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Tag Archives: erotica

Making love on Olympos

His tongue is a flame on my skin.  He begins at my ankle, soft and cool at first, tracing the narrow bones, a circlet of silver, and as he moves up the back of my calf, I feel his touch burning, burning.

But I’m strong, my skin is feather-light, hard as diamonds.  He kisses the back of my left knee and I laugh and call out – it tickles and arouses me, both.  His fingers are on my golden thigh, drawing patterns of lust in my skin.  I sink my fingers into his white silk hair, rough, tearing.  Not even a thread comes loose.  He stops, and looks to me.  His eyes are blue-green, deep and cold as a lake.

“Don’t stop.”

But he grins, and skims my hips with his snake tongue, around and about, wavelets that don’t make the tide line.

“I’ll change, just see if I don’t,” I whisper, though he’s driving me to desperation.  Me, an immortal, a goddess – but in this I’m just female, full of desires, weak as a woman.

“Like this?”  His white hair turns tawny, his blue eyes golden, he’s a tiger looking down on my naked body, warm breath at my throat.

“Like this.”  I dissolve beneath him, laughing, and become a river of air, so that he crouches on emptiness.  But empty is what I am, and what I don’t want to be, so I take again the form of a woman, honey-skinned, voluptuous.

He takes me by the throat, softly, and I hear him growl as he enters me.  I close my eyes and cling to his thick, soft fur, feel him purr as I constrict around him.

He comes as a man, and we lie together as male and female, and I kiss the perfect lips and know that we’ve made another, this time.

And that, my little god, is how you were conceived.

Boys will be boys and boys will be girls, it’s a mixed up messed up shook up world except for Lola…

L.O.L.A. Lola…aaah…

It’s one of my favourite songs, partly because of the gender bendering that goes on it.  When I was twenty and first met my future husband, I kinda identified as the super-confident Lola, with him being the virginal little blossom that sings the song.  You know the line, ‘she picked me up and sat me on her knee, and said little boy will you come home with me..”  Well that was us.  Sort of.

He (the husband) was round-faced and short and a bit shy and I was a sex-crazed predator in the body of an aloof, socially awkward young uni student.  I’ve always had a thing for men who arouse the more masculine side of my femininity.  Sometimes I shock my daughter by referring to some new squeeze as ‘a cute little thing’.  I know, we’re supposed to like men who are tall and protective and superior – but it takes a lot of man to be superior to me, so in the meantime I’ll settle for a sweet smile and an obedient disposition.

Anyway, when Bex Wild asked me to review her bisexual transgender thriller-romance, Mansworld, I thought, now is my chance to seriously check out love from a different angle.  I’m as straight as a hypotenuse myself, but pretty soon I realised that this was a tale of men mesmerised by other men’s rear ends and a beautiful woman who’s deeply, confusedly masculine.  The chat is flirty and gay, the setting very London-scene, but the love – seems to me to be much like love everywhere.

Unlike men, who to almost a man love watching lesbian women get off with each other, women are supposed to be disgusted by gay erotica.  Still I have to admit that sitting there reading this stuff, I found myself getting the hots – so if you’re looking for something to warm the cockles of your, um, on a cold winter night, you might want to run off to Amazon and add it to your collection.  Add the mafia angle, and you have a light, fluffy, but quite interesting read.

Anyway, Bex offered to do a guest interview on my blog in return for the one-day course in diverse romance, and here it is!

Me: So, you’ve written a gay romance/mafia thriller.  Is gay romance different from straight romance, do you think?

