Fiction: Married Women

“Why do you only fuck married women?” I prop myself up on my elbows and look him in the eye.

He fluffs the pillow, then laces his hands behind his head as he thinks.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, “It’s just easier, I guess.”

“Easier than what? Finding a girl you can screw without having to dive out the window afterwards?” He knows I’m teasing him. A little. I poke him in the side and he smiles. He grabs my hand and kisses my index finger.

“I can fuck as many women as I want without apologizing to anyone. A married woman can’t say anything if I’m fucking someone else, because she is too,” he kisses my finger again, then guides my hand under the sheets. I rest it on his cock, but I don’t do anything else.

“You romantic devil, no wonder you need to keep your dance card wide open.”

He grins at that. He fancies himself a bit of a rogue, and he knows I know it.

“Why do you fuck a guy who fucks married women?” he asks.

“I’m barely married. I’m not even sure I qualify as married by your standards. I’ve been separated so long I’m not sure it counts.”

“Ah, but technically you are,” he says. “I’m not worth the trouble for you to actually divorce the guy, right? You can be honest. I’m a great lay, but otherwise, I’m really not worth the hassle of something significant and long term. Right?”

He is right. I massage his cock, coaxing it back to life. He’s cute, that crooked little grin that says he knows he’s guilty, but aw shucks, let’s forget it this one time. Blue eyes, not sky blue or sea blue, just blue. He’s not dumb, he’s not smart either, but he’s funny and sweet, in his own way. He forgets to call, never brings me flowers, but he’s right, he is a hell of a lay. I wouldn’t hunt down the guy I’m technically still married to for him. The court costs, ripping open old wounds that we’ve laid to rest by simply by ignoring them.The fleeting pleasure isn’t worth the pain.

The afternoons and occasional evenings we spend together are delightful. He’s never an asshole, never cruel. He’ll always take the wet spot, and he always asks if I’m satisfied. He’s like a friendly ghost who appears now and again. A friendly ghost with a nice dick.

“Oh my,” I say. His cock stiffens under my hand. “Someone’s awake again.”

He reaches out, touches my face and pulls me close. “Just one more quick one,” he kisses me, “I’ve got to be somewhere in awhile.”

This week’s podcast episode: New Year

For the rest of 2013, I’ll be re-running some older podcasts. I’ve even got them already uploaded and scheduled, because I’m cool like that. I’ll be going back to the every other week schedule instead of the “Oh fuck! I haven’t put out a podcast in two months!” schedule.

So, for your listening consideration I present: New Year. Catch it here on iTunes or listen right from Libsyn.

Why am I re-running? I’m in the middle of a huge writing project and I’m also getting ready to move. However, the main reason is I got an iPad mini, but they didn’t include the voice recorder app, which is what I use to record my podcasts. I love that app more than any fancy schmancy microphone I’ve used, and I see that Apple is going to bring it back when they finally release the newest iOS. I tried some other apps to record the last few newest podcasts, but they sounded terrible in comparison. What can I say? I’m picky.

Hopefully by 2014 I’ll have enough new stuff written that I can get back to releasing brand new episodes. I’m also considering expanding the podcast- would you like to hear works by other authors? Reviews? Interviews? The sound of one hand clapping? Leave me a comment or message me here.

Fiction: An interview with Elliott J.

The first time I had sex with Rachel? We were just kids. Not kids like little kids, but compared to now, you know?

She was cute, long brown hair, real tall. I noticed her in our freshman comp class. Serious. All button down shirts, and pushing her glasses back up kind of serious. It was her first time away from home I think. She didn’t really fit in, but who does when they’re eighteen? We’re all trying on new personalities.

Anyway, freshman comp. It was like she didn’t know how to relax, she raised her hand for everything, even though Mr… Mr. Stevens, was it? Yeah, he would just call on you randomly, but she didn’t catch on. I liked how earnest she was. She was whip fucking smart too. Book smart. She didn’t pretend to know the answer to make herself look good or anything. She really knew it. I could imagine the pep talk someone must of given her the day she left for college “Make this family proud, Rachel!”

