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 30, 2007
Friday (News) Flash: It’s World Condom Day
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...
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.
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.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Reach for What You Want!
Madeleine l’Engle said
“I frequently write about myself because that’s how I discover who I am…”
I can honestly say that I am not the heroine of this particular book. But writing her story...yes, I suppose I did learn something about myself. I am not Jackie—among other things, she’s far more driven than I—but her story is one I really, really, really wanted to share with the world. Enough to overcome my usual reluctance to venture forth from my garret; enough to make me do whatever I had to, to see it published properly. Which is a story I shall not be sharing, thanks very much. Enough to say
I wanted it. So I reached. And at last—
Here it is. Within your virtual grasp.
You have no idea how it feels to be able to say that!
As always, peace and x-rated joy,
pxj
Friday, March 30, 2007
Stop the presses! Scientist says "erotica has its place"
File this under “No Duh!” Reporter interviews scientist from the Kinsey Institute, gets a story out of it that says there’s nothing inherently wrong with erotica.
Give the newspaper credit—because in Salt Lake, otherwise known as Mormon Central, printing anything even debatably pro- free sexual expression takes courage. But I couldn’t help reading this article with a more than slightly jaundiced eye. “Nothing wrong with erotica!” it proclaims, citing cave art and the Kama Sutra, among other things.
I’m a card-carrying erotic writer, myself.
But, seriously. This merits column inches in a major metropolitan daily? And on a rather more serious note—there is a difference between erotica and pornography, which this reporter apparently does not grasp.
The article is headed “Kinsey scientist says erotica has its place,” and the first line references “erotic imagery.” But the word “erotica” appears only once in the brief story, as opposed to eight appearances of “porn” or “pornography,” with no clear delineation between the two—it actually ends with a defense of porn as “...a more innocent outlet than adultery.” No mention at all of erotica’s place in a healthy psyche or sex life!
Sigh. Erotica does, indeed, have its place. So does porn. I’d argue that they’re different places, but...baby steps, right?
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