Rachel Kramer Bussel's Blog, page 120
June 21, 2012
Free Big Handsome Man erotic romance story from Obsessed: "I Want to Hold Your Hand"
In conjunction with the super bargain sale price of $1.99 for Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women on Kindle, here's my entire Big Handsome Man story (yes, taking its name from the Beatles song, part of a series of song title stories), "I Want to Hold Your Hand," FREE! You don't need a Kindle to take advantage of this big bargain. My book Passion: Erotic Romance for Women is also for sale for $1.99 on Kindle, both for a limited time!
I Want to Hold Your Hand from Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women
by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Shelly looked over at her husband, Ron, across their gleaming lawn, finding him instantly amidst their party guests. She smiled slightly, then set her lips into a straight line; not a frown, but more of an adjustment. Adjustments were what she’d been making for the last two years, ever since he set out to, and did, lose over a hundred pounds, going from severely overweight to big but in shape, the kind of guy who could help push a car out of the snow or carry a heavy box or other tasks that required bulk, strength, power. Now instead of being fat and cuddly, a sexy teddy bear of a giant, he was more like a linebacker, thick and stocky⎯and sexy, at least, by conventional standards. While it seemed to Shelly that men had more leeway than women in acceptable weight gain, the old Ron had crossed over into invisibility in the sex appeal department, though not for her⎯never for her. Now, people, especially women, were fawning over him like he’d cured cancer, while she, in her same old not-too-big, not-too-small size-six jeans, smiled along, trying to adjust to the new man she was now married to.
The truth was, she had preferred him bigger; it went with his outsized personality, not to mention the way he held her down in bed, the way he kept her warm, the way she curved up against him, the way he looked at her, like he was the Tarzan to her Jane. Now, even though technically he weighed more than her, Shelly had trouble getting into that same submissive mindset, perhaps because his personality seemed to have changed too. She didn’t like to think that all the recent adoration had gone to his head, but maybe it had, because even when he was on top of her, even when he pressed her hips deep into the mattress the way she liked it, even when he spooned her at night, curling up around her, she couldn’t quite recapture the magic. She wanted to, but she liked her men bigger, brawnier, huskier. It was hard to fantasize about him being the brute who ravaged her when she could sense that soon she’d be able to feel his ribs. Soon she might not be able to pinch the inches she so welcomed, and would have to twist and squirm to find ways to fit into him, rather than just next to him. She still loved Ron and had no intention of leaving him, but seeing all the girls fawning over his new muscles made her want to gag. Where had they been when he’d stared unhappily at himself naked in the mirror, when there was nothing she could do to make him see what she saw in him? She felt like the heart of their relationship had slipped away along with the pounds; why didn’t Weight Watchers ever tell you about this possible side effect?
At least he had two body parts that hadn’t lost their heft: his hands and his cock. She knew that saying about a man’s feet predicting his size below the waist, but with Ron, his hands and his cock were both, well, manly, while his size-nine feet were what she considered average. His hands, though, were big, strong, powerful; there was nothing he could do about his man hands. Ron had always been able to speak to her with his hands, even on their first date, when he’d reached for one of hers and massaged it, his thumb tricking along her palm, his fingers tickling her skin, making her curious about him, about what he could do to her. They were soft, and seemingly tender, but when she dared to try to get to know them, he’d crushed her fingers within his own, letting her know that he would be the one to master their manual dexterity.
She was still curious, as she’d been then, eager to get to know him by running her lips along his skin, by listening to his heartbeat, though the parts that everyone else was so eager to talk about and salivate over were not the ones that interested Shelly. His abs, his biceps, all sounded like clichés to her ears. Her Ron wasn’t the macho bodybuilder they were making him out to be, and if he were, she wasn’t sure she would want him anymore. She’d caught a couple of college girls, home on break, whispering about what he might look like underneath his clothes, and had huffed her way through their conversation, stalking right in between them and giving them the stink eye. Who were these brats and why didn’t they find someone their own age?
“Honey, I want to go to the movies,” she said, pulling him aside, not caring how petulant she might sound.
“Now?” He looked at her in confusion.
“Well, tonight, yeah.”
“What do you want to see?”
“I don’t care,” she said, then lifted his right hand and brought it to her mouth. With that, she sucked on his index finger, making sure his eyes stayed on hers, taking it all the way before releasing it to lick his palm, not caring if any of their guests saw. Let them watch; let them see that she wasn’t impressed by Ron’s trimmer body, but by the things she knew his body could do, things that had nothing to do with how much he weighed. She knew what she was doing tickled from the way his hand quivered, and she liked making him squirm. Then she moved down to his wrist, where she thought she could feel his pulse racing. “I just want to hold your hand. You know, like we used to.”
It sounded innocent enough, but they’d done a lot more than hand holding back in the day. There was one movie date in particular she recalled, though not the actual movie itself. They’d gone to the theater at 12th and 2nd Avenue in the East Village, during the middle of the afternoon, back when they’d lived in the city, rather than the ’burbs in Jersey. It hadn’t been too crowded, with just a smattering of people. She’d been sitting on the aisle and he’d been next to her, his arm taking over the armrest⎯not that she minded. Shelley was drawn to Ron for his size, for what it symbolized, for how he used it. He could dominate her space any time, especially when his hand reached for hers and then held it, lightly at first, but enough to let the pressure seep into other parts of her body, so it almost seemed as if he were touching her pussy. The tingling increased as he lightly stroked his fingers along her palm, and by the end of the movie, she was shocked she’d been able to restrain herself from dipping her fingers into her panties.
He looked at her and paused, as if she’d said she wanted to go to the movies in Paris. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
With those three words, Shelly knew she hadn’t lost her man completely to his newfound popularity with the ladies. He could tell, from her innocent-sounding suggestion, what it was she was talking about, and that she wanted an escape. He could tell she didn’t mean holding hands like in a romantic 1950s photo, but in a way that signaled so much more. He took her hand in his and squeezed it hard, squeezed all of his love into the press of his palm against hers, his fingers digging deep. He’d lost some of his size, but none of his strength, and when she looked down at their joined hands, she smiled, and reached for his other. They stood there, smiling and squeezing, until he upped the intensity a notch, squeezing so hard her breath came out in gasps.
Trying to ignore the twinges, she sputtered out, “It’s just⎯all these girls⎯they don’t care that you’re married, they don’t care about who you were before. They just see, well, the new you, and it makes me wonder if we can hold onto us when you’re so different.”
He let go of her hands and she moved into his arms, letting herself relax against his bulk. She smiled as a tear rolled down her cheek, because he was still bulky; she was still shorter and smaller than him and fit into the crook of his arm, even if that arm was more solid and less fleshy than before. Ron patted her smooth hair and let his breath land against her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, Shell. Those girls…it’s flattering, I’m not gonna lie. I’ve never had that kind of attention, but all it does is make me prouder to be your husband, to be with the woman who’s loved me all these years. But I’m the same, and I love you the same. I want to celebrate with you, not with anyone else.”
He held their joined hands up in front of him, and Shelly stepped back, still sniffling. “So are we going to hit the movie theater? I’m thinking the art house, something with subtitles.” She blushed, because there was that one time when he got down on his knees, not an easy task for a man pushing 280 pounds, and planted his face between her legs. He was doing it because he loved giving head, but also because he knew how loud she usually got when she was close to orgasm. He was throwing down a dare, a challenge that would either make her come or get them kicked out. She loved that he was willing to take such a risk.
“We’re just gonna leave everyone?”
“Leave it to me,” he said, and then took his hand and wrapped it around her wrist. It was still big enough to encircle her there, and she felt the breath whoosh from her body, the blood circle below her waist. She went to get her coat.