Bex: For me, regards writing this book, not really. There are obstacles to overcome within any relationship as well as highs to be enjoyed, and I guess some will be less or more, depending on the lifestyles the individual lovers lead. When it comes to two people developing feelings for each other, I think its not so much about whether they are the same sex or not, but just about the particular people they are. I don’t believe all men are one way, and all women a certain other way, which therefore dictates the path of romance, it’s just the chemistry of the particular mix in question. I feel its more how we each perceive and deal with situations that arise around our relationships can change all the written ‘rules’, so to speak. The different romantic elements of this book, I feel have  a lot to do with the pressures that invariably get placed on relationships, which can be the make or break them, and are there to be worked through in romances of all sexual orientation
Me: When you wrote this story, was your main aim to entertain people – or does it have a ‘message’?
Bex: It was definitely written specifically to entertain, as I wrote it for my mother to read and hopefully enjoy.
That’s how it started in fact, just by handing her the prologue, with the emphasis on the characters more than plot at that point, and basically saying ‘would you like to read a story about these people?’ Obviously she did, and the book just took shape from there, as I delivered, page by page as she read, what I hoped was as entertaining for her to read as it was for me to write. If readers can gain their own understanding of any messages weaved into it along their way, I guess in a way that depends on the individual reader. I like walking the blurred lines between stereotypes, I grew up in the late eighties/early nineties in East London, knew those kind of characters both personally and through stories and my mother had been a big part of that whole culture for me, and so I wanted to create a mix that was both personal for us and out there on it’s own as something I had written. The intention, was for it to be light and frothy, composed, but still to hold you until the end.
Me: The book’s partly about transgender issues – particularly, about a woman who feels like a man, taking up with a man who’s bi (or gay?).  Is that from personal experience? (ie yours or people you know)  What DOES it feel like to be a sexually mannish woman?
Bex: Yes, it was. It was a leaning my mother and I shared and as I said it was written for her, it was as well as a lot of aspects of the book, included for her benefit, as a major part of our characters that we had in common. Having that kind of aspect to your personality, I think only adds to your perspective of your life and that which transpires around you, the larger your scope the more you see and feel. It has held its negative elements of confusion and that feeling of a square peg in a round hole, but I’ve always believed it’s not about changing your shape but just having to perhaps look a little harder to find the right shaped hole to suit you. It was something I wanted to explore in a character, but I also wanted to do it with an air of ambiguity and not just lay it out right there on the table, I wanted some of that character to be complex and concealed to the reader to work out and to what levels, just as much as she is to herself in that point of her life.
Me: What’s your personal reason for writing?
Bex: Just for the pure love of creating a story and most of all the pure love of creating characters. It has always been about characters for me, I love to see them grow, adapt, surprise, surpass, just simply deal with what life throws at them and develop their different coping mechanisms, survival strategies and such. I remember writing short stories around eight, and very, very long books in my teens, but throughout it was always about creating fully fledged characters and losing myself in where their actions took them. Escapism began for me with a very early love of reading, and writing just became the next level for me. I remember there being a particular point, When I watched Interview with the Vampire for the first time,  it was during a very bleak time in my childhood, and it struck me that I wanted to try and create worlds to delve into for myself, and that’s when I began to write on a major scale. The problem I always found in those days, was that I found it so hard to close the books on my characters and end the stories, Mansworld was my first determined effort to write something much more controlled and easy to relax into. 
Me: What’s the weirdest thing that ever happened to you – that you can put on a blog?
Bex: As for that, if by my standards based on a very weird life led, I would have deemed it weird … then it’s just not something I’d want to blog about!
Unlike Bex, I’ve led a very sheltered life, so if anything weird ever happens to me, I’ll be all too happy to blog about it.  Anyway, there you have it.  An author who writes a gay thriller for her mum has got to be worth a look!

Mansworld

More strangerous than dangerous

Dear Rose

When I was a teenager, my mother was always warning me about strangers. So I wonder, should I go out with men I happen to meet on the street? What if they are really axe murderers. Or, just turn out to have very small penises?

Dear Ms Paranoid,
Of course you should. They will probably turn out to be lonely millionaires who will want to marry you and take you on cruises to warm places. Next question!
No, really, Ms Paranoid, I see no reason why you should pick up strangers from the internet or from newspaper ads but NOT from outside the bottleshop. I myself was once on the way to a music venue to pick up (I mean to listen to a band) when a middle-aged, not unattractive man stopped me and asked ‘Do you know of any nice places to eat around here?”. I explained that my home town had been personally UN-recommended by Bill Bryson, the travel writer, who says there is NOWHERE nice to eat in it – and then HE says, well, I don’t like eating alone, would you care to join me?
So I say “Actually, my good man, I’m going to the pub to catch some music.” Ok, he says, can I come too? So we walk to the pub together while he tells me about, of all things, how you make paper. This is because he’s a PhD in applied mathematics and used to work in the paper industry. Is that right? I say, and ‘Fancy that!’ or words to that effect. Ms P, you need never be at a loss for words with a man as long as you have a selection of these short but subtly encouraging phrases. In any case, HE won’t be. AT a loss.
We sit down at a dark table and proceed to flirt. He asks me all about myself. I nearly swoon. Only 1 out of 99 men know how to do this – and I have hit on the one (I mean, he has hit on me).
He tells me how lovely I am and adds that I have a gorgeous body and a sexy walk. More, more! I gasp. He goes from touching the tips of my fingers to putting his hand on my arm to a tentative kiss and then to the full exploratory expedition to the lower larynx. Since I’m a talented kisser, this is just fine by me – but wait, you say. Wasn’t I ashamed to snog so unabashedly in a bar full of people, some of whom might have been my cousins’ best friends?
Well, yes, Ms Paranoid, at this point I did feel a bit downmarket – especially as Mr Pickup is now fondling my breasts, and we are both breathing heavily down each other’s necks. In case I should wrongly assume that he only wants one thing, he tells me, huskily, that he’d love to take me to dinner and the movies.
Well, I think, YOU might like that, but what I would like is, to get our gear off, NOW. I felt, how shall I put this, agitated. Never wear tight jeans in an erotic quandary, they squeeze you in just the right places.
“Let’s go to my place,” I suggest to the latent axe-murder cum plastics expert, but we’re barely halfway to the parking lot before Mr Pickup pins me against a convenient wall (David Jones, I think it was), sticks his tongue down my throat, his hand down my jeans, and his throbbing maleness up against the yielding core of my….