It took me until nearly Christmas break to get up the nerve to speak to her. She had no idea how cute she was. I watched other guys try to score with her. It’s not like she blew them off, it was more like she had no idea they were flirting. So I was smart, went the direct route and said “Hey, Rachel, I like you, let’s go out.”

Her face lit all up, that was when I realized how innocent she really was. I’m not even sure she’d been on a date before then. One the one hand, I wanted to protect her. On the other hand, I wanted to bang her silly. She had no fucking idea what she was. I felt like the first guy to connect the dots, to see the X marked on the treasure map. Goddamn.

We didn’t actually go out until after the break, she was overly nice about telling me how she had to go home for the holidays, what day and time she’d be back. It was like she didn’t want to disappoint me, you know? She called me right the moment she got back to the dorms, all explaining who she was, like I’d forget. I couldn’t forget, who could forget Rachel? Continue reading

Everything changes

I’ve been woefully neglectful of my blog and my podcast this year, I know it. This past winter was so awful that it’s effects reverberated well into spring. Decisions were made, time marches on and all that, things are better than good now.

Writing-wise, I’m undergoing a seismic shift. When I was a news reporter, I loathed poetry. When I was a poet, I didn’t care for short stories. When I was writing short stories, anything longer than one thousand words seemed wasteful and excessive. I always felt non-fiction, even in poetry, was my forté.

Irony Alert: Currently I’m working on my first full length fiction novel. Yep. The wind has been blowing that way for quite a while, I’ve simply been trying to resist it. Just like I did with poetry and short stories, and those worked out just fine.

Although I’m not going to rename my blog, I am going to start posting again, but it will mostly be fiction. Most of you probably don’t care what I write, as long as I post something, anything, but for me, it took a great deal of thought and concern. The thing about writing about nothing but yourself is that after three years, you’ve had just about all the fucking introspection you can stand. There are some paths down memory lane that I prefer not to travel anymore.

Right now, my life is fucking amazing. I have an awesome partner who I’ve written about quite a bit, but even that gets hard to keep writing about over and over.

So bear with me as I find my fiction voice and as I post weird ass little clips of things, longer pieces, whatever I find to write about. I’ll still do product reviews, because if sex toy companies want to send me expensive new toys, then hell yes. I want to be blogging more actively again, but the non-fiction fountain has run dry for now. I’ve scheduled rerun podcasts to air every other week all the way through the end of December, hopefully by then I’ll have enough fiction pieces to start a brand new batch.

 

A little travel tale

The only thing I knew about Effingham, Illinois, is that my friend got laid there years ago. He would never give details, other than to say he put the “F” in Effingham, then he’d smile slightly and change the subject. He was a hell of a pool shark, curly hair and mild manners. I imagine he hustled someone good that night and stole the girl at the same time, but I’ll never know for sure.

We pull into Effingham at the end of a long trip to Texas and back. It’s so completely Midwestern: the motel snuggled between Wal-Mart and the freeway, the sign shouts “BEST RATES HERE”. The motel is very burgundy, from the industrial carpeting to the polyester-blend comforter. The room is big, the window frames a terrific vista of the parking lot, Wal-Mart and the strip mall beyond.

There’s one good restaurant in Effingham, where food is described as “organic” and “local”. The waiters and waitresses, young fresh faced Midwestern kids, grew up on McDonald’s, but they’re learning the language of food that costs more than pocket change. They’re earnest, they squint and flip little pages of notes to find out if the cheese comes from a goat or if the beef is grass fed. It’s good, and we stop there every chance we get. Continue reading

We drive.

Every so often, Tony and I will drive all night. We’ll drop someone off at their house and keep going. We’ll be hanging out at a party, we’ll look at each other and get up and leave.

And then we’ll drive.

We go off armed only with the prodigious knowledge every country kid has of the back roads; we all know how to get from one end of the county to the other without our wheels ever touching pavement. This is before GPS, before any of us had ever heard the word “internet,” or could even imagine such a thing. There is a crumpled and tattered state map buried under layers of white fast food bags somewhere in the back seat, stains of ketchup and mud obscuring most of the destinations, but we never use it.