She smiled at a neighbor who gave her a quizzical look and didn’t try to answer anyone’s questions as Ron hustled her into his car. “I left Katie in charge; she’s good at that sort of thing.” Their friend was, indeed, the type who could problem-solve her way out of most any situation. Shelly relaxed against the seat and as Ron drove, his hand wandered to her lap. She reached for it, staring down at their entwined hands, his slightly tanner than hers.
They didn’t speak during the twenty-minute drive, and she moved as if on autopilot. This wasn’t the way the afternoon was supposed to go, but she knew they needed it. She especially knew it when, after giving the clerk their ticket order, Ron leaned over and whispered, “Take off your panties and give them to me.”
She didn’t protest, though she did hurry inside and use the bathroom to perform the task. She slipped him the balled-up red mesh and instead of simply tucking it into his pocket, he made a show of slowly letting the fabric flutter loose, just enough for Shelly to stare at him in horror, to look around in an exaggeratedly slow way, to catch his devilish smile in return. “What are we seeing?” she asked, even though she didn’t really care.
She didn’t know the film or the director or the language. Subtitles weren’t really her thing, but they weren’t really here for the story. At least, not that story. Shelly wasn’t there to eat Twizzlers or popcorn or drink Diet Coke either, but she let Ron buy them for her, and let him put his hand on her ass while she carried the soda and Twizzlers.
But it wasn’t until the lights went down that Shelly truly relaxed. She felt herself sink into the seat; this time they were near the wall, with her closest and Ron beside her. He’d made sure to pick a row that wasn’t crowded, and he put the popcorn on his other side, then opened the Twizzlers and fed one to her. She smiled at him as she chewed the licorice while he held it, until she reached his fingers. She licked them gently, enjoying his soft moan, feeling almost giddy at having run off in the middle of their own party to play at being luststruck. Or maybe they weren’t playing at all, because when he reached for her hand with his free one and held it, she felt nothing but love and lust coursing through her.
“I’m always going to be here for you,” he whispered in her ear, so softly that had her hearing not been as sharp as it was, she might have missed it. She felt a tear roll down her cheek and brushed it away, not wanting to ruin the moment. He took her hand and guided it up under her sundress, the one she’d bought at their local thrift store, the one he’d said made her look like a sexy housewife. They’d both laughed, because she was the chief breadwinner in their home, designing websites and doing consulting while he wrote plays and taught at the local university. But still, she thought of it as her slutty housewife dress, and reaching under its red and white polka-dotted hem to touch her bare pussy, with his hand atop hers, was exquisite. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used her fingers on herself, certainly not going slow and sensual like this. Usually it was a quickie with her plug-in vibrator and she was lucky if she could focus on it. Usually she was on all fours, and she loved that, but they hadn’t made love in any sense of the phrase in a long, long time. Fucking was one thing, a wonderful thing, but she’d missed this.
“I want to feel you,” he whispered, again, so soft, so tender, and both of their fingers pressed inside her, two of hers, two of his. His thumb managed to find her clit and she forced herself not to lock her legs tight, to stay loose and open, all while trying to look at the screen and produce some semblance of the same laughs or groans as were coming from the other audience members. Thankfully the film had a loud rock soundtrack, because even with her biting her lip, Shelly couldn’t keep from making noise. Ron’s hand, the hand she’d fantasized about holding, was suddenly over her mouth, his fingers inside her overtaking hers. She let her wet fingers drop to her side and he became the king of her body, the invading conqueror intent on his prize. She curled her hand around the seat and this time looked down, watching in the dim light as he pushed and twisted inside her, watching as he crouched halfway down, not caring who saw as he silently but swiftly worked his manual magic on her cunt.
Soon she was shaking, squeezing him tight, closing her eyes as she focused purely on the sensation of her husband, her he-man, her true love giving her something no one, not even she, could. This was no longer about the girls at the party, or his weight, or even him proving himself to her. It was a reminder that they’d neglected this side of their relationship for too long, and the orgasm that shook through Shelly made her feel like she’d never come before in her life, not like that. And after, when Ron kept his fingers inside her, insisting they stay for the whole movie, even though she was desperate to go, desperate to see him fully, to pay proper homage to every inch of him, the new muscles and the old favorites, they sat there, with three fingers of his left hand gently inside her, and his right holding hers until the lights came up.
If you liked this story, please check out ALL the stories in Obsessed, by authors including Kayla Perrin, Bella Andre, Portia Da Costa, Logan Belle, Justine Elyot, Charlotte Stein, Kristina Wright and more!
Buy Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women:
Amazon
Kindle ebook edition
Barnes & Noble
Nook ebook edition
Powells
IndieBound
Cleis Press
I Want to Hold Your Hand from Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women
by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Shelly looked over at her husband, Ron, across their gleaming lawn, finding him instantly amidst their party guests. She smiled slightly, then set her lips into a straight line; not a frown, but more of an adjustment. Adjustments were what she’d been making for the last two years, ever since he set out to, and did, lose over a hundred pounds, going from severely overweight to big but in shape, the kind of guy who could help push a car out of the snow or carry a heavy box or other tasks that required bulk, strength, power. Now instead of being fat and cuddly, a sexy teddy bear of a giant, he was more like a linebacker, thick and stocky⎯and sexy, at least, by conventional standards. While it seemed to Shelly that men had more leeway than women in acceptable weight gain, the old Ron had crossed over into invisibility in the sex appeal department, though not for her⎯never for her. Now, people, especially women, were fawning over him like he’d cured cancer, while she, in her same old not-too-big, not-too-small size-six jeans, smiled along, trying to adjust to the new man she was now married to.
The truth was, she had preferred him bigger; it went with his outsized personality, not to mention the way he held her down in bed, the way he kept her warm, the way she curved up against him, the way he looked at her, like he was the Tarzan to her Jane. Now, even though technically he weighed more than her, Shelly had trouble getting into that same submissive mindset, perhaps because his personality seemed to have changed too. She didn’t like to think that all the recent adoration had gone to his head, but maybe it had, because even when he was on top of her, even when he pressed her hips deep into the mattress the way she liked it, even when he spooned her at night, curling up around her, she couldn’t quite recapture the magic. She wanted to, but she liked her men bigger, brawnier, huskier. It was hard to fantasize about him being the brute who ravaged her when she could sense that soon she’d be able to feel his ribs. Soon she might not be able to pinch the inches she so welcomed, and would have to twist and squirm to find ways to fit into him, rather than just next to him. She still loved Ron and had no intention of leaving him, but seeing all the girls fawning over his new muscles made her want to gag. Where had they been when he’d stared unhappily at himself naked in the mirror, when there was nothing she could do to make him see what she saw in him? She felt like the heart of their relationship had slipped away along with the pounds; why didn’t Weight Watchers ever tell you about this possible side effect?
At least he had two body parts that hadn’t lost their heft: his hands and his cock. She knew that saying about a man’s feet predicting his size below the waist, but with Ron, his hands and his cock were both, well, manly, while his size-nine feet were what she considered average. His hands, though, were big, strong, powerful; there was nothing he could do about his man hands. Ron had always been able to speak to her with his hands, even on their first date, when he’d reached for one of hers and massaged it, his thumb tricking along her palm, his fingers tickling her skin, making her curious about him, about what he could do to her. They were soft, and seemingly tender, but when she dared to try to get to know them, he’d crushed her fingers within his own, letting her know that he would be the one to master their manual dexterity.
She was still curious, as she’d been then, eager to get to know him by running her lips along his skin, by listening to his heartbeat, though the parts that everyone else was so eager to talk about and salivate over were not the ones that interested Shelly. His abs, his biceps, all sounded like clichés to her ears. Her Ron wasn’t the macho bodybuilder they were making him out to be, and if he were, she wasn’t sure she would want him anymore. She’d caught a couple of college girls, home on break, whispering about what he might look like underneath his clothes, and had huffed her way through their conversation, stalking right in between them and giving them the stink eye. Who were these brats and why didn’t they find someone their own age?