All the same, I think – suppose some colleague of mine from work just happens to be strolling by! This could be worse than that saucy picture on Facebook! So we hurry to his car – an arousingly large pickup truck – and somehow we make it back to my place, discarding buttons like autumn leaves along the way.
Is he an axe-murderer? Well, no. But he does have some unusual interests. He wants to know all about the other men I’ve invited home, and what they did, and what I did, in graphic detail. He wants me to touch myself. He wants to stare at my crotch and use indecent language. He wants – and this is the weirdest thing – to TALK after sex.
But what has this got to do with my original question, you ask? Well, you can learn a lot from these encounters. For instance, how to be an exhibitionist. How to ‘talk dirty’. How to make a middle-aged plastics engineer from Sydney go into transports of joy, with very minimal effort. All sorts of useful things.
So, just remember this. When it comes to picking up strangers, what doesn’t kill you makes you much better in bed.

Stalkers get more sex

Dear Rose,

What does it mean when a man says he’ll call you, and then doesn’t?  Is it appropriate to track him down to his house and leave him love letters? 

My friend says I should read ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’?  but I said to her ‘If I wait for someone who’s THAT into me, I’ll NEVER get laid!’.

Dear Stalker,

The short answer is, when a man says he’ll call you and he doesn’t, find another man.  There are plenty lying about on the street, and a woman with initiative need never go hungry.

Indeed, this is a perennial problem, about which many films have been made, to heartbreaking effect.  Let me relate my own experience on the subject, as general guidance.

You may remember that in a previous post I mentioned an African-American gentleman with whom I went home one night.  Well, at the end of the encounter, I gave De Wayne (as I’ll call him), my phone number and assured him that I would be happy to hear from him again (just as soon as the friction sores had healed).

A week went by and I heard nothing.  He had said he was going to Melbourne to visit friends, so not to worry.  However, as time went by, I began to feel cross.  I called him rude names.  I cried to the heavens (at least, to the dog) ‘Why? WHY????’.

Was I too old?  Was he allergic to cats?  Did he dislike my friends? Was my house too messy?  Did my refusal to participate in the tenth act of congress in one night disappoint?  Or was he, even now, at a bar in my home city using the same line on another innocent divorcee??

Eventually my resolve broke.  I went around to his friend’s house (where he was staying during his Australian holiday) and put a note in the letter box.  Then I decided to forget all about it, so I made another date with someone else (as the only reliable antidote to one man is ANOTHER man).

The next day I was having dinner with friends and, guess what, who should ring but Tarzan, fresh from the jungles of Melbourne.  At this point, the usual rule is to sound studiously cool (‘Who? Oh yeah, I remember now. I’ve been terribly busy..’).  However, since I had left THE NOTE, this option was closed off.  So instead I greeted him enthusiastically, accepted all excuses offered, and made myself available at the first opportunity.  You may think this was undignified, dear Stalker, but let me tell you, if you had SEEN that body, you would know that a man in the hand is better than one in someone else’s bush, no matter how much bullshit you have to swallow first.

Yes, there were a few issues.  For instance, looks aside, De Wayne was one of the most unfit men I have ever met.  This may have been because he drank vodka for breakfast.  In any case, there is nothing like a man who can barely drag himself up a short flight of stairs without panting heavily and asking for rest stops, to make an ageing chick feel like superwoman.  Don’t underestimate the pleasure to be got from feeling physically superior to your man.

For another thing, he was seriously ‘fucked up’.  Look at it this way though, Stalker, when you date a man with a split personality, what you are REALLY getting is two for the price of one.  For instance, with De Wayne, not only could I enjoy the staid, academic, anal retentive middle-class mathematician (his job back in the US) but I ALSO got a chauvinistic, domineering, womanising, callous and foul mouthed brother from the hood.  While the one buys dinner (and informs me that he doesn’t mind bad table manners in a woman (on the contrary, I can ‘rub my pussy in it’ if I feel like it) the other wants to ask my sister in for a threesome.

