all its links, and web-rings, and the rest of the “passive promotion” options, but new releases are time-sensitive, so I’ll try some more active things as well: Contests and author days and live chats and maybe even a virtual or RL signing.
(Lions and tigers and bears! No, wait—those don’t bother me.)
All of this sounds like entirely too much work, but then, action isn’t really a hermit’s stock in trade. I miss the days of transoms, you know? A scribe could just toss a manuscript over one and go on about her anonymous day. Of course, she probably didn’t make enough money to buy new paper and ink. Or pixels and bandwidth, I suppose. And more even than the money, I’d really like Reach to be read! Which means that, somehow, I have to get the word out that the story’s out there.
Accent on the somehow. Cue the Buffy soundtrack, folks, and join in on the chorus:
Where do we go from here?
I don’t know about you, but I’m headed back to my garret. Just for a few minutes. Really. Maybe an hour or two. But I’ll come back! Have to—there’s no coffee in the place right now. Besides, I have to go schedule an author day.
peace and x-rated joy,
pxj
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The Deas Wouldn’t Touch This With A Ten-Foot Pole
I have a new release this week, can’t think about anything else, I admit it. Well, unless you count a rather remarkably muscled bit of “inspiration” just across the coffeeshop right now... Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes, the new book, released just this week at Aspen Mountain Press. Reach is a strange sort of story to pitch—naturally, considering who wrote the thing—and the publisher seized on one small detail for much of the marketing: the business my heroine and her partner run.
Jackie and Carrie-Anne are “business facilitators,” which seems to mean that they’ll do whatever clients need in order to get their businesses up and running or to keep them that way. They call the business Deas ex Machina, and the outgoing message on the voice mail (when the system works!) informs clients that “the goddesses” are, no doubt, out answering someone else’s prayers.
If you’ve ever had to wade through the paperwork to incorporate, change a name, or clear the title to an estate, you’ll understand why my imagination generated that particular niche. I wouldn’t be too surprised, though, to learn that similar services exist. In a world where alibi services are now available in several countries...
Though my business goddesses are fictional, I felt the need, seeing this, to wince on their behalf. Jackie and Carrie-Anne would be appalled should a client ask them for something like this. Professionally intrigued (how on Earth would you advertise that service?), salivating over the fees, amused—but appalled, really!
I should know, I made them up.
...Ow! Jackie, control that walking tree of yours!
pxj
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