“Honey, I want to go to the movies,” she said, pulling him aside, not caring how petulant she might sound.
“Now?” He looked at her in confusion.
“Well, tonight, yeah.”
“What do you want to see?”
“I don’t care,” she said, then lifted his right hand and brought it to her mouth. With that, she sucked on his index finger, making sure his eyes stayed on hers, taking it all the way before releasing it to lick his palm, not caring if any of their guests saw. Let them watch; let them see that she wasn’t impressed by Ron’s trimmer body, but by the things she knew his body could do, things that had nothing to do with how much he weighed. She knew what she was doing tickled from the way his hand quivered, and she liked making him squirm. Then she moved down to his wrist, where she thought she could feel his pulse racing. “I just want to hold your hand. You know, like we used to.”
It sounded innocent enough, but they’d done a lot more than hand holding back in the day. There was one movie date in particular she recalled, though not the actual movie itself. They’d gone to the theater at 12th and 2nd Avenue in the East Village, during the middle of the afternoon, back when they’d lived in the city, rather than the ’burbs in Jersey. It hadn’t been too crowded, with just a smattering of people. She’d been sitting on the aisle and he’d been next to her, his arm taking over the armrest⎯not that she minded. Shelley was drawn to Ron for his size, for what it symbolized, for how he used it. He could dominate her space any time, especially when his hand reached for hers and then held it, lightly at first, but enough to let the pressure seep into other parts of her body, so it almost seemed as if he were touching her pussy. The tingling increased as he lightly stroked his fingers along her palm, and by the end of the movie, she was shocked she’d been able to restrain herself from dipping her fingers into her panties.
He looked at her and paused, as if she’d said she wanted to go to the movies in Paris. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
With those three words, Shelly knew she hadn’t lost her man completely to his newfound popularity with the ladies. He could tell, from her innocent-sounding suggestion, what it was she was talking about, and that she wanted an escape. He could tell she didn’t mean holding hands like in a romantic 1950s photo, but in a way that signaled so much more. He took her hand in his and squeezed it hard, squeezed all of his love into the press of his palm against hers, his fingers digging deep. He’d lost some of his size, but none of his strength, and when she looked down at their joined hands, she smiled, and reached for his other. They stood there, smiling and squeezing, until he upped the intensity a notch, squeezing so hard her breath came out in gasps.
Trying to ignore the twinges, she sputtered out, “It’s just⎯all these girls⎯they don’t care that you’re married, they don’t care about who you were before. They just see, well, the new you, and it makes me wonder if we can hold onto us when you’re so different.”
He let go of her hands and she moved into his arms, letting herself relax against his bulk. She smiled as a tear rolled down her cheek, because he was still bulky; she was still shorter and smaller than him and fit into the crook of his arm, even if that arm was more solid and less fleshy than before. Ron patted her smooth hair and let his breath land against her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, Shell. Those girls…it’s flattering, I’m not gonna lie. I’ve never had that kind of attention, but all it does is make me prouder to be your husband, to be with the woman who’s loved me all these years. But I’m the same, and I love you the same. I want to celebrate with you, not with anyone else.”
He held their joined hands up in front of him, and Shelly stepped back, still sniffling. “So are we going to hit the movie theater? I’m thinking the art house, something with subtitles.” She blushed, because there was that one time when he got down on his knees, not an easy task for a man pushing 280 pounds, and planted his face between her legs. He was doing it because he loved giving head, but also because he knew how loud she usually got when she was close to orgasm. He was throwing down a dare, a challenge that would either make her come or get them kicked out. She loved that he was willing to take such a risk.
“We’re just gonna leave everyone?”
“Leave it to me,” he said, and then took his hand and wrapped it around her wrist. It was still big enough to encircle her there, and she felt the breath whoosh from her body, the blood circle below her waist. She went to get her coat.
She smiled at a neighbor who gave her a quizzical look and didn’t try to answer anyone’s questions as Ron hustled her into his car. “I left Katie in charge; she’s good at that sort of thing.” Their friend was, indeed, the type who could problem-solve her way out of most any situation. Shelly relaxed against the seat and as Ron drove, his hand wandered to her lap. She reached for it, staring down at their entwined hands, his slightly tanner than hers.
They didn’t speak during the twenty-minute drive, and she moved as if on autopilot. This wasn’t the way the afternoon was supposed to go, but she knew they needed it. She especially knew it when, after giving the clerk their ticket order, Ron leaned over and whispered, “Take off your panties and give them to me.”
She didn’t protest, though she did hurry inside and use the bathroom to perform the task. She slipped him the balled-up red mesh and instead of simply tucking it into his pocket, he made a show of slowly letting the fabric flutter loose, just enough for Shelly to stare at him in horror, to look around in an exaggeratedly slow way, to catch his devilish smile in return. “What are we seeing?” she asked, even though she didn’t really care.
She didn’t know the film or the director or the language. Subtitles weren’t really her thing, but they weren’t really here for the story. At least, not that story. Shelly wasn’t there to eat Twizzlers or popcorn or drink Diet Coke either, but she let Ron buy them for her, and let him put his hand on her ass while she carried the soda and Twizzlers.
But it wasn’t until the lights went down that Shelly truly relaxed. She felt herself sink into the seat; this time they were near the wall, with her closest and Ron beside her. He’d made sure to pick a row that wasn’t crowded, and he put the popcorn on his other side, then opened the Twizzlers and fed one to her. She smiled at him as she chewed the licorice while he held it, until she reached his fingers. She licked them gently, enjoying his soft moan, feeling almost giddy at having run off in the middle of their own party to play at being luststruck. Or maybe they weren’t playing at all, because when he reached for her hand with his free one and held it, she felt nothing but love and lust coursing through her.
“I’m always going to be here for you,” he whispered in her ear, so softly that had her hearing not been as sharp as it was, she might have missed it. She felt a tear roll down her cheek and brushed it away, not wanting to ruin the moment. He took her hand and guided it up under her sundress, the one she’d bought at their local thrift store, the one he’d said made her look like a sexy housewife. They’d both laughed, because she was the chief breadwinner in their home, designing websites and doing consulting while he wrote plays and taught at the local university. But still, she thought of it as her slutty housewife dress, and reaching under its red and white polka-dotted hem to touch her bare pussy, with his hand atop hers, was exquisite. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used her fingers on herself, certainly not going slow and sensual like this. Usually it was a quickie with her plug-in vibrator and she was lucky if she could focus on it. Usually she was on all fours, and she loved that, but they hadn’t made love in any sense of the phrase in a long, long time. Fucking was one thing, a wonderful thing, but she’d missed this.
“I want to feel you,” he whispered, again, so soft, so tender, and both of their fingers pressed inside her, two of hers, two of his. His thumb managed to find her clit and she forced herself not to lock her legs tight, to stay loose and open, all while trying to look at the screen and produce some semblance of the same laughs or groans as were coming from the other audience members. Thankfully the film had a loud rock soundtrack, because even with her biting her lip, Shelly couldn’t keep from making noise. Ron’s hand, the hand she’d fantasized about holding, was suddenly over her mouth, his fingers inside her overtaking hers. She let her wet fingers drop to her side and he became the king of her body, the invading conqueror intent on his prize. She curled her hand around the seat and this time looked down, watching in the dim light as he pushed and twisted inside her, watching as he crouched halfway down, not caring who saw as he silently but swiftly worked his manual magic on her cunt.