We just drive.

Our first stop is the only 24-hour store in town. A weary, frizzy-headed woman in a blue polyester smock rings us up as we load up on Mountain Dew, shitty bitter gas station coffee, chips, candy bars, cigarettes, anything we think will fuel us until dawn. We pay her in dollar bills and count out lots of change. She sighs in exasperation, but takes the pile of quarters and nickels anyway, noisily dropping each coin in its little plastic drawer as we walk out the door.

Tony always takes the wheel. I kick my shoes off, resting my bare feet against the dashboard or out the window, and we go until we feel like turning. Sometimes we’ll come to an intersection and he’ll look at me. I’ll say “How about left?” or if I say “Go straight,” he’ll always say “Remember, it’s always forward, never straight,” and then he’ll laugh at his own little joke.  Continue reading

New podcast up and a review of my new book

I tried out the Jessica Rabbit Ultimate Vibe for today’s podcast. Listen in iTunes or on Libsyn.

Sex in Words reviewed my new book My Girlfriend Jake:

“Talk about exploratory fiction! Writing erotica that explores gender variation is a tricky thing. More often than not, it usually fails. Capturing the intricate, confusing and sexual thoughts and actions of someone exploring gender is a tough thing.

Daisy Danger hit it.

The story and all of the action starts with a little clothes swap. Jake tries out his girlfriend‘s panties and that sets her crotch and mind ablaze. From there, the two escalate their explorations during a week-long experiment of Jake as “the girlfriend,“ trying and enjoying more and more…”

Read the full review here!

Podcast from the archives: The phone rings in the middle of the night

Re-running one from a few years ago. I have a ton of new subscribers, so I thought I might run a few of the older ones now and again. Listen on  iTunes or on Libsyn.

I had a massive spike in podcast traffic at the end of April, but I don’t know where it came from, and it’s driving me crazy. Did someone mention me on their own podcast? If you’re a new listener, please let me know where you heard about me!

Ok, enough of the ego trip. Enjoy the podcast.

 

 

Three years!

It’s my three year blog anniversary. Three years ago, if you asked me what I expected to happen, I would have said that maybe a few people would find it and read it, and maybe it would last six months if I was lucky. I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.

How did I even start blogging? I call this blog my revenge fuck. It started as a rebellion against one person. No, not one of the ex-boyfriends I’ve written about, but an editor. One of my friends asked me to proofread a piece she wrote for an anthology about true sex stories. I was blown away by the concept, and I wanted in. Even though it was past the submission deadline, my friend talked the editor into letting me submit a piece, as long as I could get it in by the end of the weekend. I wrote my ass off for three days and sent it in.

Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Then I was rejected. The editor was more interested in big names to promote book sales, I later found out. (I’m not quite as naïve about the publishing industry now, I realize that’s just how things work.)

“What the fuck?” I thought. It was one of the best things I’d ever written, I knew it. So I broke that one big long story into a bunch of smaller stories, picked a pen name, bought a domain name and I published it myself, starting with a very short story called “Mister slaps me a second time.”

And here we are, three years later. I never would have imagined. I’ve published several books on my own, I recently wrote a new book for Fleshbot Fiction (shameless plugs, because, hey, if you don’t tell people what you’re doing, they won’t know!) And the podcast, my god, that’s gone farther than I ever would have imagined. I feel like the queen of my own little perverted empire.

I wanted to share a comment I got recently from Marascha Black, who listens to my podcast. It’s one of the best compliments I’ve ever received and it reminded me that what I write is more than stroking my own ego.

You’re a self-made success with quality work and more to come. Very few people can start a podcast, build and maintain a following and garner a book deal. All the sexual life lessons/people that you’ve experienced and committed to print and podcast in life helps so many people in owning their sexuality fearlessly. It’s made you stronger. In these times (wherein a majority of society still rewards women that apologize to no one in pursuit of pleasure by slut-shaming at the stake) you are a one woman middle-finger salute to that bullshit.

 

Thank you all for a wonderful three years, I couldn’t have done any of this without any of you.