A little walk on the wild side is usually worth it, just to broaden your experience of the world, dear Stalker.  However, don’t attempt to form a longer-lasting relationship with a man of this kind unless, of course, you like being treated like a doormat..  De Wayne once told me that he had three rules for all his women.  Rule One was ‘do what I say’.  Rules Two and Three were ‘Refer to Rule One’. This is three too many rules to remember, in my opinion.

When playing with a strange man, remember that you are not his mother, nor are you Emergency Services, poised with helicopter and defibrillator to rescue him from his tragic life.   When he tells you about his abusive upbringing in the deep South, his crack-whore mother who overdosed at 16, his chronic lung disease, his lifelong struggles to climb out of the criminal underworld, and the fact that he had to eat grits for breakfast as a child – and when these tales are accompanied by prolonged and satisfying congress – you may feel a tide of love and pity welling within you.  Crush it.  It will all end in tears.

Did I crush it?  Of course not.  Did it end in tears? Yes it did, Ms Stalker (though, as he left for the US, not for some time). Still, the tank was well and truly filled up, the horizon widened, and you know what, when De Wayne got back to the US, he RANG – just to say those three little words (got any cash?)

So my advice to you, Ms Stalker, is that if you feel inclined to pursue your man, you should do just that – a shitload of hot sex can be worth a little damaged dignity, in the end.

Corny but hopeful

Dear Rose,

I have heard that corny pickup lines such as ‘what’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this without her boyfriend?’ don’t work on real women? Is that true?

Dear Corny,

Like so many things, Corny, it depends. If you approach an attractive, sophisticated woman of the world with this intro, she will probably choke on her drink, or tell you to get lost.  On the other hand, if you trot out this line to a recently divorced woman who thinks she’s approaching her use-by date, you may well be exchanging heavy pillow talk before you can say ‘Wait, I forgot my coat!’

For example, some time ago, I found myself sitting in a low dive, contemplating a mineral water, when an African-American gentleman sidled up to me and used this very line.  Did I snort? Did I tell him to go get a life?

No! Instead, I was flattered, as I hadn’t thought of myself as a girl for quite some time, much less pretty.  I was also suddenly reminded of the great joy of being boyfriend-less, and I thought to myself, well, this seems like the perfect time for a little post-break-up risk taking.  The moral of this story is,  choose your prey wisely, and then have a go – you may get lucky.

But were there cross-cultural issues, you ask shyly?  Me being pinkish, and him being brownish.  Well, yes.  Nothing to do with colour though.  He was probably the most stunningly masculine man I have ever met.  Racial issues only matter if one of you is not very good looking.

However, you probably should establish, before you take your conquest home, whether you share the same general rules of engagement – in particular, the kind of talk you are willing up with which to put, and the exact definition of ‘nymphomaniac’.

To wit, we got home to my place at about midnight, and after some brief preliminaries (mainly consisting of me being pinned against the hall mirror), he ripped my clothes off and we started having sex.  He remarked casually at this point that he very much wanted to fuck my arse off.

After several vigorous encounters and some amusing anecdotes about life as a drug kingpin, I indicated, by turning my back and shutting my eyes, that I’d had enough.  He hadn’t. The thing to remember here is, face your enemy, as you will find you are much more vulnerable from behind.

At four in the morning, I said that I had now REALLY had enough for one night, and that I was tired and bow-legged and wanted to go to sleep.  HE said he didn’t care how tired I was, and that if necessary, he would ‘dry fuck’ me.  He also added that he wanted to ‘fuck my brains out.’  You may find, Corny, that some gently-brought up women will not have heard these terms before, so if you are going to use them, you may want to be prepared with a pocket dictionary, for ease of reference.

At five, I was just about to pass into a coma, when he said he needed a lift home because his car belonged to his friend who used it as a taxi and whose shift began at 6am.  At this point, I dragged myself out of bed, took him home, and heaved a sigh of relief.

You are probably wondering, Corny, at what stage of a one night stand should the complete gentleman say ‘I love you’?  Well, of course you can say it at any point, if you mean it – but I have to warn you that saying it after you have known the woman for ten minutes can be regarded with suspicion.

On the other hand, any compliment, no matter how unlikely, can be put in the box labelled ‘Nice Things Some Man Once Said To Me’ and so therefore my advice is to lay it on thick unless she actually tips a glass over you.  For instance, the man I have been discussing told me after the requisite ten minutes’ hand holding outside the pub that he was in love and had been waiting all his life for me, and, well, if you knew me, you too would realise that in some circumstances passion like this is completely understandable.