Soon she was shaking, squeezing him tight, closing her eyes as she focused purely on the sensation of her husband, her he-man, her true love giving her something no one, not even she, could. This was no longer about the girls at the party, or his weight, or even him proving himself to her. It was a reminder that they’d neglected this side of their relationship for too long, and the orgasm that shook through Shelly made her feel like she’d never come before in her life, not like that. And after, when Ron kept his fingers inside her, insisting they stay for the whole movie, even though she was desperate to go, desperate to see him fully, to pay proper homage to every inch of him, the new muscles and the old favorites, they sat there, with three fingers of his left hand gently inside her, and his right holding hers until the lights came up.
If you liked this story, please check out ALL the stories in Obsessed, by authors including Kayla Perrin, Bella Andre, Portia Da Costa, Logan Belle, Justine Elyot, Charlotte Stein, Kristina Wright and more!
Buy Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women:
Amazon
Kindle ebook edition
Barnes & Noble
Nook ebook edition
Powells
IndieBound
Cleis Press
I still need anal sex erotica stories ASAP (or by June 30th)
I'm looking for the last few stories to round out my almost done anal sex erotica manuscript. Here's what I need, the sooner the better (new deadline is June 30th but earlier stories have a better chance). Also, keyword: lube. Use it in your stories (or some variation on lube that is not spit; I received a LOT of stories that use spit and I'm not sure what shape the final book will take but I definitely don't need any more stories that use spit as lube). Also: first page, first thing I should see is your story title and byline. And please follow the guidelines: I know they're long, but they aren't superfluous. "50 words or less" means 50 words or less! And those are just suggestions; I need HOT HOT HOT stories that are different from what I already have, that are memorable and mindblowing and sexy and outrageous and dirty and sweet. I can't be too much more specific as it's very much an "I know it when I see it process" (and obviously my editorial selections are 100% subjective, which is why I never give author feedback, aside from not having time; what I don't accept another editor might grab in a hot second). But I can tell you the book is wide open as of today. Might be my last erotica anthology for a while (probably not, but I will see what the bookbuying public decrees and whether it's worthwhile or I should focus my energies elsewhere).
The nitty gritty: I do not need any first time anal sex stories, or any lesbian or gay stories, but would consider bisexual or transgender stories. I am looking for creative settings and scenarios, BDSM stories, anal sex along with other types of sexual activity, threesomes or group stories, masturbation stories, sex toy stories and anything out of the ordinary and extremely hot.
Anal Sex Erotica Call for Submissions
To be published by Cleis Press in 2013
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Editor Rachel Kramer Bussel is looking for hot and sexy anal erotica that will inspire those looking to explore backdoor sex. Everything from intercourse to analingus, strap-ons to butt plugs, bondage, spanking, self-pleasure and more. Stories will range from new practitioners of anal sex to seasoned anal lovers, and recipients of anal pleasure of any gender. Final book will contain a variety of scenarios related to anal sexuality. All characters must be over 18; no scat, incest or bestiality. No poetry. Original, unpublished stories only. 2 submissions maximum per author.
How to submit: Send double spaced Times or Times New Roman 12 point black font Word document (.doc or .docx) with pages numbered OR RTF of 1,500-3,000 word story. Indent the first line of each paragraph half an inch and double space (regular double spacing, do not add extra lines between paragraphs or do any other irregular spacing). US grammar (double quotation marks around dialogue, etc.) required. Include your legal name (and pseudonym if applicable), mailing address, and 50 word or less bio in the third person to analantho at gmail.com. If you are using a pseudonym, please provide your real name and pseudonym and make it clear which one you’d like to be credited as. You will receive a confirmation within 72 hours. I will get back to you by November 2012.
Payment: $50 and 2 copies of the book on publication
Deadline: June 30, 2012 (earlier submissions are strongly encouraged and preferred)
The nitty gritty: I do not need any first time anal sex stories, or any lesbian or gay stories, but would consider bisexual or transgender stories. I am looking for creative settings and scenarios, BDSM stories, anal sex along with other types of sexual activity, threesomes or group stories, masturbation stories, sex toy stories and anything out of the ordinary and extremely hot.
Anal Sex Erotica Call for Submissions
To be published by Cleis Press in 2013
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Editor Rachel Kramer Bussel is looking for hot and sexy anal erotica that will inspire those looking to explore backdoor sex. Everything from intercourse to analingus, strap-ons to butt plugs, bondage, spanking, self-pleasure and more. Stories will range from new practitioners of anal sex to seasoned anal lovers, and recipients of anal pleasure of any gender. Final book will contain a variety of scenarios related to anal sexuality. All characters must be over 18; no scat, incest or bestiality. No poetry. Original, unpublished stories only. 2 submissions maximum per author.
How to submit: Send double spaced Times or Times New Roman 12 point black font Word document (.doc or .docx) with pages numbered OR RTF of 1,500-3,000 word story. Indent the first line of each paragraph half an inch and double space (regular double spacing, do not add extra lines between paragraphs or do any other irregular spacing). US grammar (double quotation marks around dialogue, etc.) required. Include your legal name (and pseudonym if applicable), mailing address, and 50 word or less bio in the third person to analantho at gmail.com. If you are using a pseudonym, please provide your real name and pseudonym and make it clear which one you’d like to be credited as. You will receive a confirmation within 72 hours. I will get back to you by November 2012.
Payment: $50 and 2 copies of the book on publication
Deadline: June 30, 2012 (earlier submissions are strongly encouraged and preferred)
June 20, 2012
$1.99 erotic romance anthologies: Passion and Obsessed
My anthologies
Passion: Erotic Romance for Women
and
Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women
are only $1.99, a huge bargain, on Kindle right now! Not sure how long this sale lasts, but check it out. They even made the Amazon erotica bestseller list (they've been shifting, but as of this posting, Passion is #18). And you do NOT need to own a Kindle to read Kindle books; just download Kindle for your computer (I actually read largely on Kindle for Mac, because I like the layout). Yay for happy news! I still have getting a book trailer on Amazon on my editorial bucket list, but I think it will have to be far far afield of erotica for that to happen. That is in the works too, if I can motivate. Fingers crossed.
Passion: Erotic Romance for Women
Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women [image error]
Passion: Erotic Romance for Women
Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women [image error]
June 15, 2012
You Oughta Know about tonight's Alanas Morisette tribute
I'm really excited about this Alanis Morissette tribute tonight at Joe's Pub celebrating the 17th anniversary of You Oughta Know. It's got an amazing lineup and is sure to be a lot of fun! I wasn't sure if I could make it until yesterday, and am excited about it after a week of insomnia nonstop work around the clock.
Featuring the best and brightest comedians, musicians and storytellers on the New York scene,You Oughta Know will pay wild tribute to the Canadian who changed your life when she burst onto the scene with the infamous lyric, "Every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back I hope you feel it," the one and only Alanis Morissette. Hosted and curated by Carolyn Castiglia (Comedy Central, VH1, Our Hit Parade) and Mindy Raf, aka Leibya Rogers (College Humor, VH1). Like rain on your wedding day, you'll never forget this night.
With:
Katina Corrao (Comedy Central)
Jessica Delfino (Edinburgh Fringe, Montreal Comedy Festival)
Ophira Eisenberg (host of NPR's Ask Me Another, The Moth, recently featured in the NYT)
Erin and her Cello (resident at Rockwood Music Hall, Ars Nova)
Eliot Glazer (author, My Parents Were Awesome, creator of Sh*t New Yorkers Say, editor at New York magazine's Vulture blog)
Jen Kwok (Comedy Central)
Ben Lerman (Keith and the Girl favorite)
Arthur Lewis & the Geniuses (Ars Nova, Freestyle Love Supreme)
Carla Rhodes (Glasgow Comedy Festival, residency at Arlene's Grocery)
Rachel Sklar (Huffington Post, Mediaite, Change The Ratio)
Stuckey and Murray (FUSE, MTV, Last Comic Standing)
Chris "Shockwave" Sullivan (The Electric Company, Freestyle Love Supreme)
June 14, 2012
Teaching Erotica 101 at CatalystCon in September in Long Beach, California
I don't know too much about my upcoming schedule, which will largely depend on whether I land a full-time job or keep on freelancing full-time (I'm looking for editorial jobs in NYC, if you know of anything), but the weekend of September 14-16 I will be attending and speaking at CatalystCon in Long Beach, California. I'm teaching my Erotica 101 workshop, and very much looking forward to it. See the full lists of speakers and sessions. 
Erotica 101
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Professional erotica author and editor Rachel Kramer Bussel, editor of over 40 anthologies, will take you through the ins and outs of modern erotic writing, from getting started, finding your voice, writing against type, erotic love and lust letters, to submitting your work keeping up with the thriving erotica market. You’ll learn how to incorporate everyday scenarios as well as outlandish fantasies into your writing, and make them fit for particular magazines and anthologies. Whether you’re writing to that special someone, penning longtime fantasies, or want to earn cash for your dirty words, this workshop, taught by the editor of over a dozen erotic anthologies, is for you. Paper and writing implements will be provided.
Free erotic writing workshop July 25th at Babeland NYC
I'm giving erotic writing tips for free at Babeland, a few blocks down from my first NYC home on Mercer Street, on July 25th. No RSVP necessary! There is an Eventbrite listing if you want to pass it on.
July 25, 7 pm
Easy Erotica Writing With Rachel Kramer Bussel
In this mini-workshop, Rachel Kramer Bussel, editor of Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories and Best Bondage Erotica 2012, will teach you her top ten tricks for getting your reader’s knickers in a twist. You’ll be bangin’ out your own book in no time! Free. No RSVP required. Babeland, 43 Mercer Street, NYC
July 25, 7 pm
Easy Erotica Writing With Rachel Kramer Bussel
In this mini-workshop, Rachel Kramer Bussel, editor of Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories and Best Bondage Erotica 2012, will teach you her top ten tricks for getting your reader’s knickers in a twist. You’ll be bangin’ out your own book in no time! Free. No RSVP required. Babeland, 43 Mercer Street, NYC
June 13, 2012
Sign up for a free, autographed copy of Anything for You: Erotica for Kinky Couples to review
My Amazon reviewers are very special because they get my books pretty much before everyone else, save for me and the publisher; I get my editor copies shipped directly to me and the first thing I do is send them off to those of you who are kind enough to agree to review them on Amazon. I love that feeling of knowing my books are going to eager readers all across the country, and seeing your extremely thoughtful, detailed reviews helps remind me why I'm doing this, and, hopefully, encourages those who might be interested in checking out a certain book to give it a show. The reviews don't have to be long; a few sentences are fine, though many people go deeper than that, sometimes highlighting their favorite stories, or even every story. Whatever you want to say is fine; I do request that reviewers post within 6 weeks of receipt.
So with that said, I'm making a list of 20 people to send the very first hot off the press copies of Anything for You: Erotica for Kinky Couples in mid-July. It's a book with a wide mix of types of couples, types of kink, and ways of exploring BDSM, in the home and outside of it (my femdom story "Petting Zoo" takes place at a party). If you'd like to get one and have made a purchase at some point from Amazon.com and are in the U.S. and agree to review it within six weeks of receipt, please email anythingforyou at gmail.com with "Amazon" in the subject and your name and mailing address in the body. The first 20 of you will be added to my list and will get your autographed copies via media mail as soon as they arrive! (I'll update this post when I've reached 20 reviewers, though follow me @raquelita on Twitter because I sometimes post reviewing opportunities there too).
I'll be posting excerpts and more information about the book next month, but wanted to give you a heads up here in case you're interested. Anything for You: Erotica for Kinky Couples is edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and will be published by Cleis Press. It is available for pre-order on Amazon (more purchasing links tk).
Introduction: As Kinky as They Want to Be
Like Riding a Bicycle Lisabet Sarai
Borrower Beware Heidi Champa
Anything She Wanted Neil Gavriel
Tails Deborah Castellano
Teppanyaki Janine Ashbless
Greasing the Wheels Madlyn March
Interview Talon Rihai and Salome Wilde
I Tend to Her Justine Elyot
Apple Blossoms Emerald
Big Night D. L. King
The Guest Star Sinclair Sexsmith
Exposure Elizabeth Coldwell
New Games on a Saturday Night Teresa Noelle Roberts
Notes from Her Master Kathleen Tudor
Lap It Up Kay Jaybee
What If Angela R. Sargenti
Petting Zoo Rachel Kramer Bussel
Normal Charlotte Stein
Everything She’d Always Wanted Ariel Graham
Introduction: As Kinky as They Want to Be
“My wife is on her knees.” That is how the first story in this book, “Like Riding a Bicycle,” by Lisabet Sarai, starts off, and in some ways, it’s why I don’t think I even need to introduce these stories, although I am about to. What I like most about this book is that its authors, in each of these nineteen titillating stories, assume that the reader is already aware of the world of BDSM. That’s not to say that if you’re a curious newcomer to the world of bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism you shouldn’t keep turning the pages, but just to point out that there is an ease with which these couples embrace their love of kink, in its varied forms, even when they are uneasy about the particular acts they are about to engage in. That push/pull, love/hate relationship with what turns us on is part of the beauty of BDSM and is a recurring theme here. In the course of these erotic vignettes, you will indeed learn about why, say, someone would want to be “forced” onto her knees, or bent over a bed or used as a plaything.
In these stories, you will find pain, and pleasure. You will find service and devotion. You will find Masters and Mistresses and curious onlookers⎯and so much more. You will find a dinner party where food is used for foreplay, and learn what CNFM stands for (hint: Clothed Female, Naked Male). But more than any particular scene or setup you’ll read about⎯and they are quite dazzling in their ingenuity⎯what stays with me the most from these stories is the longevity of the couples, the way they can read each others’ moans and sighs and screams so well, discerning a lover’s desires based on years of practice.
One of my biggest pet peeves about BDSM erotica is when a story leaps too quickly into the “action” and doesn’t give enough insight into who the characters are, what makes them tick, what makes them want to be bound, gagged, stripped naked, exposed, ordered around⎯or be the one doing those things. In every one of these imaginative, racy stories, you will find out why each part of the couple is there, what they get out of their relationship, what pushes their buttons, what animates their kink. You’ll find anal penetration, asparagus sex, an interview with a Mistress and her most eager slave, role-playing, spanking, bondage, exhibitionism and much more. Fantasies are fulfilled, sometimes on command, sometimes in ways their creators never could have foreseen. Most of all, though, what comes through is the passion, caring, and commitment these couples have for one another, the love behind (and alongside) the lust, which is what enables them to do all the wild, wanton things they do.
In the closing story, “Everything She’d Always Wanted,” by Ariel Graham, you will see the word fear over and over; the protagonist, Gwen, also experiences her share of panic. Her journey deep into the world of a Dominant/submissive relationship is captured in expert prose. Graham writes, “She’d adapted quickly, something in her recognizing what she’d been searching for.” When I wrote earlier that there’s a comfort with the topic of BDSM, what I meant is precisely what is shown so dramatically and beautifully in that story. What happens in it is Gwen’s idea, as the title suggests, but she is still nervous, wary, uncertain if her biggest fantasy is actually one she is capable of going through with. It’s this very fear that drives her, that arouses her, that pushes her to keep going. The only thing you have to listen to is David, Gwen thinks to herself at one point. She has to take a leap of faith to get from here to there, and when she does, a whole new sexual world opens up for her.
The same could be said of the other characters, men and women, tops and bottoms, you’ll read about in these pages. In a sense they all have to take a leap of faith and trust their partners to guide them, whether it’s Dan in D. L. King’s “Big Night,” who gets a very special fortieth birthday party, or the narrator of Sinclair Sexsmith’s, “The Guest Star,” who watches as her girlfriend takes a new lover, or Jack in “New Games on a Saturday Night” by Teresa Noelle Roberts, who is used to girls who know their way around the business end of a paddle, but has what he thinks he knows turned on its head by a novice, Serena. For him, “the turn-on wasn’t so much giving the pain as being trusted to give just the right amount of pain.”
I hope these stories will move you as deeply as they’ve moved me. They are rich, varied and incredibly naughty. Many of them have made me wish I could slip inside the body and mind of a given character and act out his or her devilishly dirty delights. All of them have shown me just how powerful a force kink can be, how it can bring couples closer together and show them the true depths of trust and desire they can plumb.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City
So with that said, I'm making a list of 20 people to send the very first hot off the press copies of Anything for You: Erotica for Kinky Couples in mid-July. It's a book with a wide mix of types of couples, types of kink, and ways of exploring BDSM, in the home and outside of it (my femdom story "Petting Zoo" takes place at a party). If you'd like to get one and have made a purchase at some point from Amazon.com and are in the U.S. and agree to review it within six weeks of receipt, please email anythingforyou at gmail.com with "Amazon" in the subject and your name and mailing address in the body. The first 20 of you will be added to my list and will get your autographed copies via media mail as soon as they arrive! (I'll update this post when I've reached 20 reviewers, though follow me @raquelita on Twitter because I sometimes post reviewing opportunities there too).
I'll be posting excerpts and more information about the book next month, but wanted to give you a heads up here in case you're interested. Anything for You: Erotica for Kinky Couples is edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and will be published by Cleis Press. It is available for pre-order on Amazon (more purchasing links tk).
Introduction: As Kinky as They Want to Be
Like Riding a Bicycle Lisabet Sarai
Borrower Beware Heidi Champa
Anything She Wanted Neil Gavriel
Tails Deborah Castellano
Teppanyaki Janine Ashbless
Greasing the Wheels Madlyn March
Interview Talon Rihai and Salome Wilde
I Tend to Her Justine Elyot
Apple Blossoms Emerald
Big Night D. L. King
The Guest Star Sinclair Sexsmith
Exposure Elizabeth Coldwell
New Games on a Saturday Night Teresa Noelle Roberts
Notes from Her Master Kathleen Tudor
Lap It Up Kay Jaybee
What If Angela R. Sargenti
Petting Zoo Rachel Kramer Bussel
Normal Charlotte Stein
Everything She’d Always Wanted Ariel Graham
Introduction: As Kinky as They Want to Be
“My wife is on her knees.” That is how the first story in this book, “Like Riding a Bicycle,” by Lisabet Sarai, starts off, and in some ways, it’s why I don’t think I even need to introduce these stories, although I am about to. What I like most about this book is that its authors, in each of these nineteen titillating stories, assume that the reader is already aware of the world of BDSM. That’s not to say that if you’re a curious newcomer to the world of bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism you shouldn’t keep turning the pages, but just to point out that there is an ease with which these couples embrace their love of kink, in its varied forms, even when they are uneasy about the particular acts they are about to engage in. That push/pull, love/hate relationship with what turns us on is part of the beauty of BDSM and is a recurring theme here. In the course of these erotic vignettes, you will indeed learn about why, say, someone would want to be “forced” onto her knees, or bent over a bed or used as a plaything.
In these stories, you will find pain, and pleasure. You will find service and devotion. You will find Masters and Mistresses and curious onlookers⎯and so much more. You will find a dinner party where food is used for foreplay, and learn what CNFM stands for (hint: Clothed Female, Naked Male). But more than any particular scene or setup you’ll read about⎯and they are quite dazzling in their ingenuity⎯what stays with me the most from these stories is the longevity of the couples, the way they can read each others’ moans and sighs and screams so well, discerning a lover’s desires based on years of practice.
One of my biggest pet peeves about BDSM erotica is when a story leaps too quickly into the “action” and doesn’t give enough insight into who the characters are, what makes them tick, what makes them want to be bound, gagged, stripped naked, exposed, ordered around⎯or be the one doing those things. In every one of these imaginative, racy stories, you will find out why each part of the couple is there, what they get out of their relationship, what pushes their buttons, what animates their kink. You’ll find anal penetration, asparagus sex, an interview with a Mistress and her most eager slave, role-playing, spanking, bondage, exhibitionism and much more. Fantasies are fulfilled, sometimes on command, sometimes in ways their creators never could have foreseen. Most of all, though, what comes through is the passion, caring, and commitment these couples have for one another, the love behind (and alongside) the lust, which is what enables them to do all the wild, wanton things they do.
In the closing story, “Everything She’d Always Wanted,” by Ariel Graham, you will see the word fear over and over; the protagonist, Gwen, also experiences her share of panic. Her journey deep into the world of a Dominant/submissive relationship is captured in expert prose. Graham writes, “She’d adapted quickly, something in her recognizing what she’d been searching for.” When I wrote earlier that there’s a comfort with the topic of BDSM, what I meant is precisely what is shown so dramatically and beautifully in that story. What happens in it is Gwen’s idea, as the title suggests, but she is still nervous, wary, uncertain if her biggest fantasy is actually one she is capable of going through with. It’s this very fear that drives her, that arouses her, that pushes her to keep going. The only thing you have to listen to is David, Gwen thinks to herself at one point. She has to take a leap of faith to get from here to there, and when she does, a whole new sexual world opens up for her.
The same could be said of the other characters, men and women, tops and bottoms, you’ll read about in these pages. In a sense they all have to take a leap of faith and trust their partners to guide them, whether it’s Dan in D. L. King’s “Big Night,” who gets a very special fortieth birthday party, or the narrator of Sinclair Sexsmith’s, “The Guest Star,” who watches as her girlfriend takes a new lover, or Jack in “New Games on a Saturday Night” by Teresa Noelle Roberts, who is used to girls who know their way around the business end of a paddle, but has what he thinks he knows turned on its head by a novice, Serena. For him, “the turn-on wasn’t so much giving the pain as being trusted to give just the right amount of pain.”
I hope these stories will move you as deeply as they’ve moved me. They are rich, varied and incredibly naughty. Many of them have made me wish I could slip inside the body and mind of a given character and act out his or her devilishly dirty delights. All of them have shown me just how powerful a force kink can be, how it can bring couples closer together and show them the true depths of trust and desire they can plumb.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City
Guest post by Sharazade:: Bound by Lust blog tour
Today's guest post (below the book cover) by Sharazade is part of the
Bound by Lust: Romantic Stories of Submission and Sensuality
blog tour. Here's a post by editor Shanna Germain and here's a post by Andrea Dale (I'm the third stop on the tour). I love how thorough Shanna was and am taking notes to apply to my anthology editing (and something that's vital to an anthology; in my humble opinion, you can't just consider each story on its own merit, but each story as it fits with the others you've selected). Definitely worth bookmarking if you edit anthologies. Here's one of the things she looked at balancing: "LOCATIONS: Urban public, rural public, phone sex, workplace, sex toy store, play party, art gallery, bedroom, other parts of the house, backyard, church." Enjoy, and pick up a copy (ebook forthcoming) of Bound by Lust! (My story "The Heart of Chaos," about a public kinky scene in an art gallery, is also in the book.) And, for those who like sexy bondage photos especially, check out the Bound by Lust Tumblr.
Adverbs of Lust by Sharazade
What does one write about to promote a book such as Bound by Lust? The stories in this collection are about sex, love, and bondage—but then everyone’s going to write about those. So I fell back on what my own story is about. Defining the Terms is about sex, love, and bondage, and yet… it isn’t. I mean, those are all there. But they’re not what the story is about. They’re more the plot device, the how-the-“about”-is-achieved, the means to an end.
The story, like many of mine, is about me. Me, and work. Me, and work, and grammar. Anyone who knows me knows how integrally connected I am to work and grammar; not always in healthy ways. The woman in my story works too much. It’s a trap, this busy-ness of business. Work seems so pressing! There are deadlines! And yet she knows it’s not really what she wants. It’s not life, it’s no way to live. It’s just work. Knowing that and stepping away from it are two different things, though, at least for me.
This is where her partner steps in, and where bondage comes in: Sometimes to get a workaholic off the treadmill, you have to pick her up, tie her down, and fuck her—not senseless, but back to her senses.
Right. So where does grammar come in? Well, my heroine is writing up to the deadline about adverbs (adverbials, actually—just a fancy word for adverb phrases). That was a little in-joke I wrote for myself, which I’m now going to explain.
I’ve always been a non-fiction writer by trade and profession, actually, who added in fiction a few years ago. I’d read fiction by the bushel, but given that I hadn’t formally studied the writing of it, I joined some online forums and groups and lists and began to educate myself a bit.
One of the things that surprised me the most was the … OK, “hatred” is too harsh, but … the invective against adverbs. I read posts by people who explained their systems for going through their manuscripts in the editing phrase to remove every adverb. What?! What on earth for? I was totally baffled. It was like hearing fashion designers come out against one of the primary colors or a cook explain why he wouldn’t use vegetables, or something. And it wasn’t just coming from one or two people. There seemed to be whole schools devoted to the elimination of adverbs. Google popular writing tips, if you don’t believe me.
In frustration, I asked a fellow grammar-lover and fiction-writer where this trend had come from. Stephen King, he said. I thought he was being flip—it did seem like the stuff of horror. But no, he meant that literally: from Stephen King, from his (otherwise excellent, if we also skip over the bit about the passive) On Writing. He’s got a whole rant in there: Adverbs, he tells us, are not your friend. Part of the problem is that King doesn’t really understand what adverbs are. I can tell, because he gives us this definition: Adverbs, you will remember from your own version of Business English, are words that modify verbs, adjectives, or other adverbs. They’re the ones that usually end in –ly.
Sorry, but no. I don’t care what you heard in 8th grade, but that’s not true. Adverbs modify verbs (thus the name, right?). Something that modifies an adjective is a modifier. Something that modifies an adverb is usually an intensifier. But let’s get back to a sound definition and to the –ly thing, because that’s what trips people up, it seems.
An adverb modifies a verb—meaning that it adds information that affects the action of the sentence. One type of adverb, a one-word adverb of manner, often ends in –ly, this is true.
King’s beef with the –ly crowd is that some people overuse them with dialogue tags. This reminds King of the type of pun known as a “Tom Swiftie.” Actually, it reminds me of Tom Swifties too, though a key difference is that I love those:
“I refuse to make an agenda,” Tom said listlessly.
“So it all comes to nothing,” said Tom naughtily. “Show no mercy killing the vampire,” said Tom painstakingly.
“Let me get a harness and leash,” Tom said fetchingly.
“I only have diamonds, clubs, and spades,” said Tom heartlessly.
“Orgasms aren't a big deal,” Tom said anticlimactically.
Even those don’t all have to be –ly adverbs, though:
“I never heard of anilingus,” Tom said, tongue-in-cheek.
“Oops! There goes my hat!” said Tom off the top of his head.
But there are far many more types of adverb than just adverbs of manner; and many adverbials that are more than just one word.
Adverbs give information about these things:
• How something is done (badly; with a hammer; by candlelight)
• Why something is done (to hurt me; intentionally; for a nefarious purpose)
• How often something happens (often; daily; once a year)
• Where the action occurs (on the stairs; there; beyond the ridge)
• When the action occurs (now; in the dead of night; in the 16th century)
Those who came to this blog to read about sex and lust and tying people up are probably about ready to beat their heads on the desk. But do you see? Do you see what adverbs have to do with sex and relationships? All of that stuff—how, why, how often, where, when—all of that is an important part of sex. You couldn’t write about human interaction without adverbials (you could barely write at all; by some estimates, adverbial elements comprise about 80% of English sentences).
So as I wrote my story about being tied up and thrown on the bed and forced back into reality, I slipped in my pro-adverb agenda as my own subtle protest. I wasn’t sure anyone would even notice, let alone understand; and then along came this opportunity to bring it out into the open.
Sex is not dirty. Bondage and BDSM are not evil. And neither are adverbs. Continue to write—and to love—truly, madly, deeply.
Sharazade is professional writer, editor, and consultant with more than 20 books published under another name. She divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S. She enjoys stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened and fanciful enough that they might not have. She values communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love. Her first collection of stories, Transported: Erotic Travel Tales, is published by Fanny Press. Her stories also appear in anthologies with Cleis Press, Sizzler, and the Erotic Literary Salon. Shar blogs sporadically at http://sharazade.fannypress.com and runs 1001 Nights Press, an erotica imprint for authors who embrace adverbs: http://1001nightspress.com.
Adverbs of Lust by Sharazade
What does one write about to promote a book such as Bound by Lust? The stories in this collection are about sex, love, and bondage—but then everyone’s going to write about those. So I fell back on what my own story is about. Defining the Terms is about sex, love, and bondage, and yet… it isn’t. I mean, those are all there. But they’re not what the story is about. They’re more the plot device, the how-the-“about”-is-achieved, the means to an end.
The story, like many of mine, is about me. Me, and work. Me, and work, and grammar. Anyone who knows me knows how integrally connected I am to work and grammar; not always in healthy ways. The woman in my story works too much. It’s a trap, this busy-ness of business. Work seems so pressing! There are deadlines! And yet she knows it’s not really what she wants. It’s not life, it’s no way to live. It’s just work. Knowing that and stepping away from it are two different things, though, at least for me.
This is where her partner steps in, and where bondage comes in: Sometimes to get a workaholic off the treadmill, you have to pick her up, tie her down, and fuck her—not senseless, but back to her senses.
Right. So where does grammar come in? Well, my heroine is writing up to the deadline about adverbs (adverbials, actually—just a fancy word for adverb phrases). That was a little in-joke I wrote for myself, which I’m now going to explain.
I’ve always been a non-fiction writer by trade and profession, actually, who added in fiction a few years ago. I’d read fiction by the bushel, but given that I hadn’t formally studied the writing of it, I joined some online forums and groups and lists and began to educate myself a bit.
One of the things that surprised me the most was the … OK, “hatred” is too harsh, but … the invective against adverbs. I read posts by people who explained their systems for going through their manuscripts in the editing phrase to remove every adverb. What?! What on earth for? I was totally baffled. It was like hearing fashion designers come out against one of the primary colors or a cook explain why he wouldn’t use vegetables, or something. And it wasn’t just coming from one or two people. There seemed to be whole schools devoted to the elimination of adverbs. Google popular writing tips, if you don’t believe me.
In frustration, I asked a fellow grammar-lover and fiction-writer where this trend had come from. Stephen King, he said. I thought he was being flip—it did seem like the stuff of horror. But no, he meant that literally: from Stephen King, from his (otherwise excellent, if we also skip over the bit about the passive) On Writing. He’s got a whole rant in there: Adverbs, he tells us, are not your friend. Part of the problem is that King doesn’t really understand what adverbs are. I can tell, because he gives us this definition: Adverbs, you will remember from your own version of Business English, are words that modify verbs, adjectives, or other adverbs. They’re the ones that usually end in –ly.
Sorry, but no. I don’t care what you heard in 8th grade, but that’s not true. Adverbs modify verbs (thus the name, right?). Something that modifies an adjective is a modifier. Something that modifies an adverb is usually an intensifier. But let’s get back to a sound definition and to the –ly thing, because that’s what trips people up, it seems.
An adverb modifies a verb—meaning that it adds information that affects the action of the sentence. One type of adverb, a one-word adverb of manner, often ends in –ly, this is true.
King’s beef with the –ly crowd is that some people overuse them with dialogue tags. This reminds King of the type of pun known as a “Tom Swiftie.” Actually, it reminds me of Tom Swifties too, though a key difference is that I love those:
“I refuse to make an agenda,” Tom said listlessly.
“So it all comes to nothing,” said Tom naughtily. “Show no mercy killing the vampire,” said Tom painstakingly.
“Let me get a harness and leash,” Tom said fetchingly.
“I only have diamonds, clubs, and spades,” said Tom heartlessly.
“Orgasms aren't a big deal,” Tom said anticlimactically.
Even those don’t all have to be –ly adverbs, though:
“I never heard of anilingus,” Tom said, tongue-in-cheek.
“Oops! There goes my hat!” said Tom off the top of his head.
But there are far many more types of adverb than just adverbs of manner; and many adverbials that are more than just one word.
Adverbs give information about these things:
• How something is done (badly; with a hammer; by candlelight)
• Why something is done (to hurt me; intentionally; for a nefarious purpose)
• How often something happens (often; daily; once a year)
• Where the action occurs (on the stairs; there; beyond the ridge)
• When the action occurs (now; in the dead of night; in the 16th century)
Those who came to this blog to read about sex and lust and tying people up are probably about ready to beat their heads on the desk. But do you see? Do you see what adverbs have to do with sex and relationships? All of that stuff—how, why, how often, where, when—all of that is an important part of sex. You couldn’t write about human interaction without adverbials (you could barely write at all; by some estimates, adverbial elements comprise about 80% of English sentences).
So as I wrote my story about being tied up and thrown on the bed and forced back into reality, I slipped in my pro-adverb agenda as my own subtle protest. I wasn’t sure anyone would even notice, let alone understand; and then along came this opportunity to bring it out into the open.
Sex is not dirty. Bondage and BDSM are not evil. And neither are adverbs. Continue to write—and to love—truly, madly, deeply.
Sharazade is professional writer, editor, and consultant with more than 20 books published under another name. She divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S. She enjoys stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened and fanciful enough that they might not have. She values communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love. Her first collection of stories, Transported: Erotic Travel Tales, is published by Fanny Press. Her stories also appear in anthologies with Cleis Press, Sizzler, and the Erotic Literary Salon. Shar blogs sporadically at http://sharazade.fannypress.com and runs 1001 Nights Press, an erotica imprint for authors who embrace adverbs: http://1001nightspress.com.
June 11, 2012
Submissive male bondage and orgasm denial sex diary
This week's sex diary is called "The Submissive Man Who Isn't Allowed to Orgasm". I'm the editor of these weekly sex diaries - this week, bondage and submission and orgasm denial and female domination! Interested in writing a sex diary? Tell me why you'd make a good candidate at sexdiaries at nymag.com and feel free to pass it on. Thanks!
June 9, 2012
Snapshot
I'm in the midst of lots of deadlines and reading for reviews and interviews and to do lists and generally figuring out how to prioritize my time and who I want to be, whether any of this is worth it or the ultimate vanity. Freelancing has taken over my life, and some days that feels exciting and amazing; to not have to rush back to a cubicle after BEA was something utterly new, and I am grateful for that, but at the same time, I wonder how long I can sustain this, whether it makes sense or I'm fooling myself that I can "make it," not that I even know what that means. Do I reach for the stars and pursue a nonfiction opportunity that would be lend me credibility outside the sex writing field, would give me access to people and experiences I would never have otherwise? Do I keep pecking away at the project I thought I could blaze through two weekends ago and instead have left to linger? Do I keep editing anthologies because I love it even if the sales sometimes disappoint me or throw in the towel after the latest deadlines and find something more lucrative to do with my time? (I will probably always edit anthologies, but I want to keep doing it because it's fulfilling and wise, not just because I'm so used to it I can't brainstorm anything else to do.)
I have no idea, and sometimes it feels like to take time to even think about it is blasphemous and wasteful. That's why I bought Chris Gillebeau's The Art of Non-Comformity last night at Bluestockings. I saw it sitting on a stack of books while I was feeling like a failure for hosting a reading where there were more cupcakes than attendees, and knew I needed to do something different, not make the same mistake ad infinitum. I know that there are possibilities glimmering just within reach; even when I sit on my ass, sometimes they make their way to me, as if knowing I need them, need someone to believe in me, but the truth is I need to believe in myself, to figure out what I want to do and then, well, do it. So I'm in the process of figuring that out, and trying to purge the extraneous from my life in order to get down to basics.
I often dream of escape, make plans to go somewhere--anywhere--else, to get away from it all, but all those never-attempted dreams and goals follow me wherever I go, and always will unless I pursue them. I know that it will require the fortitude to say no, to social endeavors, to professional opportunities, in order to get to that finish line, and I am so used to saying yes I have no idea if I have it in me to learn the art, the blessing, the beauty of no, but I hope I can, so that when I do say yes it's as someone who's proud of herself, not wishing for more time and berating herself for what she hasn't done. That's not a healthy way to live, and I want to be as proud of my work as I am of the people I interview and the people I'm a fan of. I'll get there, if I dedicate myself. It's damn fucking hard, that's for sure. I had a conversation with an editor this week and was glad it was by phone, so she couldn't see me practically choking on my shock that she thought I was up to the task she was suggesting I was. It's exciting but scary, but I guess that's what I get for being adrift in this world where I'm responsible for myself, where there's no paycheck safety net or set path to follow.
Here's a shot from last night's Bluestockings Suite Encounters reading. I am taking a break from events for the most part, save for a July 25th Babeland SoHo writing workshop, and a few assorted ones in other cities, to focus on writing. I hope I have good news to share on the writing front by end of summer! And if I don't, I'll just stay glued to my laptop until I do.
With Erobintica and Suleikha Snyder
I have no idea, and sometimes it feels like to take time to even think about it is blasphemous and wasteful. That's why I bought Chris Gillebeau's The Art of Non-Comformity last night at Bluestockings. I saw it sitting on a stack of books while I was feeling like a failure for hosting a reading where there were more cupcakes than attendees, and knew I needed to do something different, not make the same mistake ad infinitum. I know that there are possibilities glimmering just within reach; even when I sit on my ass, sometimes they make their way to me, as if knowing I need them, need someone to believe in me, but the truth is I need to believe in myself, to figure out what I want to do and then, well, do it. So I'm in the process of figuring that out, and trying to purge the extraneous from my life in order to get down to basics.
I often dream of escape, make plans to go somewhere--anywhere--else, to get away from it all, but all those never-attempted dreams and goals follow me wherever I go, and always will unless I pursue them. I know that it will require the fortitude to say no, to social endeavors, to professional opportunities, in order to get to that finish line, and I am so used to saying yes I have no idea if I have it in me to learn the art, the blessing, the beauty of no, but I hope I can, so that when I do say yes it's as someone who's proud of herself, not wishing for more time and berating herself for what she hasn't done. That's not a healthy way to live, and I want to be as proud of my work as I am of the people I interview and the people I'm a fan of. I'll get there, if I dedicate myself. It's damn fucking hard, that's for sure. I had a conversation with an editor this week and was glad it was by phone, so she couldn't see me practically choking on my shock that she thought I was up to the task she was suggesting I was. It's exciting but scary, but I guess that's what I get for being adrift in this world where I'm responsible for myself, where there's no paycheck safety net or set path to follow.
Here's a shot from last night's Bluestockings Suite Encounters reading. I am taking a break from events for the most part, save for a July 25th Babeland SoHo writing workshop, and a few assorted ones in other cities, to focus on writing. I hope I have good news to share on the writing front by end of summer! And if I don't, I'll just stay glued to my laptop until I do.
With Erobintica and Suleikha Snyder
